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CE 69
🕑 Added 2025-02-08 22:30:04 +0000 UTC“Are you sure I have to leave?” Aiko’s voice was soft, tinged with reluctance.
Jiki looked down at her, his closest approximation of a steadfast smile on his lips—even if it was a practiced one. “I won’t be with the clan over the coming weeks. It’s best for you to be in Shoko’s care.”
Aiko stared at him for a long moment, her hand clasping his tightly. Even from her position on the bed, she managed to meet his gaze. She was one of the few who dared to do so.
“You’ve grown stress lines beneath your eyes,” she noted, her tone disarmingly casual, causing him to blink in confusion before letting out a more natural chuckle.
“I hoped they’d be gone by the time you woke. Seems they’re a permanent feature now.”
Her hands untangled from his and stretched forward, reaching high enough to caress his face and the all-too-familiar stress lines beneath his eyes. “They don’t look all that bad, you know.”
He nodded in acceptance, though he felt no particular way about them. He had simply wished them gone for her sake. She must have seen something in his expression, because her voice dipped when she spoke next.
“I don’t blame you, Jiki-kun.”
Those words almost made him jerk back. Innocent, absolving words meant to lift the burden from his shoulders. But he strangled the urge to retreat, his demeanor unbroken as he looked down at her. She was wrong. It was his fault. There was no other reason for Kenjaku to target the Gojo clan. No other reason Old Man Tatsumi had to die.
This had happened because, for some unfathomable reason, Kenjaku had decided to poke him and see what would happen. His response to the slight had been swift, yet he doubted the immortal sorcerer had expected him to pursue like a bloodhound.
His silence was reply enough—an indication of disagreement and guilt. Yet once again, sweet, innocent Aiko tried to shoulder that burden for him. A burden he had carried so long, he had forgotten its weight.
“Jik—” A knock at the door interrupted her, one Jiki had been expecting.
“Come in,” he responded without turning, already knowing who stood at the threshold.
Ukitake Gojo slid the door open and offered a soft bow. “The ambulance is here and ready to move Lady Aiko. Her protection detail has been gathered as well. All that’s left is her presence.”
“Lady Aiko, eh?” Aiko chuckled at the title, and Jiki’s lips twitched into a smile while Ukitake’s face reddened. Lady was not a title typically used for a simple maid, but by now, it was clear to anyone who cared to know that Aiko was far more than that.
Jiki stood as two more Gojo clansmen appeared behind Ukitake. With brief bows to him, they moved to the back of Aiko’s bed and began to wheel her out. A few steps from the door, Aiko turned back to him one final time. “Be careful, Jiki.”
Her face was a mask of worry, so he offered her a soothing smile. “I will,” he lied through his teeth. Yet it was enough for her to glow in response as she was wheeled out of sight. And like an actor who had played his part, Jiki’s expression shifted.
Gone were the soft smiles and squinted eyes. In their place were half-lidded, apathetic red orbs and a face carved from stone.
Gojo Ukitake dropped to one knee, facing the ground. “Our report is ready, Lord Heir.”
Jiki nodded. After his meeting with Tengen, he had assigned additional tasks to the clan’s operatives—tasks that now bore fruit. “And Satoru?” he questioned.
“We received a report a few minutes ago. He should be here soon.”
Jiki’s attention shifted. Through the window, he watched the guards lift Aiko into the ambulance, the doors slamming shut behind her. With a whirling kaleidoscope of red and blue lights, they departed, the van kicking up gravel as it sped away from the clan grounds.
...
It didn’t take long for Satoru to return. His older cousin had been busy alongside Maki, training and preparing their underclassmen for the exchange event, so his absence until now was no surprise.
Jiki sat in the meeting room, having reverted to more traditional attire since Aiko’s awakening. A matching black kimono and hakama draped his frame. He was cross-legged, mid-breath, when the familiar displacement of air signaled Satoru’s arrival. He exhaled as he opened his eyes. “Satoru.”
“Jiki-kun,” Satoru replied in a sing-song way as he collapsed into a seat. “How was your reunion?” Satoru questioned with a smirk. “Judging by the lack of any injuries, seems like Maki has not hit you… yet. Which is fortunate for you because she has been improving. Especially in her manipulation of the gates. I think she might’ve passed the third gate even.”
Jiki’s eyes widened at that. He had never honestly expected the ex-Zenin to get past more than the second so quickly, yet in less than a year, she had sped past the second to the third, and now she might’ve gotten to the fourth.
