The Kamo estate was a living entity, its ancient bones steeped in centuries of sorcery, its very air thick with the residue of countless blood rituals. For Arata, at a tender eight years old, it was less a home and more a gilded cage, a labyrinth of shadowed corridors and paper-thin walls that carried whispers like insidious currents. These currents spoke of lineage, of duty, of the immense, suffocating weight of being the heir. He woke each dawn not to the innocent calls of birds, but to the spectral hum of ancient, cursed energy embedded in the very stones of his ancestral home. The metallic tang of iron, faint yet persistent, seemed to cling to everything, a constant reminder of the essence that defined his clan.
His private chambers, spartan yet elegant, were a paradox. The sliding screens depicted tranquil landscapes of cherry blossoms and serene mountain ranges, a stark, almost cruel contrast to the turbulent reality that brewed within him. He often found himself tracing the intricate phoenixes and dragons woven into the silk, his small fingers seeking comfort in their stoic majesty, their promises of immortality and power. But even these symbols seemed to mock him, reminding him of the impossible standards he was expected to embody. The earliest light of the Crimson Dawn, a bleed of bruised purple and angry red, stained the sky outside, mirroring the internal maelstrom that churned in his veins.
He was a child, yes, but he was also a vessel. A vessel for the Kamo clan's most prized, most terrifying possession: blood. Not just the liquid that sustained life, but the conduit of their cursed technique, a lineage stretching back to the darkest corners of Jujutsu history, often stained with unspeakable acts. They called him a prodigy, whispered of an innate purity in his cursed energy, a resonance with the very essence of their ancient art that surpassed even his father's. But all Arata felt was the crushing expectation, the relentless pressure that bore down on him, heavier than any physical burden. It was a pressure that promised salvation for the clan, but threatened to extinguish his nascent self.
His daily rituals began long before the first hint of sun kissed the estate's tiled roofs. While other children learned letters and numbers, Arata was guided through the intricate dance of life and death that was Kamo blood manipulation. His tutor, Kenji, was a figure of unyielding discipline, his face etched with the severity of tradition, his voice a dry, rustling sound devoid of any warmth. Kenji was a master of the established Kamo techniques, a purist who believed in the rigid adherence to centuries-old forms.
"Focus, Arata," Kenji would command, his words like sharp stones. "Feel the flow within you. It is not merely blood; it is power. It is your heritage. It is the very essence of existence, and you, Arata, are its chosen master. You must command it, not merely wield it."
They were in the training chamber, a cavernous room with high ceilings and polished wooden floors, perpetually imbued with the faint, metallic tang of past blood offerings. Arata sat cross-legged, a small, obsidian knife, cool and merciless, clutched in his small hand. The air thrummed with a nervous energy, his own heart echoing its beat. He closed his eyes, drawing a slow, deliberate breath, trying to calm the frantic flutter in his chest. He could feel it, the primal thrumming in his veins, the restless energy that wanted to burst forth, an untamed beast yearning for release. It was exhilarating, a dizzying sense of potential, and utterly terrifying.
"Now," Kenji instructed, his voice low, "a single drop. Controlled. Deliberate. The start of creation."
Arata opened his eyes. The knife felt heavy, colder than ice. He pressed its wickedly sharp tip to his left wrist, to the tender skin just above his pulse point, a spot that had, over time, become a landscape of tiny, fading scars. He'd done this countless times, yet the tremor in his hand was always there, a testament to the lingering fear. Not of the physical pain—he was long accustomed to that—but of the power itself, of what it demanded, of what it might transform him into. His ancestors had wielded this power to sculpt and shatter, to heal and to inflict unimaginable agony. He could feel their echoes in his surging energy, whispering promises of a strength that promised salvation, yet threatened to consume him whole.
He nicked the skin. A bead of crimson welled up, perfect and glistening, like a single, precious jewel. He watched it, mesmerized, as it quivered on his skin, a tiny world of liquid potential. This was his, yet it was not. It was the Kamo clan's legacy forced upon him, a responsibility he hadn't asked for, a destiny he couldn't escape.
