"Phew..."
After taking about three deep breaths, my pounding heart finally began to settle. The flickering blue flames on the back of my hand—Cursed Energy—gradually subsided at my command.
Right. Let's face facts. I've been transmigrated into the world of Jujutsu Kaisen.
The remains of that grotesque Cursed Spirit I just vaporized with my fist were far too realistic to deny.
"First, let's assess the situation."
I paced in front of a cracked mirror tucked in the corner. Reflected back was a scruffy, bedraggled child. A kid who looked twelve at most.
At that moment, a sharp headache spiked through me, and the original owner's memories flashed across my mind. It felt like someone was forcibly shoving a stranger's diary into my brain.
"...Holy shit."
A hollow laugh escaped my lips as I pieced the fragments together.
"It just had to be the Zenin Clan."
The very same Zenin Clan that gets relentlessly flamed in the Jujutsu Kaisen Gallery as the 'Feminist-Maker Factory' or the 'Mahoraga One-Trick House.' Fortunately—or unfortunately—I wasn't part of that illustrious direct bloodline.
My father had been a low-level handyman who handled the clan's odd jobs, and he'd passed away recently from either overwork or illness.
An innocent 12-year-old orphan who couldn't even control Cursed Energy, let alone use a Cursed Technique. That was my status in this household: a child completely abandoned by the clan.
"Actually, this is better."
Being a 'nobody' from a branch family who hadn't even awakened a technique meant I was completely off the radar of fossilized boomers like Ougi Zenin. That was a massive survival advantage in the early game.
"Wait, what year is it?"
I scoured the memories. Rumors my father had picked up and shared before he died... A story about a kid with the 'Six Eyes' being born into the Gojo Clan, turning the entire jujutsu world upside down.
"Hold on, if that kid was just born... no, wait. He's the same age as me. It's the Ordinary One!"
If I'm twelve, it'll still be a few years before the main cast enters Jujutsu High. I was shocked to be in a prequel era, and the reality of being in this universe hit me all over again.
Recalling the sensation of blowing that low-grade Cursed Spirit's head off, I tried to pull Cursed Energy up from my core.
Vreeeeeee—!
"...Huh?"
A heavy vibration echoed, not from my hands, but from above my head. An ominous, overwhelming sound, like massive gears grinding together.
I slowly raised my head to look in the mirror.
Floating in the air above my crown was a geometric wheel that looked like something off an ancient ship. A bizarre wheel with eight handles.
There was no mistaking it. Even if you'd only skimmed the manga, you could never forget this insane design.
"Is this... Mahoraga's Dharma Wheel?!"
The strongest Shikigami of the Ten Shadows Technique. The Eight-Handled Sword Divergent Sila Divine General Mahoraga.
Why the hell was the wheel of 'Adaptation'—the symbol of Mahoraga and the source of his broken abilities—floating over my head?!
I reached out toward the wheel with trembling hands.
I couldn't touch it, but I instinctively knew: this technique was exactly what I thought it was.
The dream of every Ten Shadows user in history, the cause of all the blood spilled between the Zenin and Gojo clans, the adaptation to all phenomena, the ultimate counter-move!
My heart pounded. Whether it was the Zenin genes reacting or my own excitement as a JJK fan, I couldn't tell.
"Ha, the son of a Zenin handyman is a human Mahoraga."
The twelve-year-old kid in the mirror flashed a jagged grin.
"Alright."
I looked up at the wheel.
"Let's take this revolving curse for a spin."