He shook his head in exasperation. “I admit that’s a surprise, but we didn’t speak much. Instead, we planned to meet for lunch or dinner sometime soon.”
The smirk on Satoru’s face widened, and Jiki realized that he should have phrased that particular sentence differently.
“Oh, a date, is it?”
“All of us would be present. I doubt it could possibly count as one.”
Yet Satoru was like a shark that had tasted blood in water and refused to let go. Instead, he tilted forward a bit. “So a date with a bit of an audience? I didn’t expect that from you, Jiki-kun.”
Jiki let out an exasperated sigh and looked up. At times like this, he missed Geto. The curse manipulation user would have been all too ready to fire back a rebuttal and take half the brunt of Satoru’s teasing.
“Anyway,” Satoru immediately changed the topic, a bit of seriousness leaking into his voice. “What is the update on Kenjaku?”
A knock rang out at that particular moment, and the door slid to the side once more to reveal the very familiar features of Gojo Ukitake.
“Excellent timing,” Jiki noted as the older man took a step in.
“Clan Leader. Lord Heir.” Ukitake bowed the moment he stepped in.
Satoru waved the formality aside. “Ukitake, where have you been? I’ve been waiting here for hours.”
The other Gojo ignored the extremely blatant lie as he lowered himself to his seat.
“Apologies,” he said with a look that was not the slightest bit apologetic. Ukitake stretched his hands into his robe before bringing them back out with two files. With deft movements, he passed them on to them.
“I have a summarized report on our findings written here, accompanied by pictures. Evidence that says something is coming. Something I suspect would be as dangerous as the Night Parade of a Thousand Demons, if not more.”
Jiki and Satoru shared a glance before opening their respective folders as Ukitake continued to speak.
“We are still not certain about their plans, but we know they’re planning something,” Ukitake looked at the both of them before finishing, “together.”
Jiki raised a delicate eyebrow at that. The three big clans never worked together on such a scale. There was too much rivalry, bad blood, and history for an attempt like that to work full-scale. Even during the Night Parade of a Thousand Demons, that had not changed. They had simply sectioned off different parts of the city to each other so they would have no reason to interfere with each other.
It was a delicate balance that had been maintained for centuries… till now.
“We believe the newfound solidarity between the clans stems from two sources: their fear of the Gojo clan’s rapid revival and the mystery figures observed visiting each clan’s compound on separate occasions. Kindly refer to page four of your dossiers for the details.”
Jiki promptly flipped to the fourth page, his sharp gaze settling on the images. One side displayed a figure with broad shoulders, wrapped in a heavy cloak that obscured most of his face. Multiple photos captured him entering and exiting the Zenin compound.
On the opposite page was a slimmer figure, similarly cloaked, entering the Kamo compound. Jiki’s eyes darted between the two figures. He ignored the most obvious distinction—the broad-shouldered figure was a man, and the other was a woman. Instead, his brow furrowed as he honed in on the subtle similarities that tied them together.
“A man and a woman,” Satoru noted, his tone laced with curiosity. “A new organization, perhaps?”
“Possible,” Ukitake replied, “but there are no sect markings, no clan symbols, no known affiliations to identify them.”
Jiki’s focus sharpened on the images, his voice calm yet meticulous. “The timestamps on these images differ.”
Ukitake nodded. “Correct. The pictures from the Zenin compound are older, some dating back a few years. However, more recent photos show the woman visiting the Zenin, while the man appears to have stopped.”
Jiki’s mind churned, piecing together fragments of information as Ukitake continued, “We believe this organization might—”
“It’s one person,” Jiki interrupted smoothly, his voice carrying an air of certainty. Ukitake visibly frowned at the statement, while Satoru’s attention snapped to Jiki, the gears in his mind turning rapidly as he arrived at the same conclusion.
“You’re suggesting it’s Kenjaku?” Satoru asked, his voice heavy with realization.
Jiki nodded, his gaze never leaving the images. “He has the means. Tengen’s memories confirm he’s a body-hopper, though limited to inhabiting one body at a time. Think back to what you saw after the Night Parade. Remember what Yuta reported.”
Satoru’s expression darkened as the memory surfaced. “The blood trail leading away from the impact site of Geto’s… suicide.”
Jiki’s voice was steady but edged with ice. “And the man Yuta saw with the special grade cursed spirit. It aligns. The man was injured—possibly beyond what even his skill at reverse cursed technique could mend. If so, he would’ve been forced to abandon the body and transfer to another. The clans, unaware of his true nature, would remain oblivious, especially if he arranged for a replacement to seamlessly take over in his absence.”
