KARA!!!

At this point, it was more than just fatigue.

It was horrid pangs of pain that spread through your viscera, unnerving and binding you to the warm comfort of your bed. Yet it did not feel like comfort anymore. It felt like a prison, somewhere you wouldn’t want to be at the end of the day. However, at the end of the day, alongside the extensive use of your cursed technique, it was somewhere you had to retreat to.

The second years barely saw you anymore. There was the occasional moment where you would stumble out of your dorm, hands clutching your body, and you’d tremble as you picked up some food or something as simple as a bottle of water.

Your cursed technique could not kill you as it did the curses on the receiving end. Instead, it elongated the illness, the pain, stretched it into elastic bands which covered your soul. Your chest always feels tight now, heavy, like the inside of your body will drag you down into the quicksand and let you drown in your own blood.

The frequent visits from your Sensei felt like relief at first, as if he could actually do something to help. But, over time, it changed. It felt like Gojo was only visiting you as a chore rather than the actual goodness of his heart. You knew he loved his students, but your own brain was turning against him, against yourself.

It takes some time after the exorcism of the special grade curse for you to get back on your feet, but everyone in Jujutsu High welcomes you back with open arms.

And in Yuta’s case, flowers.

“Well, I know you like them, and Maki said that it’d be a nice thing to do for you…” He holds out the bouquet. It’s simplistic, but he remembers that time where you reeled off your favourite things, and the specific type of flower is reflected in the paper and ribbon that holds them all.

“So you’re only doin’ it cause Maki told you to?” Your head tilts, and there’s a cheesy grin on your face, clearly teasing him.

“What?! No!” He splutters, cheeks turning a dusty pink as he pulls in the bouquet once more, clutching it close to his chest. “I’m doing it because I wanted to!” His fingers grip into the bottom of the bouquet, fingers intertwining with the stems. His palms are clammy, clearly signifying that you’ve just thrown him into a nervous wreck.

“Relax, Yuta.” You put your hands up in surrender, before reaching forward to grab the gift from his hands. “I love them.” You pause your words for a minute as you bury your nose into the sweet buds, petals spilling over your face. “…Even if it was Maki’s idea.”

Before you can face the consequences of your teasing, you turn with a spring in your step, huge smile on your face.

Yuta has always been worried about you. In a way, it affects him with the same amount of mental turpitude that it does you. He remembers when you were so full of energy, so eager to accommodate him and the curse bound to him when he first entered Jujutsu High. You stuck by his side, told him you knew what it felt like to feel isolated with such great power, and eventually became friends with him.

You vowed to protect him if he ever needed it, and he did the same.

After all, that’s what friends were for, right?

He watches you as you greet your other friends, wrapping your arm around them, being careful not to crush the delicate flowers in your other hand.

“We should go out for dinner, y’know? All of us! It’s been a while since we’ve gone out as friends rather than allies in combat.” The smile doesn’t move from your face as you say it, but inside, Yuta knows you’re hurting. That you’ll keep hurting until your cursed technique finally vanishes. Or until you decide to give up on it. Permanently. “Hey, I bet I could steal Sensei’s card.”

The suggestion causes Maki to laugh half-heartedly, slapping a hand down onto your shoulder. “Hey. Stop getting ahead of yourself. One step at a time, right?”

It’s around noon when you pull Yuta away from the confines of his dorm and into the city. It’s a long trek, but nothing that bothers you two. Your legs aren’t sore in the slightest, but there’s a small amount of sweat clustered near the top of your forehead. Yuta has a similar look, sweat dripping down the side of his face.

It probably didn’t help that you dragged him everywhere at high speed. Which is saying a lot, considering he’s a fast walker anyway.

“So…” You hum out, turning around to face him. The sun beams against your face, casting a small shadow on the other side. “Okay. I was thinking we could start with food, cause it’s already quite late. And then…” You tap a finger against your chin. “Well, the arcade’s always a good shout! If you wanna do something different though, that’s fine too.”

