In the world of Jujutsu Kaisen, an Innate Technique was everything. It was the absolute dividing line between disposable cannon fodder and genuine, world-shaking power. To get one right at Grade 3? That was the kind of cheat code that could actually keep him alive in this hellscape.
He stared at the golden text, his jagged jaws slowly clicking together as greed began to war with his survival instincts. "An Innate Technique... okay. Okay, you manipulative piece of shit system. you win."
Akira let out a harsh, rattling sigh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete. The golden glow of the system window faded, plunging the sewer back into the murky, green-tinted darkness.
"Not like I really have a choice anyway," he muttered to himself, his skeletal claws aimlessly scratching at the damp wall.
If he stayed at Grade 4, he was a walking expiration date. It was only a matter of time before he stumbled into a warded zone or bumped into some Jujutsu High first-year looking to warm up before a real mission. Staying stagnant meant death. The system was just dressing up a mandatory suicide mission with a shiny gold loot box.
But the logistics of it were completely fucked.
Akira leaned back against the curved concrete pipe, doing the math in his head based on the manga lore he remembered from his past life.
The power scaling in this world is ruthless, he thought, his jagged teeth clicking in agitation. A Grade 4 is basically a glorified nuisance. If regular humans could see them, a pissed-off guy with a wooden baseball bat and some guts could realistically beat a Grade 4 to death. That's what I am right now. A bat-level threat.
But a Grade 3? That was an entirely different weight class.
According to the Jujutsu High grading scale, taking down a Grade 3 required a handgun. If a regular human tried to fight one with a bat, they would be reduced to a bloody smear on the pavement in seconds. A Grade 3 had localized territory, rudimentary combat instincts, and a physical body dense enough to shrug off blunt force trauma.
So, a frontal assault was out of the question. If he just charged in snapping like a rabid dog, he'd be swatted into a fine mist before his teeth even grazed its Cursed Energy.
"I don't have a handgun," Akira rasped, skeletal claws scraping a nervous rhythm against the concrete. "But I do have these."
Snapping his snout shut, the heavy, metallic clack echoed loudly in the pipe. The Lesser Rending Jaws were the only weapon in his arsenal that could theoretically pierce a Grade 3's dense outer layer. It was a glass cannon build in its purest form: immense attack power to punch up, but the HP of a wet paper bag.
An ambush was required. A perfect, instantaneous kill shot to the core. Missing, or failing to end it with the initial bite, meant Akira was dead. Again.
"Alright, system," the curse growled, pushing off the curved sewer wall to splash toward the nearest surface ladder. "Let's go hunt out of our weight class."
Emerging from a rusted manhole cover into a narrow, trash-choked Shinjuku alleyway, the thick, humid night air served as a canvas of information.
"[Cursed Olfaction]," he commanded mentally.
A sickening wave of nausea hit instantly, though Akira was getting used to it. Closing his eyes—or rather, focusing his sensory input—he began filtering the world through scent. The static-electricity buzz of Flyheads hovering near streetlamps faded away, while the sour-milk stench of general human misery leaking from karaoke bars and office buildings vanished into the background.
Grade 3s weren't roamers like the bottom-feeders. They possessed enough mass and ego to establish a territory, usually lingering around the specific places that birthed their negative energy.
Ten minutes of stalking across rooftops and fire escapes yielded nothing but the usual garbage. Then, creeping along the edge of a rain-slicked billboard overlooking a tangled intersection, the scent washed over him.
Instead of battery acid or ozone, it smelled of scorched rubber, boiling antifreeze, alongside the coppery tang of old blood. It was dense, suffocating, and distinctly territorial.
Skeletal claws dug into the metal grating of the billboard walkway. Akira opened his jagged jaws, panting slightly while following the invisible trail of miasma. It led directly into the subterranean maw of an unfinished subway tunnel construction site, cordoned off by faded yellow tape and plastic barriers.
Perfect. A closed environment.
Slipping down the side of the building, his darkened form blended seamlessly with the shadows. Spidery limbs moved silently against the concrete, crawling past warning signs to descend into the dark, echoing transit tunnel.
The stench of scorched rubber grew so thick it exerted physical pressure against his gelatinous body.
Flattening himself against the ceiling, Akira clung to exposed rebar and ventilation pipes. He crept forward inch by inch until the tunnel opened into a massive, excavated cavern, illuminated only by flickering emergency lights strung along the dirt walls.
There it was.
Sitting in the center of the cavern was a grotesque mound of cursed flesh. It looked like a horrific amalgamation of a bloated toad fused with a crushed sedan. Bruised asphalt skin was embedded with shards of shattered safety glass and twisted metal. It stood on four thick, stumpy legs, bearing a massive, sunken face with a single, glowing yellow eye that resembled a broken headlight.
A Grade 3 Cursed Spirit. Born from the fear and trauma of vehicular manslaughter at the deadly intersection above.