The plane touched down at Narita just after midnight, but Kai Jax felt the curse density hit him before the wheels did.
Japan's negative energy was different from America's — tighter, older, like a city built on graves that never quite settled. No sprawling curse swarms choking the skyline, no special-grades spawning from every abandoned subway tunnel. Just quiet pressure, like the air itself was watching.
He stepped off the gangway with a single black duffel, scarred hands in the pockets of a worn leather jacket that still smelled faintly of Chicago rain and blood. Seventeen, tall for his age, half-Japanese features softened only by exhaustion. Dark hair, silver threads already threading through from overuse of the family technique. Eyes the color of storm water — never quite meeting anyone's for long.
A black car waited outside customs, engine idling. The driver was a low-grade auxiliary from Jujutsu High — middle-aged, nervous, bowing too deeply when Kai approached.
"Kai Jax-san," the man said in careful Japanese. "Welcome to Tokyo. Principal Yaga is expecting you."
Kai nodded once. No smile. No small talk. He slid into the backseat, duffel between his knees, and stared out the window as the city blurred past.
Faint script flickered across his left palm — English letters, Japanese kanji, looping like old contract boilerplate. The Infinite Contract. Sora's echo hovered in the corner of his vision, translucent, arms crossed, watching the road ahead. She hadn't spoken since the day she died. She never would.
The car wound through Tokyo's outskirts, then up into the forested hills. Jujutsu High appeared like a mirage — traditional roofs, torii gates, barriers humming with layered Simple Domains. Kai felt the wards brush his skin like static. They recognized foreign cursed energy, hesitated, then let him pass.
By dawn he stood in the principal's office.
Masamichi Yaga looked exactly like the photos in the Jax Clan's old files: stern, bear-like, arms crossed over a tracksuit.
"You're early," Yaga said.
"Plane was on time."
Yaga studied him. "Your file says Grade 1 potential. Special admission. Clan technique classified. You understand we don't usually take transfers without full disclosure."
Kai met his gaze for the first time. "I understand."
A long silence. Yaga sighed. "Fine. You'll be placed as a third-year. Dormitory B-3. Classes start tomorrow. If you cause problems, you're on the next flight back to whatever's left of your clan."
Kai didn't flinch. "Understood."
He turned to leave.
"One more thing," Yaga called. "The first-years are training in the field this morning. Go observe. See how we do things here."
Kai paused at the door.
"Observe," he repeated, like testing the word.
Then he left.
The training field was open ground ringed by trees, morning mist still clinging to the grass. Three first-years were already there: a panda in a uniform, a boy with a high collar and zipper mouth, and a girl with glasses and a scowl sharp enough to cut.
Maki Zenin.
She was swinging a training pole like it owed her money. Every strike cracked the air. The panda cheered. The zipper-mouth boy watched silently.
Kai stayed at the edge of the trees, half-shadowed. He didn't announce himself.
Maki noticed him first.
She stopped mid-swing, pole resting on her shoulder. Sweat on her brow, ponytail loose. Eyes narrowing.
"Who the hell are you?"
The panda turned. "New guy?"
Zipper-mouth tilted his head.
Kai stepped forward slowly. "Kai Jax. Transfer."
Maki's gaze flicked to his hands — the faint silver scars, the way his knuckles looked like they'd been branded and healed wrong. Then to the air behind him.
For a split second, something flickered there — a tall, silent figure with long hair and sad eyes. Gone before anyone could focus.
Maki's grip tightened on the pole. "You hiding something?"
Kai didn't answer right away.
The panda waved. "Hey, don't mind her. She's just—"
"I don't mind," Kai said quietly.
Maki stepped closer. "If you're gonna stand there staring, at least spar. Or are you just here to watch?"
Kai looked at her — really looked. Not at her weapon, not at her stance. At the way she carried herself like the world had already tried to break her and failed.
He exhaled.
"Alright."
He shrugged off the jacket. Underneath, his forearms were mapped with faint, glowing script — contracts long since paid, but never fully erased.
Maki noticed. Her eyes narrowed further.
"What the hell is that?"
Kai flexed his fingers. The script pulsed once, soft blue-white, like old neon. Sora's echo reappeared behind him, arms folded, watching Maki with quiet curiosity.
The panda froze. Zipper-mouth's eyes widened behind the collar.
Maki lowered the pole slightly. "You gonna explain, or do I have to beat it out of you?"
Kai met her stare. Calm. Empty.
"Only if you ask nicely."
A beat.
Then Maki smirked — small, dangerous.
"Fine. New guy. Show me what you've got."
Kai stepped onto the field.
The script on his skin brightened just a fraction — not full activation, not yet. Just the warning glow of a ledger waiting to be opened.
He didn't summon anything. Didn't speak terms.
But the air around him felt heavier. Like something ancient and foreign had just stepped into the room.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, Sora's echo whispered the only word she ever would:
Debt.