Satoru’s lips curled into a sharp grin, his sharp intellect catching up. “That would explain the staggered appearances. The Kamo and Zenin compounds would never suspect a thing if he orchestrated it perfectly.”
Ukitake observed silently, his confusion apparent but his professionalism keeping him quiet as the cousins pieced the puzzle together.
“It’s really him, then,” Satoru said, his tone low but resolute.
“There’s a 60 percent probability,” Jiki replied, his voice measured, though Satoru could see through the practiced detachment. “This is speculation built on theories exposed by Tengen’s knowledge. Without that… we’d still be in the dark.”
Satoru gave a small nod. “Even as a theory, it’s a solid lead. It gives us something to work with.”
Jiki smiled. It was not a nice smile. “Exactly. He’s no longer a phantom. He bled, and we’ve picked up his trail.”
Turning to Ukitake, Jiki inclined his head in gratitude before standing and returning the dossier. “I won’t be needing this anymore.”
“Are you sure?”
Jiki nodded and stared back at the man with pinwheel eyes that spun slowly, and the older man got it. Photographic memory. Jiki never forgot something he had seen. Never.
“Alright then,” Satoru stood up as well. “Where do we start?”
Jiki raised another delicate brow at his cousin. “We?”
Satoru gave him an amused smirk. “You didn’t think I would just sit back and watch you rampage on your hunt alone, did you?”
Jiki let out a softer smile as he looked at his cousin. “It would be best. You’re many things, Satoru, but none of them subtle.”
Before Satoru could give a rebuttal, Jiki continued, “And Kenjaku is scared of you.” That halted Satoru in his tracks, so Jiki continued.
“Maybe not you exactly, but I remember the look on his face with unmatched clarity. Fear. The first time he truly lost was against a Six Eyes and Limitless user. He was left scrambling in every way, he was toyed with and beaten like a child. It’s not the kind of memory one forgets, especially when coupled with the fact that he has been in hiding ever since you became active.”
Jiki tilted his head slightly, the motion deliberate as he studied his cousin’s reaction, his pinwheel eyes spinning slowly as if to bore into Satoru’s thoughts.
Satoru crossed his arms, his smirk fading into something more contemplative. “Fear, huh? I mean, it makes sense. If I were him, I wouldn’t want to deal with me either.”
“That’s precisely why you should let me handle this,” Jiki replied, holding back a chuckle. Satoru’s pride was only matched by his strength.
“Kenjaku expects you to act sometime. He’s prepared for the Six Eyes and Limitless combination. Your presence alone would force him deeper into the shadows. He might even abandon whatever plans he’s laid to avoid direct confrontation.”
Satoru’s frown deepened, his jaw tightening slightly. “And you think he’ll just welcome you with open arms?”
“Not at all,” Jiki replied easily, amusement lacing his voice. “But he doesn’t fear me the way he fears you. He doesn’t know me the way he knows you. I think that was why he went after Aiko—to build a better framework on me. But I don’t know how much he got from that. Which makes me a bigger blind spot than you are, a variable he can’t completely account for. If he shows himself to investigate, I’ll have the upper hand.”
Satoru studied him, weighing his words carefully. Despite his casual demeanor, there was a sharpness in Satoru’s posture that couldn’t be ignored. Worry.
“And what happens when you find him?” Satoru asked, his tone quieter now, almost cautious.
“Kenjaku isn’t just some random sorcerer. He’s lived for a long time and has been playing this game longer than anyone. I’m not sure special grade is enough to classify him.”
Jiki’s expression didn’t waver. “I’m aware.”
Satoru didn’t blink. Eerie blue eyes stared into menacing red and black eyes for a long second, and whatever he saw made him blink.
Jiki continued, his face apathetic and voice calm but edged with something dark. “Kenjaku’s not invincible. He’s bled before. He’ll bleed again.”
Satoru sighed, his posture relaxing as he leaned back against the table. “Fine. I’ll stay out of it... for now. But don’t think for a second I won’t step in if things go south.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less,” Jiki replied with a faint smirk.
Ukitake, who had remained silent during their exchange, finally spoke. “If this is the plan, I can mobilize to assist. Tracking the new female figure won’t be easy, but with the evidence we’ve gathered, we can narrow down his movements.”
“That would be too slow, especially when I can go knock on either clan’s front door.”
