The scent of old paper and faint incense hung in the air as Souten stepped into the principal's office. The room had the worn weight of experience—stacks of files, aged mission logs, and annotated scrolls lined the walls in semi-organized towers. A single cursed puppet sat in the corner, motionless but unmistakably aware, its gaze fixed somewhere between the door and the back of Souten's head.
Yaga sat behind his desk, glasses low on his nose, thumbing through the mission report Souten had submitted. The soft creak of the chair was the only sound as he turned a page.
"You improvised a purification technique mid-fight," he said, still reading. "One you couldn't fully control."
Souten stood straight, hands behind his back. "It worked."
Yaga finally looked up, his expression unreadable. "That's not the point. What happens when it doesn't?"
The silence that followed wasn't heavy, but it wasn't empty either. It gave the words room to settle.
Yaga set the file down and leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers laced. "Your cursed technique—Black Ledger—it's only surfaced a few times in history. Each time, the user made waves. Not all of them good."
"I've read the records," Souten said evenly.
"Reading them doesn't mean you understand the pressure," Yaga replied. "You don't just exorcise curses. You weigh people. You judge them. That kind of technique makes people nervous—even allies."
He let that hang for a beat.
"Haganen and Kazuki," Yaga continued, "are powerful shikigami. And now they answer to you. Are you confident you can keep control if they start acting on instincts from an era where things were less restrained?"
Souten met his eyes. "Yes."
Yaga studied him, then leaned back in his chair with a soft sigh. "Then make sure they never have to test that answer."
He grabbed a second folder from the edge of his desk and flipped it open.
"Get them registered. Gojo will help you calibrate their cursed energy signatures, and Ijichi will handle the classification and paperwork. You're officially responsible for them now—on record."
Souten turned to leave, hand on the doorframe, but paused. "Thank you, Principal Yaga."
Yaga didn't look up from the file in front of him. "Don't thank me," he said. "Just don't make me regret trusting you."
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The sun hung low over the sparring field, casting long shadows across the dirt as Maki adjusted the wraps on her wrists. Souten stood across from her, his expression unreadable but his posture relaxed—hands open, feet light.
"No shikigami," Maki said, already bouncing on the balls of her feet. "Just you. Let's see what you've got."
Souten nodded once. "Understood."
They began.
Maki was fast. She was always faster than he anticipated, as adjusting to her speed was not easy. She closed the gap in an instant with a low sweep, which he narrowly dodged before twisting into a sharp counter-blow aimed at her shoulder. She absorbed it, pivoted, and threw a palm strike into his ribs that sent him skidding back.
He gritted his teeth. She was still holding back. It was not hard to tell she wasn't giving this spar her all.
They clashed again—her strikes sharp and deliberate, his movements tight, reactive. It was clear she was testing him, not just physically, but mentally.
Midway through, she launched into a forward feint, switching angles at the last second. Souten stepped around her, narrowly avoiding a sweeping kick—and then moved in, mirroring a motion she had once casually demonstrated during group drills.
It caught her off guard.
She twisted away with a grunt and reset her stance, a thin smirk tugging at her lip.
"You pay attention," she muttered.
"I try," he replied, breathing controlled but labored.
They circled each other, the heat between them sharpening with each exchange. Not hostility—something closer to mutual recognition.
When they finally broke apart, sweat running down their faces, Maki dropped her stance.
"Not bad," she said, cracking her knuckles. "Still uptight. But not bad."
Souten gave the faintest nod. "Likewise."
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The sky had deepened into a pale navy as Souten returned to the now-empty training yard. The ground still bore the rough scars of earlier matches—shallow grooves and footprints frozen in the dirt.
He stood alone at the center of the field, shoulders relaxed, arms loose at his sides. The evening air was cool against his skin, a faint breeze tugging at the edges of his uniform.
Focus.
He drew cursed energy inward, letting it pool at his core, then pushed—trying to invert it, to flip negativity into something pure. A flicker of pale light sparked in his palm... and sputtered out almost immediately, fading into a weak shimmer.
He exhaled slowly. Tried again.
The energy fought him, resisting, slipping out of control like water through open fingers.
A memory surfaced unbidden—Gojo leaning lazily against a railing, half-smiling, half-serious.
"It's not about force," Gojo had said, tapping two fingers against his temple. "You can't hammer it into shape. You need to multiply cursed energy by itself—negative on negative—to create positive energy. Think of it like flipping a coin midair. Feel it, don't overthink it."
Souten had blinked at him then, unimpressed.
"You're terrible at explaining things," he'd muttered.
"Exactly!" Gojo had grinned, shameless.
Now, in the quiet night, Souten opened his eyes. His cursed energy buzzed low under his skin, unsettled and raw.
He dropped to a seated position on the rough dirt, pulling a worn journal from inside his jacket. By the faint light of the moon, he scrawled a single line:
"I can measure others. I can't fix myself."