“Huh? No! I’m happy with your idea.” When you’re well, you always have an outing with Yuta on the first day, and he lets you pick what you’re going to do. If he could do more, he would, but he doesn’t want to seem too over the top.

You pout slightly, eyes fixed on him. “You don’t have to do my idea every time, Yuta. Come on! You’re allowed your own opinion too.”

“Fine. I guess…” He looks down to the floor, pushes his fingers against each other. “There’s an aquarium nearby. Kind of. I’ve wanted to go for a while but… not with any of the other second years. With you. But if that’s not your thing—“

“What did I just say?!” You quickly interrupt, taking one of his fidgeting hands into your own, beginning to march forward. “Let’s go to that aquarium!”

He almost yelps as you begin to drag him forward again, but his face relaxes slightly when you both get walking, hands intertwined. He almost forgot how soft yours were. It’s not that his aren’t soft, they are in some parts, but yours always feel smooth, no matter what you go through.

“Uh, I don’t actually know where we’re going.” You interrupt his thought process. Again. “You should probably lead the way.”

He hurriedly moves in front of you, guiding you towards the aquarium he had wanted to go with you to for weeks. He had scrolled through the website for hours, planning the ideal ‘first’ date, the first time where he would finally admit to his romantic feelings towards you.

But… at the same time… does he really want to ruin that smile on your face by confessing his love to you?

“I don’t really know a lot about fish.” You hum to yourself as the doors slide open in front of you, welcoming you into what would be a great location for you and Yuta to spend your time together.

“At least there’ll be signs that tell you, then!” He smiles widely, quickly paying for two tickets and handing you one. The entrance desk is only a few meters away, but you take a minute to look down at the turtle that had been printed with the ticket. It covers the entirety of the slip of paper, a neutral expression on its face. As soon as you get to the desk, you know it’ll be ruined by a thick stamp that runs across the top.

Even the smallest nice things didn’t last long, did they?

You and Yuta spend some time staring at the fish, glancing down at the information leaflets, walking around with no real purpose but to spend time together.

“Hey.” Yuta seems different, now, his face flustered and fingers pushing against each other, something he has made a habit out of. You tear your gaze away from the beautiful jellyfish that hovers in the background of your conversation, soft green light illuminating your silhouette.

“What’s up?” A smile covers your face. He wishes he could keep it like that, save you from having to feel ill or upset ever again. But he can’t, and it’s killing him from the inside out.

“Look, I…” His eyes avert to the ground, sweat crawling down his forehead and the side of his face. “I’ve waited for a while now. Y’know, for the right time. And every time seems wrong, so…”

How is he meant to put his feelings into words? He could list off everything he liked about you, but he’d be here for hours, and if it went wrong, then it would be awkward for the both of you.

“I guess… what I’m trying to say…”

“Yuta.” You firmly say his name, wanting him to stop muttering and trying to figure out how he wanted to word it. You already knew what he was going to say. You could sense it in his actions, his facial expressions, everything about him. “Me too.”

The nervous expression on his face slowly develops into a smile, and he shuffles closer to you, lifts one of his hands up.

“Uh- can I…?” You don’t allow him to finish his question, as usual, grabbing the back of his neck and planting your lips onto his. You’re not rough about it, but you’re not timid, either. You’re trying to convey your feelings in a way that he can easily understand, and the main emotion within the kiss is passion.

He gladly reciprocates.

And it’s wonderful.

The moment is wonderful, how his body slowly intertwines itself with your own, hand pushing through your hair. He’s gained only a small bit of confidence with his confession (or, well, his half-confession), but it seems like a weight has been lifted off of his chest almost instantly.

The rest of the trip goes well. You’re closer than you were before, right up until the end, where you both get a hot drink from the aquarium’s cafe so you have some energy to walk back to Jujutsu High.

“I’m glad you picked where we went today.” Darkness covers the sky, few streetlights lit to show you the way. It’s eerie, in a way that neither of you like. “It was nice. We should do it again.”