"Form it," Kenji urged, his voice sharper now, demanding obedience. "Coalesce. Make it obey. Shape it to yours."
Arata focused, drawing his cursed energy, not merely to the drop, but deep within himself, to the very wellspring of his being. The blood began to shift, to rise, forming a minuscule, perfect sphere, hovering suspended above his wrist by sheer, unwavering force of will. It pulsed with a faint, almost imperceptible light, a tiny, beating heart of crimson.
Control, he reminded himself, his young mind straining. Not just over the blood, but over the fear. Over the boundless potential.
He held it there for a full minute, his small brow furrowed in intense concentration, the veins in his neck standing out faintly. Then, with a subtle clench of his will, he willed it back. The sphere flattened, absorbed back into his skin, leaving only a faint red mark that would soon vanish.
"Adequate," Kenji finally said, a hint of grudging approval in his tone. "You held it. You contained it. But the purpose of the Blood Doctrine is not mere parlor tricks. It is creation. It is destruction. You must learn to make it do. Not just move, Arata. But become." He picked up a small, wooden doll, crudely carved, and set it on a stand. "Now, animate it. Make it move. Make it dance. Make it weep."
Arata looked at the doll, then at his wrist. The cut was already sealed, but he knew he would have to reopen it. Again. And again. The Price of Strength was a literal one here: drops of his own life, shed daily, for a power he was still too young to fully comprehend, a power that haunted his dreams. He felt a familiar, creeping dread, a chill that had nothing to do with the cool morning air. He was the heir. And the blood, he knew, would only demand more. At this age, a critical limitation was starkly clear: every technique, every manipulation, drained his physical blood supply. The clan provided him with carefully prepared blood bags for practice, a chilling reminder of the raw material his power consumed.
Days bled into weeks, weeks into months, each marked by the metallic tang of blood in the training chamber. Arata practiced endlessly, his connection to his cursed energy deepening with every cut, every successful manipulation. He learned to project his blood, forming needles that could pierce stone, nets that could bind, shields that could deflect. He learned the basic Kamo techniques, mastering them with a terrifying speed that even Kenji, stoic as he was, couldn't help but acknowledge.
"His control is...unprecedented," Kenji confided in Arata's father, the current head of the Kamo clan, a man as reserved and imposing as the estate itself. "He adapts, almost instinctively. He learns from every failure, every drop spilled. It is as if the blood itself recognizes him."
What Kenji didn't know, couldn't possibly comprehend, was the silent dialogue Arata held with his blood. When it flowed, when it pulsed with his cursed energy, Arata didn't just see a medium for power. He saw its essence, its fundamental potential. He saw the very building blocks of life, and in turn, death. He saw the infinite possibilities hidden within its crimson depths.
One humid afternoon, during a particularly grueling session focused on defensive blood barriers, Arata successfully conjured a translucent crimson dome, pulsing with his cursed energy. It was perfect, according to Kenji's exacting standards. Yet, a thought, a curious whisper from the depths of his instincts, sparked in Arata's mind. What if... what if it didn't have to be a liquid? What if its form was merely a suggestion, not a limitation?
He strained, pushing more cursed energy into the barrier. He imagined the molecular structure of the blood changing, compacting, hardening, the fluid bonds solidifying into an unbreakable lattice. Kenji watched, a flicker of surprise crossing his aged features as the shimmering dome began to cloud, to thicken, its transparency fading. A low groan escaped Arata's lips as he wrestled with the fundamental properties of his life force, his small body trembling with the effort. The air around him grew heavy, the temperature dropping inexplicably, as if the very space was reacting to the profound shift occurring within the blood. Then, with a sudden, jarring thunk that echoed through the chamber, the barrier solidified, becoming a dull, opaque crimson, hard as polished stone.
Kenji moved forward, his movements stiff, his face a mask of disbelief. He tapped the hardened barrier with a knuckle. The sound was unmistakably solid, a dull, resonant thump. His eyes, usually narrowed in scrutiny, widened in genuine shock. "You… you solidified it? How? This… this is not a known technique. This is not in the Scarlet Archive."
