The same day. POV: Suzushina Yuriko
Eighty-six thousand four hundred seconds. Her brain may have become a supercomputer, but Yuriko was only human. Sometimes a day was a series of blurry images she could observe from a moving train. Sometimes a day was whiling away indoors as her Walkman played until the city went quiet.
Sometimes a day was blowing up 'government' property, sleeping in an infirmary, then picnicking indoors.
A mug sat warm in her hands, and her headache dulled as the memory of recent events sharpened. Yeah, Yuriko was having a long fucking day.
It was mostly her fault. Mostly. She glared across the table. The other responsible party—and she used 'responsible' lightly—had been nattering on for the last fifteen minutes.
"And so," Satoru said, "You literally keeled over and died on the spot."
"Oh…" Well, that wasn't how she remembered it at all, and also..."Were you narrating my thoughts?"
"You really should put some sugar in that."
Yuriko looked down at her mug: no milk, no whimsy, no joy. Just the way she liked it.
She took a sip, "No."
Satoru sighed and Sasaki quietly slid a dango skewer onto her plate.
"So, Megumi," the manchild continued. "What did you think? Did I look cool?"
The unit of measurement himself was throwing sidelong glances at Yuriko whenever he thought she wasn't looking. The kicker was that she was always looking. This was a game they'd been playing the entire time Satoru was speaking. Fushiguro would cast a wary look her way, she'd initiate the war crime of eye contact; the boy would look away. Yuriko was certain she was winning.
Fushiguro took a sip from his own cup. He was also drinking black coffee. Her lips curdled in primeval disgust. Larper.
Kugisaki's face fell in the background, "Who're you both showing off for?"
Fushiguro's attention stayed on Satoru, "That was... I don't think..."
For some reason, his face fell. Yuriko didn't care to decipher his expression, but the software the back of her mind had already registered despondence, fear and just the faintest dash of surrender before she could look away.
Yuji dropped a truffle onto her plate.
Satoru smiled, "You could do it, too, you know?"
The boy's shoulders sank a little.
"Maybe we should also—"
Then the door snapped open. "He's so proud about beating children…"
"I'm starting to think the sorcerer killer rubbed off on him..."
Two figures stood at the entrance. Ieiri, she recognised. The woman who had spoken first was wearing a white kosoda with a red umamori-styled hakama tied to her waist. Both women were glaring at Satoru like he was just the smelliest, stickiest thing they had ever stepped on.
"Hey, haven't we been over this?" The glares only sharpened. "Shoko, you forgave me!"
No, the fuck I didn't, Ieiri said without speaking.
The miko strode until she was towering—not really, but she certainly tried to tower—over Satoru. Her face carried disappointment in its deliberate stillness.
"Gojo," she began.
"Utahime," Satoru smirked, "Hey!"
"I always knew you were a slovenly bastard with nothing in your brain but Jujutsu—"
"Hey."
"—and I don't know how they raise children in that clan of yours, but..." Her lips creased. Her brow furrowed. "You can't do that to your sister. I won't let you."
You could've heard a pin drop in the silence, instead the only thing everyone at the table heard was Yuji dropping another confectionary on Yuriko's plate.
""Sister?"" came the bewildered voices of Megumi, Nobara, and especially Yuriko who had found another level of disgust to aspire toward.
'Utahime' blinked. "Are you not…?" The miko met Yuriko's eyes, before panning back down at the manchild's. "But you said!"
"Hehe."
"Why're you like this!?" Utahime turned to Shoko who shrugged pre-emptively. "Why is he like this? Do you have a prognosis? Can he not just grow up?" she asked, gesturing to all of Satoru like it was a symptom.
"Your tears keep me young, Iori Utahime. And you can't. Stop. Crying."
"You little—" Gone was the poise and composure with which she had entered the room. She grabbed an onigiri off the table, shoving it as far as Infinity allowed.
Yuriko saw the look on her face; the pain; the suffering; the sheer desire to hit that 192 cm gremlin. She related, especially recently. For the first time in a while, Yuriko's heart felt the jagged edge of sympathy.
"You've had it rough, Iori-sensei?"
"Sensei?" Satoru muttered.
"Oh? Oh?" Iori abandoned the rice ball and turned to face her. "Manners? Ahem. Sorry, we haven't been formally introduced."
Sasaki dropped a red bean pancake onto Yuriko's plate.
"Nice to meet you." Iori-san continued. "As he's already told you, my name is Iori Utahime. And as you've guessed, I'm a teacher here."
"Suzushina Yuriko... please just call me Yuriko."
"Mhm, and thanks to somebody, everybody knows."
"Hehe," hehe'd Gojo Satoru.
The woman sighed, then stepped away from him. "You've attracted a lot of attention. I don't think jujutsu society has seen an upset like you since that idiot was born."
The idiot in question relieved Yuriko's plate of its dango.