“I’m glad.” He smiles, nerves hidden underneath fidgeting hands, but no longer outwardly displayed on his facial features. It seems he’s finally calmed down. But he can still feel the way your lips pushed against his, the ghost of the shape lingering against his own. He can still feel your breath entangled with his, and he resists the urge to connect his lips against yours once more.

He’s happy. You’re happy.

A cut wedges itself between your eyes.

The movement of your opponent is brief, yet extraordinarily catches your flesh. It’s not unconventional in any way; just a thin streak of red that’ll fade within minutes. Your body has mastered the art of healing, gripping onto the strength of a word that practically sums you up as a person.

War.

You exist for war. You battle against millions of competitors every year for the sake of violence, protest, fuelling ideas of rebellion that can and will be embedded into the government. There’s no stopping you, no mortality that will bring you down on the same level as weak humans and petulant sorcerers. Second grade, first grade, special grade, who cares? You qualify far above the last promotion, your power unlike anything that the jujutsu world has seen before.

Anyone who challenges you to a duel will die. That’s the way the world has worked for a while, now. You possess raw power better than anyone, even those with heavenly restrictions.

In a way, you’re supernatural. You lack cursed energy. You’re an enigma, a spirit, a force that must be reckoned with to keep the world spinning.

You are war.

“Impressive.” You cross your arms, tap your foot against the ground. The cut has healed, and your face looks as good as new. It causes your opponent to panic, face contorting to reflect his feelings. He was livid. He hated that you were winning. Perhaps he thought he was better than you…? No. After a few blows from you, he should know that you are not ordinary.

“Who are you?!” He scrambles for his katana, a weapon imbued with cursed energy. Did he feel anger? Hatred? Or deep melancholy? That question would never be answered. You didn’t have time to listen to his whole life story.

“You’re asking the wrong question. Do you want to try again before you cease to exist?” You raise your hand. The air around you shifts, as if preparing for something big to happen. The atmosphere could not read you, either. You weren’t going to do anything overwhelmingly powerful. He didn’t deserve that much from you.

“Fuck you!” He screams, lunges forward, swings his blade savagely, a behaviour that was expected.

“Crush.” Your eyes flicker with mania as you clench your hand into a fist.

It happens so quickly, but you enjoy every second of it. His skin curls, tightens against his bones. You hear muscle tearing, tension being applied to his insides. There’s a horrible squelching sound. It leaves you to wonder which organ it was that broke first. Perhaps his heart; it would be rather melancholic if he died from heartbreak. Then there’s a crunch, head imploding. Blood spatters coat the floor: your favourite type of decoration.

“Gosh. You’re all the same, you sorcerers.” You step forward, heel meeting the bloodied floor. “Can I even call you a sorcerer? That performance was simply abysmal.” You pause, bend down to check the remains. “Well, I suppose I have to give you some credit. You did manage to nick my skin.”

You shove your hand into his mangled body parts, reaching all around, searching for something. You don’t know what, yet. But whatever it is will help you on your journey. You’re sure of it.

“Oh! Is that your kidney?” You poke your finger against the organ, before finding the shape of another. “Two! So lucky. Most people lose one or have to get one removed. You don’t seem like you’ve had surgery…” You keep prying around his corpse.

Whatever it is you’re looking for, you have no luck.

“I’m sorry, first grade sorcerer. You’re no use to me, even in death. Perhaps I should’ve kept your bones intact. They could’ve made for a nice sword. Maybe I could’ve even replicated your katana, hm?” You sigh, stand up straight. There’s nothing left in the area for you to find, so you turn on your heel and begin marching towards the next destination.

You march like any commander: with motivation. You have a goal in mind and nothing will deter you from it…

Not even the sorcerers who have turned up halfway through your leisurely stroll.

…

Well, perhaps a little fight wouldn’t hurt?

Hand is raised, similarly to before, but you tilt it, quickly establishing its position as vertical rather than horizontal. Slowly, your pointer and middle finger merge together, creating a sign of a gun.

“Are you kidding me? What is that going to do?” One of them asks. The group is young, probably only just reaching their adult years. Which means they’re naive, and most likely will expect minimal effort from you. They probably think you’re playing, like a child would at a playground.

