The administrative building always smelled faintly of old paper and incense.
I stood outside the wooden door for a second longer than necessary.
Black long-sleeved dress. High collar. Hem just below my knees. My mother used to say if you're walking into a room where decisions are made, dress like one.
My hair was tied low today.
I knocked twice.
"Enter."
Of course his voice carried that same weight.
I slid the door open and stepped inside. Masamichi Yaga sat behind his desk, glasses low on his nose, a half-finished cursed corpse laid out beside him like it was just paperwork.
I bowed slightly. Not too deep.
"Yaga-sensei."
He looked up.
His gaze always felt like it measured bone structure and intent at the same time.
"You're dressed seriously," he observed. "That usually means trouble."
I closed the door behind me. "Or responsibility."
"Hm." A small sound. Not quite approval. Not disagreement either. "Sit."
I did.
For a moment he said nothing. Just waited.
That was always his method. Let the student fill the silence.
So I did.
"I went back home," I began. My voice was steady. "To my hometown."
His expression didn't change, but I saw it — that microscopic tightening around his eyes. He remembered what that place meant.
"The house was locked for years. No one had reason to enter. We don't have valuables. No enemies chasing old furniture." I folded my hands on my lap. "But someone went inside."
His fingers paused over the cursed corpse stitching.
"Explain."
"My mother's room." My throat felt dry, but I continued. "Her diary was gone."
He leaned back slowly.
"The diary she wrote daily," I added. "Everything. Even trivial things. It wasn't just personal. It was documentation."
Now he was listening the way he listens before issuing discipline.
"There were shoe marks," I continued. "Recent enough that dust hadn't fully settled over them. And I was told I was gone for a week."
"You were," he said evenly.
"It didn't feel like a week."
Silence.
He folded his hands.
"So?" he asked.
The weight of the word sat heavy in the room.
I met his eyes directly.
"I want access to the Jujutsu library."
No hesitation.
His brow lifted a fraction.
"You want documentation access," he corrected calmly.
"Yes."
He studied me for a long moment.
The office felt smaller somehow.
"The restricted section?" he asked.
"Yes."
His expression hardened slightly
"You understand the restricted archive isn't for curiosity," he said. "It contains sealed clan records. Rituals that were buried for a reason. Incident reports that were never made public."
"I'm not curious," I replied. "I'm concerned."
A pause.
"About Sukuna?" he asked.
"About patterns," I answered. "About ritual spaces. About time displacement. About sealed domains connected to bloodline techniques." My voice stayed calm, deliberate. "And about who would have interest in my mother's research."
He didn't blink.
"You believe this connects."
"I don't believe in coincidences at our level."
A faint exhale through his nose. That almost-smile he does when a student answers correctly without realizing it.
"You've grown more cautious," he noted.
"I've learned."
Another silence.
He removed his glasses and set them on the desk.
"You're asking to step into territory even some Grade 1 sorcerers aren't permitted to read."
"I know."
"If you find something you don't like," he continued, voice lowering slightly, "you don't get to pretend you didn't see it."
"I'm not here to pretend."
His gaze sharpened.
"And if this ties back to your mother's sealing technique?"
My jaw tightened just slightly. "Then I'd rather face it informed."
The room was quiet long enough that I could hear wind brushing against the window panels.
Finally—
"You'll have supervised access," he said.
A condition.
"You may enter the main archival chamber. The second sublevel requires my authorization signature each visit." His eyes narrowed slightly. "You will not attempt to bypass that."
I almost smiled. Almost.
"I won't."
"If I find out you're lying," he added calmly, "I will personally drag you out of there."
"That sounds fair."
His mouth twitched faintly. The closest thing to amusement he'd allow himself.
He reached into his drawer and pulled out a small black tag — carved wood etched with binding characters.
When he placed it on the desk between us, the air around it felt dense. Old.
"This will open the first seal."
I stared at it.
The library wasn't just a room. It was layered space — protective barriers over records over history that Jujutsu society pretended didn't exist.
"Dia."
I looked up.
His voice wasn't stern now.
It was steady.
"You're not a child chasing ghosts anymore. If you're walking into this, walk in as a sorcerer."
"I am," I said quietly.
He held my gaze another second — verifying that.
Then he nodded once.
"Go."
I stood, bowed lightly again.
"Thank you, Sensei."
As I turned toward the door, he spoke one last time.
"And Dia."
I paused.
"If what you're looking for involves the higher-ups," he said carefully, "you bring it to me first."
Not a request.
An understanding.
"Understood."
I stepped out into the hallway.
The black wooden tag felt heavier in my palm than it should have.
Somewhere beneath this school, behind layered seals and silent corridors, was a door that hadn't been opened in years.
And I had just been handed the key.