"Do you four like it here in Kyoto?"
"Too many tourists," said Kugisaki.
Yuriko's eyes narrowed at the inquiry instead. "Why are asking?"
In the corner of her vision, Ieiri Shoko was now standing where Ieiri had, clearly with her own bone to pick with Satoru. Her eyes panned over to Yuriko and back again, to which Satoru simply shook his head.
"I've heard that the three of you are enrolling, would you to consider studying at the Kyoto campus instead?"
"Woah, woah, woah." Satoru pouted. "You poaching my students?"
"I won't argue that he means well, but I don't particularly agree with how he's handled your introduction," she explained. "As we speak, your fight is already being analysed by sorcerers and cursed users over the country." Iori turned to Kugisaki. "Your grandmother was a respected Grade One in her day; I'm hearing that in some circles they've already considered the possibility that a Kugisaki interfered in that fight."
Interfered? Yuriko's attention crashed into her cousin who didn't bother hiding her reaction. Kugisaki met her glacial eyes without flinching. The table shuddered.
"Your life is going to be scrutinised, and in turn, so too will the lives of your friends and family."
Iguchi, ̷M̷a̷y̷u̷r̷i̷. A short list, to be sure, but admittedly... Yuriko had been lost in her aggression. On reflection, it wasn't a new feeling, either. All that existed had been the fight, rationality was just a casualty of that state of mind. Consequently, "I wasn't thinking about them..."
Iori's eyes softened, "It's okay, it wasn't your responsibility to think about this, it was his."
But that begged the question again, "Why are you making it yours?"
"I wanted to thank you for your restraint against Noritoshi; he wanted to thank you too, but... Well, never mind."
"That's..." a weird thing to be thanking her for, but as far as Yuriko could tell, Utahime hadn't told a single lie since she'd entered the room. "That's fine."
"You're overstepping, Utahime." Satoru rebuffed. "I've already taken care of it."
"Oh, I don't want to know what that looks like for you. That said—" She addressed the four of them again. "If any of you choose this campus, with permission, I can arrange for your loved ones to be moved a little closer. At least in Kyoto, I promise to do everything in my power to protect them."
"I'm good," Yuji said. "No offence, but the Tokyo campus still has a forest. Sasaki?"
"I trust Gojo, and I won't really be a student, so..."
Yuriko stared.
Utahime sighed, "He's not a good teacher."
"Shoko. Utahime. I don't know why you both keep saying this. I'm an excellent teacher."
A moment passed where the pair exchanged a glance before looking back at him.
"For real?" Shoko asked.
"For real, real. Megumi," Satoru said, pointing at the boy in question. "Yuji, and Yuriko. By the time you get to my age, you'll be at least as strong as I am now. Then you can do and protect whatever you want with your own hands. That's a Gojo Satoru guarantee."
His declaration silenced the room for all of half a second before Kugisaki's palm slammed into the table.
"Oi," the 'cousin' growled. "What about me?"
"Uh, uhm... You can be stronger than Utahime?"
For what would definitely not be the last time, the miko exhaled a visceral lungful of air. "Yuriko...promise me you won't end up like him."
"...Want a binding vow?"
"Please."
***
Three days ago. POV: I'mjustKen
"We will soon be making a brief stop at Omiya. Passengers changing to the Keihin-Touhoku, Takasaki, Utsunomiya, and New Shuttle lines, please alight here. The next—the next."
The gentle, percussive notes of the glockenspiel dissolved to tinny static.
"The next stop."
What to do?
The best time to strike was 'now.' Not a century later when the board had cleared, but now. A hundred years would give Tengen time to adapt to their new form. A hundred years might raise a hundred more complications. Now, now, now. He was patient, but he'd also waited long enough—been denied long enough. He might not ever get a better chance than the one Fushiguro had created.
"The next stop will be Tokyo."
Kenjaku's nails drummed on the table in front of him. Itadori Kaori's obsolete nails. He paid no mind to the malfunctioning announcement.
What to do?
Greed pulled at him one way, caution tugged the other. On the one hand there was Geto Suguru, sealed, immobile and ripe for the picking—if it wasn't for the fated nuisance. On the other was Suzushina Yuriko: his third failure to acquire a body from that lineage. He knew where they both were, had the latter's schedule down to a science...but the fated nuisance slashed through his thoughts again.
"The plan hasn't changed then," he said, hearing an approaching set of footsteps. "Gojo Satoru goes next."
"Waah, so many toys!" The curse's head swivelled to and fro, taking in the totality of the space. "Say, Kaori, Kaori. What's the worst that could happen if I touch a few?"
Patchwork fingers found a seat and crawled along its headrest. A child, less than ten years of age sat oblivious, kicking his feet with eyes glued to a tablet. He remained oblivious when a sickly hue blossomed beside him. Cursed energy. Voracious and corrupting. It danced around the hand like a fire granted avarice. It beckoned for his soul.