“Bang.” The one who had spoken collapses to the ground, clutching his chest as he fell.

One down. Three to go.

“Would you all like to stay as naive as your friend?” Fingers are pointed to the next person, someone who radiated with minimal cursed energy. “Sorry. Ex-friend?” A smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “If you want to be smart about this, you may duel me. If not, I’m afraid I’ll have to do the same to you. Don’t worry. It’s not painful.”

The next to speak is a young woman with bright pink hair. She seems jolly. Too jolly for the situation that she is currently in. “Hey, why do we have to die either way? Wouldn’t it be more convenient for all of us if we just walked in the opposite direction? I… I mean, we don’t want to end up like Ken. Right, guys?” She turns to face the duo. They’re trembling.

“Would you like to make a binding vow to secure your fate?” You offer up, hand extending to shake her own rather than take the form of a weapon. “Simple terms. We walk away. You come back when you’re stronger. You’ll find me.”

She ecstatically nods her head. “Yes! Yes. That keeps us all alive. I agree!” She smiles widely, connects her hand with your own.

It’s a simple handshake.

For a simple vow.

With her.

The two who did not speak run past you. Their bodies stutter a few meters away. Skin peels off like ribbons, floating gloriously in the air. The blood glides to your hand, merges together with ease. It’s thick and smells disgusting, but it quickly takes the form of a scythe.

“This’ll have to do.” You mutter, eyes quickly locating the woman’s. Her irises pulse with rage, sadness, disrespect. But she remains stationary, feet glued to the floor. Her face says it all. She’s feeling excruciating pain. She wants to kill you, yet she cannot. At least she understood the consequences of breaking a binding vow.

“You killed them.” She finally speaks, head turning to meet your eyes. There’s nothing there. No regret. Nothing to make her forgive you.

“Of course I did.”

Lips open, but no words spill out. By the time she does think of a suitable response to your statement, you’ve vanished.

You’ve always been compelled to fight. It’s like there’s a hidden force behind your actions, something driving you to becoming so cruel. But you tell yourself over and over again that it’s just you. There’s nothing else about it. You’re the one who’s insane, not some evil object operating in the background of your crimes. Sometimes, you find yourself wondering what life is like if you were not living for the sake of death. Would you have friends? Would you participate in romance? Or would you just be alone, like you are now?

Wind brushes against your face. It’s cool, relaxing. A breeze that cannot be found in the depths of hell. That’s where you’ll end up. If you end up mortal.

“Why am I thinking about this now?” You ask yourself, sighing as you stand up from your awkward position on the rooftop. “Like I’ll ever be mortal. I’m here to exist.” But that doesn’t make sense. The words that spill from your mouth sound like nonsense. Because isn’t everyone in the world made to exist?

You don’t fight for a while. Whatever existential crisis is going on in your head prevents you from doing so. You seem lost in thought, but you don’t understand why. It doesn’t make sense. The timing doesn’t make sense. Wouldn’t the universe have done this if you were at death’s door?

But everything changes when your body instinctively maneuvers towards Shibuya.

There’s clearly something happening there, enough damage being caused to seduce you into the bowels of a country where no violence should be occurring. It serves its purpose: distracts you from the war going on in your mind.

Total destruction.

“Holy shit.” You gasp, profanities being whispered that you have never whispered before. But that shock turns into delight. Perhaps you can now finally understand your true purpose of being put in Japan: to experience whatever the hell is happening in Shibuya!

“Holy fucking shit!” You raise your arms, punching the sky as if you were a child and it was your first ever day becoming aware of your existence. “Fuck that nonsense about not knowing why I’m here or what I’m doing on the planet. This is clearly the answer.”

You fall back into the pit, the endless tunnel of destruction and devastation that had enticed you towards the city. It’s beautiful. You could bask in it. Drench yourself in blood and cry out in joy. You’ve entered a state of euphoria that can only be entered if you’ve truly reached your potential.