He stared at the words for a long moment before glancing up. Haganen and Kazuki stood several yards away—silent, vigilant, and impossibly still. They had been broken, corrupted... and still, they had come back whole.
So why couldn't he heal even a fracture within himself?
A memory flickered, softer now: his father's voice, heavy with something Souten hadn't understood at the time.
"You're our son, Souten. But sometimes… it feels like you come from someplace we can't reach."
Souten closed the journal quietly.
Maybe it mattered. Maybe it didn't.
Either way, it was his burden to carry.
He rose to his feet once more, the night air wrapping around him, cursed energy simmering low but persistent beneath his skin.
Focus.
He tried again.
The cursed energy slipped away once more, refusing to flip as he wanted. He exhaled, frustration starting to creep into the edges of his focus.
"You're getting closer, you know," a voice called out casually from the sidelines.
Souten turned, blinking. Gojo stood a few feet away, hands stuffed into his pockets, blindfold slightly askew like he'd been there longer than Souten realized.
"How long have you been watching?" Souten asked, not particularly surprised.
"Long enough to see you almost fry yourself." Gojo said with a lazy grin. "You're doing better than I did when I started."
Souten raised a skeptical brow.
Gojo walked closer, dropping onto the ground without ceremony. "Reverse Cursed Technique... it's not something you learn by thinking. It's something your body figures out when it doesn't have a choice."
He leaned back, propping himself up on his elbows.
"Honestly? I only pulled it off after I almost died. Got my throat slashed open, heart nearly stopped. I didn't think. I just... flipped it. Instinct."
Souten frowned, absorbing the words.
"The state you need to be in," Gojo added, tilting his head back to look at the stars, "it's kind of like when you hit a Black Flash. That same zone. Mind and body synced perfectly. No hesitation. No doubt."
He grinned up at the sky.
"Problem is, you can't force it. You gotta fall into it."
Souten looked at his hands again, curling his fingers slowly.
"Don't stress it," Gojo said, pushing to his feet with a lazy stretch. "You've got time. And you've already got the instincts. You'll get there."
Souten watched him go for a moment, then called out, "Gojo-sensei."
Gojo paused mid-step, glancing back over his shoulder.
"You mentioned Black Flash," Souten said. "You've talked about it before... but what exactly is it?"
Gojo chuckled, walking back a few steps toward him. "Black Flash isn't a technique. It's an accident—a perfect accident."
Souten tilted his head, frowning slightly.
Gojo continued, more serious now. "When you land a physical hit and apply cursed energy within 0.000001 seconds, the energy warps space around the impact. It multiplies the force—makes the blow way stronger than it should be. But it's not something you can consciously aim for. When you hit a Black Flash, you're not just stronger—you're fighting at 120% of your potential. And for a moment, you see cursed energy more clearly than you ever have before. Like the whole system makes sense for just a second."
He snapped his fingers sharply, the sound crisp in the night air.
"When it clicks, you know. Everything feels effortless. It's like the whole world bends around you for a second."
Gojo smirked. "Same idea with Reverse Cursed Technique. You can't brute-force it. You fall into it."
He waved lazily again. "Don't rush it, Souten. When the time's right, you'll feel it."
This time, Gojo walked off properly, leaving Souten under the starlit sky.
Souten flexed his hand once more, feeling the unstable energy shift faintly along his skin.
One step at a time.
He tried again.
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The ruins of the Kanamachi temple lay silent beneath the moonlight, a skeleton of shattered stones and scorched earth. Smoke no longer rose from the rubble, but the air still carried the faint, acrid tang of burnt wood and cursed energy long since dispersed.
A figure moved through the wreckage with measured grace, each step unnervingly silent. Their robes—pale and heavy—trailed just above the broken ground, and their white hair, partially hidden beneath the hood, caught the moonlight like fine silver thread. A mask concealed their features, leaving only cold, discerning eyes visible.
They paused where the karmic seal had been drawn, crouching low. Gloved fingers brushed over the fractured earth, feeling the lingering threads of spiritual pressure embedded deep into the soil.
Residual energy clung stubbornly to the ruins—a testament not just to the curse purified, but to the karmic forces that had been awakened.
The figure rose slowly, tilting their head slightly, as if listening to something no ordinary sorcerer could hear.
"The Shikigami have returned," they murmured, their voice a chilling blend of patience and ancient disdain.
They lingered for a long moment, their gaze sweeping the battlefield that had once threatened to erase a sliver of history too dangerous to forget.
Their gloved hand twitched slightly at their side—not from tension, but from some deeper, older impulse.
Softly, with a note of satisfaction almost hidden beneath centuries of restraint:
"He is progressing well."
Turning away, the figure drifted back into the embrace of the night. Their movements were smooth, almost regal—an unsettling blend of loyalty and self-possession.
"Kenjaku will be pleased to hear this," they whispered, more to themselves than anyone else.
The temple ruins remained empty in their wake, but the weight of old ambitions and older pacts hung heavy in the cooling air.
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