The late autumn wind screamed through the mountains like a beast in mourning. Cold air sliced across the rooftops of Tokyo Jujutsu High, rattling loose tiles and carrying the smell of fallen leaves and blood. On the training field just outside the dormitories, the clash of steel against steel echoed like a war drum.
Kishibe's knife scraped down the length of Gojo's staff. Sparks flew.
"You're getting predictable," Gojo muttered, a sharp grin cutting across his face.
Kishibe didn't answer. His blade twisted in a flourish and redirected upward in a brutal slash, nearly slicing into Gojo's jaw. The taller sorcerer barely dodged. His blindfold fluttered.
"That's new," Geto remarked from the edge of the training yard, arms crossed and watching the spar like he was observing wild animals in a cage. His expression was unreadable. He stood in full uniform, sleeves pushed up, a few stray shikigami circling lazily behind him.
Kishibe's movements had grown more fluid, more ruthless. His cursed technique—Severance—left a lingering unease in the air, as if everything it touched came one step closer to silence. It wasn't flashy like Gojo's Limitless or versatile like Geto's Cursed Spirit Manipulation, but it was… final. Every swing of Kishibe's blade came with the intent to end. No flourish. No play.
Gojo leapt backward and summoned a red orb between his palms, the air around him distorting. "You're taking this too seriously. What happened to friendly sparring?"
Kishibe didn't stop. He charged again, boots slamming into the dirt. The thin gleam of cursed energy lining his blade crackled faintly—a whisper of his evolving mastery.
"You two always play games," Kishibe growled. His voice was calm, but there was something underneath—a low fury sharpened over time. "But there's nothing friendly about death."
The knife slammed into Gojo's staff again. This time, the impact sent a tremor through the ground. A crack appeared beneath their feet.
From the sidelines, Geto sighed. "This isn't just training, is it?"
Gojo didn't respond.
Eventually, Kishibe's blade paused inches from Gojo's neck. Both men were breathing hard. Gojo lowered his hands first.
"You're improving," he said.
Kishibe sheathed his knife with a clean motion. "You're soft."
Geto chuckled dryly. "You two sound like you've been married ten years."
"Feels longer," Gojo muttered.
Later that evening, the trio gathered in the dorm common room. A single dim lamp lit the table between them, and the air was thick with silence.
"You don't talk about your cursed technique much," Geto said, pouring tea. "Severance, right? That's what Yaga calls it."
Kishibe sat back in the shadows, eyes half-lidded. He watched the steam curl from the cup in front of him.
"It cuts through things. Not just flesh. Not just cursed energy. Ties, bindings… even fate, if I get strong enough."
Gojo turned to face him fully, the blindfold pushed up to reveal both piercing blue eyes. "Sounds like the kind of technique that gets you killed."
"I hope so," Kishibe muttered, deadpan.
They laughed, but Geto's laughter faded quicker than the others. He looked between them with something pensive in his eyes.
"We're all killers, one way or another," Geto said. "But I wonder sometimes. How long can we keep calling ourselves protectors?"
Gojo stood, stretching. "That's not our job. Our job is to win."
Kishibe didn't speak. He stared at the blade resting beside him. In the faint lamp light, its edge shimmered like the moon.
That night, Geto lay awake listening to the wind outside. In the bunk across from him, Gojo snored lightly, unbothered by the world.
But Kishibe sat cross-legged by the window, sharpening his blade under moonlight.
He whispered to himself: "To sever the chain before it pulls us under. That's all."