The scythe forms in your hand. Your manifestation of it is swift, and you find yourself pelting it at a cursed spirit that was wandering in the trenches. It tears through the body, green gunk spilling out of its mouth and pouring onto the ground.

You repeat this process a couple of times, before reaching the other side, where all the action was supposedly happening.

Weird.

Nothing was happening.

“Oh dear. I’ve walked into a trap, haven’t I? Well, doesn’t matter. I don’t think it was for me.” You scratch the back of your neck. “If you want to ambush me, go ahead and do it already.” Your voice heightens a little at the end.

You’re not sure how exactly you missed it, but your arm is sliced clean off. The limb detaches from the rest of your body with ease, flops onto the floor like an unimportant piece of furniture. You stare at it for a couple of seconds, unimpressed at the notion but surprisingly excited with the lack of predictability.

“A domain, is it?” Yet reality has not warped. “Or perhaps a technique? I’d love if you could come and describe it to me.”

“You’re unbothered by the loss of a limb.” The statement comes from behind you, and you whip your head around, ready to have a conversation with whoever was there (despite the blood that was spouting out of your body).

“Did you cause all of this? I must say, your work is outstanding. It seems like an atom bomb has gone off. Of course, a relatively small one with not a lot of firepower or range. Perhaps you could’ve expanded your arena more.” The scythe beside you splits into small cells, attaches microscopic particles to where your limb had been torn off.

The man in front of you is fairly muscular, tattoos lining his flesh, savage grin present on his face. Similar to your attitude in the past. Perhaps he was also sent to deliver fate to the world.

“You have no cursed energy.” His eyebrows furrow, but only briefly. Every experienced fighter knows that it’s a bad idea to show confusion at any point of a battle. It gives the opponent the upper hand. “How?”

“Everyone always asks such stupid questions.” Your arm has materialised once more. “How do you have no cursed energy? Who are you? Like, honestly, does it matter? Shouldn’t you be focusing on more important things, like trying to kill me?”

“You speak as if you know you cannot die.” He pauses. “Is it your will to live that provides that certainty for you?” He raises his hands, pushes his fingers together. “Or does your body provide you regeneration whenever you need it?”

Slashes rip open your skin. Blood pours out, yet it is not your own. Your heart is still beating, rightfully so. You cannot die. You will not die.

“Are you done with the hack and slash technique?” You ask, pinching your fingers together. The wounds stitch themselves up, close over muscle and tissue that is still not your own. How much shall he beat you down until the soul is yours? Until you are the one who pays for your crimes?

“Finally! A worthy opponent.” He shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s not saying that Jogo or Mahoraga were not worthy, of course they were. He even told the former that he was strong and fought well. But he had not met a formidable sorcerer like you before. Were you even a sorcerer? He couldn’t read into you that much.

“You’re calling me a worthy opponent already? Just because I proved I could handle some slashes?” You let out a soft laugh, cross your arms over your chest. “You must have terribly low expectations, King of Curses.” You’re not sure why you know that, why your larynx randomly decided to throw out the phrase. Perhaps it was instinct. After all, you have been acting a lot out of instinct lately.

He’s not surprised. Everyone knows who he is.

But he doesn’t know who you are.

“Tell me your name.” He demands, a quick solution to his minor problem.

“If you survive, I will.”

“How degrading. You act like you know the outcome of this fight.” He removes his hands from his pockets, clenches them into fists.

You take that as a sign to pounce. You don’t use your usual tactics (far off rituals and words that deal the damage). Instead, you fight. For real. You use your fists and your brain and your entire body to dodge, block, and attack his own. Your movements are fluid, majestic, but so are his.

War has met its match, and it comes in the form of Ryomen Sukuna.

You throw a fist forward, he dodges. He attempts to return the attack, you elegantly move away.

It’s the perfect combination. The perfect stand-off. The perfect fight that must be played in every generation. Neither of you are truly human, both in sanity or physical form, and that’s why a hit cannot be dealt. You’re too balanced on the scales of power. You both hate humanity and hate yourselves for indulging in it (even if just a little). No empathy can be felt, no sadness, no nothing. Just pure violence.