Satoru and Ukitake exchanged a glance.
“How about you let Ukitake continue what he’s doing? He’s gotten us this far already.”
Jiki looked between the two of them and gave a soft smile. “Fine,” he lied through his teeth for the second time.
...
It had been over a month, Toge recollected. He stood crouched above a five-story residential block. Beneath him slept people who had no true idea of what went bump in the daytime and the even greater monsters that went bump during the night.
Toge could never understand how they lived like that—lived with such complete and utter delusion and disregard for the truth of the world. All his life, all he had ever known was curses, and as he stood beneath the glow of the full moon, shining behind him and sending the silhouettes of two figures to the side, he felt curses roil and boil in the viscera of his guts as he waited.
Waited for his chance.
“They’re almost here,” a bored voice called from behind him. He sent a glance back, confirming Toji’s presence. Toji yawned before staring back at him like he would rather be on his sofa watching a soap opera. This was not Toji’s fight—the fact that his erstwhile teacher was even here at all was more than he would’ve requested.
Instead, he refocused his attention on the road and the car driving down the plain and empty asphalt. They had chosen this road specifically because of how isolated it generally was at this time, removing the need for activating a barrier that his target would likely sense and realize something was awry.
Yet no plan ever survived first contact. They had expected a single car driving down the road, not a two-man convoy, which meant he could not accurately identify which car belonged to his opponent—not with how unrefined his ability to pinpoint cursed energy signatures was compared to someone like Jiki.
Another glance back, and he frowned the moment he saw a smirk on Toji’s face. a\A smirk that made him reconsider if this was truly chance or if Toji withheld that particular information. It didn’t matter, he realized as he turned back to the pair of cars. If Toji did this knowingly, then it was his way of teaching him something about the unpredictability of intel, or the intel could truly just be wrong, considering Jiki had put Toji’s favorite handler and informant in a coma.
It didn’t matter, he returned to the conclusion as he remembered Panda’s furred smile, the memory sparking his cursed energy and technique, enhancing his focus as he acted.
Lacing his voice with cursed energy while focusing his reinforcement on his vocal cords slowly, Toge Inumaki whispered:
“Crush.”
The moment the word left his lips, reality itself seemed to warp. A low, tortured groan reverberated through the air as the roof of the first car caved inward, collapsing under an unseen force. Metal screamed in protest, folding like paper, as though the vehicle were caught in the grip of an enormous, invisible hand.
Yet Toge wasn’t satisfied. The effect of the first word was still in place, but he couldn’t risk any of the occupants surviving. With a sharp intake of breath, he amplified his next words straight from his vocal cords, an act that helped to modulate the power put into each word.
“Twist.”
The crushed car spun violently on its axis, the force of the two cursed commands working in tandem. Two weaker curses amplifying and feeding back off each other in a way that would’ve had him retire for the night, if not outright damage his throat for weeks. The vehicle convulsed, folding and twisting grotesquely, its structure warping under an unimaginable pressure. Glass shattered and rained down like crystal shards as the car’s frame continued to contort. The shrieks of metal grinding against metal were almost drowned out by the panicked cries of the men inside—cries that were abruptly silenced as the car was reduced to a grotesque, blood-streaked husk.
The second car, trailing behind, skidded to a halt with a sharp squeal of tires, spinning out of control before jerking to a stop. It came dangerously close to the mangled remains of the first vehicle, now a warped mass of steel. For a brief moment, the crushed car hung suspended mid-air, still under the lingering effects of Toge’s commands. Blood oozed from its cracks, dripping steadily onto the pavement below. With a final, heavy thud, the ruined vehicle crashed to the ground.
Silence fell over the street, thick and oppressive, broken only by the faint, crackling echoes of dissipating cursed energy.
A sharp whistle broke the quiet, pulling Toge’s focus behind him.
“You just killed three men,” Toji remarked, voice casual but laced with amusement. The older man squatted beside him, his scared lips twisting his grin into something that was all teeth. “Didn’t even flinch doing it.”
Toge didn’t respond, his face a mask of focus. The strain of his technique was lesser but was still felt as his throat ached.
The silence didn’t last. The doors of the second car burst open as three figures scrambled out. Two were younger men in suits, their hands twitching and heads pivoting. The third was an older man, dressed in a traditional kimono. Elder Hinamaki.
He had missed.
He could feel Toji’s grin widen even further as the older man spoke. “What will you do now, little Inumaki, and how far would you go?”