"The worst?" Kenjaku pondered, tapping a finger on his chin. "You get found by Gojo-kun."
"Come on!" Mahito whined. "Just one little touch! I won't take away anything he'll have the time to miss."
"He's had a chance to see your handiwork up close, be my guest if you want to give him something else to track."
The cabin air warmed as Jogo huffed, "This is why humans are so pathetic. Everything you do, you do because of fear."
"Doors closing." The train was moving again.
"You're not wrong," Kenjaku conceded. "Though a healthy amount of fear is—"
"Enough!" Jogo curse sank into the opposite seat, charring its fabric in the process. "Wasn't the future strongest 'human' our immediate steppingstone? What did you mean by 'next'?"
Around them, passengers began to fan themselves, sipping from bottles and tugging at their shirts. A commuter leaned toward a steward and slurred a sleazy joke.
Kenjaku sighed, looking at Jogo and the schadenfreude tugging at his lips. Why did curses have to be so drab?
Vengeful spirits were one-note vendettas. Imaginary curses followed their mythos to a tee. Even them: Mahito, the embodiment of humanity's hatred and Jogo their fear of the earth. Even they couldn't escape their programming.
It made sense. People—the collective—were boring; it followed that their creations would be boring too.
Kenjaku smiled at the irony.
As cursed spirits, their innate talents for Jujutsu far eclipsed the average sorcerer. Power came easy; they could and were growing by leaps and bounds—faster now that the world could register Suzushina as a sorcerer. More so than other types of cursed spirits, the two before him had agency: they could think, evaluate. They could plan.
They were speaking full sentences in days; they could grasp their techniques in a matter of weeks and now, if there was ever a goal they wanted to work towards, individually or otherwise, he could count on one hand the number of people with the capacity to stop their grand plan.
Not that they had a plan worthy of that adjective.
Jogo, Mahito, Hanami, granted sapience and power, the very best that they could muster was an omnicide. For what exactly? It was typical of curses. They used their reasoning to 'intellectualise' what was always their primary directive: spreading misery and curses. Again, the irony was not lost on him.
Nothing new would come of any of them.
"What a waste," Kenjaku mumbled. At least it made them useful. "Using up two fingers to incarnate Sukuna..."
Kenjaku watched the implication sail over the volcano curse's head. Mercifully, Mahito was smarter.
"Ooh, you pit her against the King?"
Kenjaku smiled, "With any luck, Sukuna leaves her corpse intact enough."
A chill swept through the carriage. They all shivered.
"Doors—doors opening."
After this announcement, his eyes narrowed. Other passengers mumble at the abnormality. Most dismissed it; he did not.
"Huh? If she was that weak you should have just sent me."
"Between Gojo, and Suzushina herself, you would have died." Kenjaku huffed experimentally; his breath fogged.
"You think two was enough to kill her?"
The ancient sorcerer nodded, only half paying attention to the curse. Centuries of experience and, well, common fucking sense told him that something was wrong. He listened. He focused, combing the environment for something that didn't belong. A fine layer of frost furnished the windows. Unnatural shadows fell about the carriage.
"Hey. Kenjaku. How strong am I in Sukuna fingers?"
"Eh?" Mahito blurted. He held a hand to Jogo's ear-thingy and whispered so loudly that a non-sorcerer could probably hear him, "I thought her name was Kaori?"
"Six right now if I'm being generous. Nine in a month, maybe."
"That's plenty!" The frost sublimated with the uptick in Jogo's mood.
Heavy breaths populated the ambience. A thump sounded when the same child dropped his brain rot device and slid off the seat. The temperature climbed to the tempo of Jogo's fever pitch. He gestured at the fallen child, now-hyperventilating to tune of Baby Shark.
"If Sukuna doesn't kill her—"
Kenjaku chuckled.
"I'm up next."
At this point, the boy was snivelling. His body couldn't know anything beyond what its hypothalamus was screaming at him. Hot was the full extent of what he could know. But knowing was far removed from the only way to experience.
Jogo, for how much he disappointed with his choices, was still very much defined by what he was. Jogo was the iron mountain; the maw from which the mantle spoke. His very presence was primordial fear—the boy before him was just a monkey that never opened its third eye.
Jogo snapped his fingers. That should have been the end of the matter.
"What?"
Instead, all the world was ice.
Jogo's flames died. His arm became a loose pile of metal particles. Everything the eye could see was coated in a silvery expanse that seemed to begin from nowhere, and end nowhere else.
The glockenspiel chimed again, but this time, a voice he hadn't heard in fifteen years spilled through the speakers with perfect clarity.
"You'll do what, exactly?"
Ah, Kenjaku realised. Shit.
[From Chapter 36 on Webnovel]
["Authorities have begun to investigate the derailment of the 12:30 Shinkansen from Sendai to Tokyo, following—"]