The cursed energy in the orphanage had started to shift.
Kai could feel it long before the others even noticed something was wrong. The lights flickered more than usual. Shadows lingered in corners longer than they should have. Children woke up crying from nightmares they couldn't remember. And worst of all — the air had grown cold in rooms that should have been warm.
At first, he thought it was his imagination, maybe the result of all his late-night cursed energy training. But the feeling didn't fade. If anything, it intensified.
The cursed spirits were changing.
Kai sat alone in the corner of the orphanage basement — the only place no one visited anymore. Water dripped from a pipe overhead, and broken furniture was piled in a dusty heap. But for Kai, it was the perfect workshop.
He dragged out a broken chair leg, some copper wire he had found in an old clock, and a dull utility knife someone had tossed out weeks ago. Bit by bit, he began carving symbols into the wood — simple protective glyphs and reinforcement runes copied from what he remembered of cursed tool theory in Jujutsu Kaisen.
He didn't have jujutsu metal or soul-infused crystals, but he had imagination. He had memory. He had will.
"This is so scuffed," he whispered to himself, tightening a wire knot. "But it'll have to do."
The result was ugly. But it pulsed faintly with cursed energy.
He called it the Ghost Fang.
He spent the next few hours testing it, swinging the weapon in precise arcs, focusing on channeling cursed energy through it. Each motion was clumsy at first, but the more he moved, the more natural it felt. He began layering his movements with technique — recalling the posture and stance he had memorized from Gojo's own battles. In his mind, he wasn't just an orphan practicing with scraps — he was training like the strongest.
Sweat dripped down his brow as he practiced into the night.
That night, the storm returned — just like the night he died. Thunder rolled low, and the rain tapped a rhythmic code against the roof. The power flickered off just before midnight.
Kai jolted awake. The cursed energy snapped through him like a jolt of lightning.
Something was in the hallway.
He slid off his mattress, already dressed in layered clothes he had prepared — black hoodie, dark pants, padded socks. His cursed tool rested beside his pillow. He grabbed it and crept toward the door.
A faint sob echoed down the corridor.
He followed the sound, heart steady, footfalls silent.
Then he saw it.
At the far end of the hall, half-shrouded in shadows, hovered a cursed spirit — at least two meters tall. Its skin was like burned cloth, and its face was split vertically with a giant, lidless eye staring sideways. Jagged fingers scraped along the walls as it advanced slowly toward the dormitory where the youngest kids slept.
Kai's jaw tightened.
This wasn't a scout. This was a feeder.
He stepped forward.
"You picked the wrong building, freak."
The cursed spirit turned — and screamed. The sound was like tearing metal and broken glass, painful and echoing.
Kai charged.
The hallway lit up with flares of cursed energy. Kai swung the Ghost Fang with precision, channeling everything he had into each strike. The spirit swiped with claws made of shadow, tearing into the walls, leaving scorch marks.
One hit slammed Kai into a doorframe, pain lancing through his shoulder.
But he stood.
He blinked — and for a moment, Six Eyes activated.
Time slowed. The spirit's movements became clear — predictable.
Kai ducked under a claw, spun, and drove his cursed tool straight into the spirit's chest. It howled, writhing as cursed energy exploded from the wood.
Kai gritted his teeth, muttered the chant he'd created:
"From shadow, light finds form. Return to rot."
The cursed spirit disintegrated, vanishing in a gust of ash and smoke.
Silence.
He staggered backward, breathing hard. Blood trickled from a cut above his brow. His arms shook.
But he was alive.
He looked down at his cursed tool — chipped now, splintered at the edge — but still glowing faintly. He held it tightly.
"I need to make better ones," he whispered. "If I want to survive this."
Back in his room, he sat on the edge of the bed, knees trembling.
He reached into his dresser, pulled out the enchanted food bag, and whispered, "Katsudon. Big bowl. Extra egg."
It appeared instantly, steam rising in the cold night. He dug in, almost crying as the warmth spread through him. The taste was perfect — savory, sweet, rich with triumph.
He smiled to himself between bites. This wasn't just food. This was a medal. A reward. A comfort that no one could take from him.
He ordered more — dango, mochi, spicy miso soup — each dish appearing instantly, each bite reminding him of the life he used to dream about. He promised himself: once he got strong enough, he'd visit Japan for real. Taste the real thing.
The next morning, rumors floated around the orphanage.
"Did you hear what Tommy said? He saw something in the dark! A blue light!"
"He said it was a ghost hunter! Or like, a ninja or something."
"Liar. No one believes that stuff."
Kai passed them in the hallway, hood up, face calm. But inside, his chest burned with a new emotion.
Pride.
Not because he had won. But because someone had seen.
He began listening in on more whispers, picking up patterns — which rooms drew more cursed energy, what time the coldest drafts came. He started building a map in his head. The orphanage was more haunted than anyone realized.
And he was going to protect it.
Later that week, Kai returned to the basement and began sketching.
He redrew the cursed spirit from memory. Marked its traits. Then, next to it, drew his makeshift weapon. Then others — swords, gloves, darts. All cursed tools he could build, someday.
He began experimenting with sealing symbols using ink made from mashed charcoal and glue. Tested paper talismans on doorways and vents. Some failed. Others shimmered briefly before fading. It was progress.
He also practiced Limitless in short bursts — floating tiny screws without touching them, repelling dust particles mid-air. The stamina drain was intense, so he nerfed himself, using cursed tools to balance out his energy costs.
Each tool would be better.
Each fight, cleaner.
Each step — closer to Gojo.
He stood in front of the cracked mirror by the furnace and whispered:
"I'll be the strongest. Not because I was chosen. But because I choose to be."
And behind him, in the reflection — a second cursed spirit stirred.
This time, he was ready.