You don’t know how long you’re fighting for, but it comes to a quick halt when Sukuna raises a hand.

“Your name.” He makes the demand once more.

“Why? Are you trying to humanise me?” You cease your actions for a minute, feet remain planted in the ground.

He lets out a curt laugh. “How asinine. You can fight against me but you cannot answer a simple question. You’re afraid of being seen as human. You’re a weapon. Is that what you have been told?” His words do feel slightly demeaning, since he’s just reduced you down to nothing but a weapon.

…

He’s right, though.

You are a weapon. You are the weapon. You are war. You fight, and fight, and you cannot die.

A weapon can be broken, but it does not disappear completely. Not if it has been well made and has a careful wielder. You don’t need someone to wield you. So, in a way, are you truly just a weapon? Or is it something more?

Is he trying to open your mind? Does he understand the confusion you go through every day? Does he understand that the concept of war is so much more complex than other people think of? There’s not just the physical pain, but the psychological deterioration too.

“I don’t have a name.” You admit, fingers curling to the back of your neck. You feel a little pathetic admitting it. You don’t need a name. Nobody calls you in the fog known as your mind.

“Then give yourself one.” Sukuna offers, raises his hands together, melting into a symbol that you do not recognise.

He has no need for Malevolent Shrine. You’ve proven that his usual technique will not scar you. Perhaps he’s just trying to intimidate you. It would be a very curse-like thing to do.

You’re whipped into your mind again, thoughts running wild in your head. Humanity, perhaps? The idea of being given a name? Giving yourself a name? Does that count as a push towards being classed as a homosapien?

You whisper out a word, the first that comes to mind. It wraps around you, suffocates you, embraces you. It becomes you.

He watches your lips move, then decides to strike.

A jagged cut appears across your cheek. This one is unconventional in every way. It does not heal. Your skin does not tingle around it, nor does it begin to cover the laceration that had been gifted to you by Sukuna. Red drips down your face, runs down your chin and onto your already bloodied clothes. It feels different. Why does it feel different?

The corners of his lips turn up. He’s clearly exhilarated by the fact that he has managed to land a hit on you.

But you don’t understand.

…

Why are you feeling it now?

“I was surprised to see your skin so untouched. With your attitude, I would have made the assumption that you live to fight. That, despite your healing, there would be some battle mark left on you.” He explains the situation as if he understands it. But he doesn’t. He isn’t you.

Your eyes dart up to meet his.

“Your entire existence nauseates me.” He admits, no hesitation behind his words. “You act like you can feel the thrill of battle despite not feeling at all. A true warrior would have emotions through their whole body. Anger. Hatred. Sadness.” He lists off the emotions that create a curse.

He’s wrong. You do feel. You feel the heat of battle and the metal against skin. You feel the blood cells projecting against your face. You have total awareness in battle. Which means…

You do not possess the traits in which a warrior does. Yet you exist for endless conflict.

“Are you trying to irritate me?” You do not respond to his ignorant comments about your life. He will never understand what you are.

“Your power will grow if you accept being irritated. You will come to enjoy battle a lot more if you learn to exist within the bounds of humanity.” Who would have expected such words of wisdom from the King of Curses? Well, you have to take into consideration that before his binding vow with Kenjaku, he was once human.

“At this moment in time, you bore me.” His stare is sharp, eyes unmoving. “I have a preference for waging war with those who truly understand the thrill as much as I do.”

“I am as thrilled as any soldier would be to partake in such violence.” You argue, wiping your face with the palm of your hand.

Thick blood covers your skin.

“Pathetic.” He mutters, before his voice rises from its unmistakable low pitch. “I’ll find you when that ends up being true.”

“Huh?”

His hands lower to his sides, tattoos uncoiling from his skin. His eyes widen, pupils trembling with nothing but pure fright. His aura had completely shifted. This was not the King of Curses.

“You’ll find me, hm? I doubt that’ll be the case.” You mutter, spinning around on your heel before you would have to deal with nothing but a cheap knockoff.

But he’d come back.