Arata, breathless, could only shrug, his small chest heaving, his mind reeling from the sheer intuitive leap. He hadn't thought; he had felt. He had envisioned. The blood had obeyed. This was the first hint, the first tremor of what would become Arata's unique gift, the terrifying manifestation of Sanguine Genesis.
From that day forward, the training room became his laboratory. He began to experiment, driven by an insatiable, almost obsessive curiosity that bordered on compulsion. If blood could be solid, what else could it be? He recalled Kenji's words: "The very essence of existence."
He tried to heat it, to make it boil, to evaporate. He failed, time and again, his attempts resulting in explosive bursts of steam or a sickening residue of cursed energy, leaving him lightheaded and weak. But then, an instinct, a sudden connection to the invisible cursed energy permeating the air, led him to a breakthrough. Instead of forcing it, he coaxed it. He channeled his cursed energy into the blood, not to change its temperature directly, but to manipulate its state of matter at a fundamental level. He imagined the bonds between molecules loosening, expanding, becoming unbound.
One frigid morning, when the air was crisp enough to see his breath, Arata managed it. A single drop of his blood, drawn from his wrist, hovered before him. He poured his concentration into it, envisioning the bonds between its molecules loosening, expanding, transforming. Slowly, agonizingly, the drop began to fizz, to lighten, to rise as a crimson mist, a vapor that shimmered faintly before dissipating into the air, leaving only the faintest scent of copper. Kenji, who had been observing from a respectful distance, stumbled back, his face pale, his composure utterly shattered.
"Impossible," he whispered, his voice a ghost, barely audible. "No, Kamo has ever… controlled the states of matter of blood. This is… this is beyond the Scarlet Archive. It is… an anomaly." Kenji's awe was tinged with a deep, unsettling fear, the kind reserved for things that defied understanding, things that threatened the established order.
Arata did not yet understand the deeper properties that blood could possess – the corrosive, the acidic, the truly poisonous. Those concepts were foreign to him, awaiting the brutal lessons of desperate combat to awaken. His manipulations were still primarily physical: the control of density, cohesion, and form. Healing through Reverse Cursed Technique, which would eventually grant him an inexhaustible supply of blood, was a distant, undiscovered frontier. For now, his power was glorious, but finite, demanding constant replenishment from his own body or the clan's prepared stores. The idea of a binding vow to enhance his mastery of Reverse Cursed Energy was still years away, a desperate measure for a desperate future.
As Arata's mastery of Sanguine Genesis deepened, the clan recognized that raw cursed energy manipulation alone, no matter how potent, was not enough. A sorcerer needed tools, discipline, and a broader combat repertoire. Thus began his training in traditional weaponry, an ironic counterpoint to his revolutionary cursed technique.
His first weapon was the katana. His instructors, seasoned Kamo swordsmen, found his approach unusual. While they emphasized brute force and decisive strikes, Arata gravitated towards precision, economy of motion, and an almost surgical grace. He found himself drawn to the concept of the blade as an extension of his will, a conduit for his subtle blood manipulation. He didn't just swing; he flowed. His movements began to echo the terrifying elegance of a master, each cut deliberate, each parry a precise deflection. He would often imbue the edge of his blade with a thin, almost invisible layer of hardened blood, making it impossibly sharp, or use a burst of vaporized blood for a momentary distraction. It was a style that, while still developing, promised a unique and devastating form, one that blended grace with lethal efficiency.
Then came the bow. This was where Arata truly shone, transforming a traditional weapon into a devastating extension of Sanguine Genesis. He wasn't interested in ordinary arrows. Instead, he learned to fire bolts of pure cursed energy, shaping them mid-flight with his blood. His "trick arrows" were born:
Blood Bind: An arrow that, upon impact, would erupt into a tangle of solidified blood tendrils, ensnaring and immobilizing targets.
Blood Mist: An arrow designed to burst into a cloud of vaporized blood, primarily for concealment or to disorient opponents, a fleeting shroud of crimson.
Blood Explosion: A projectile packed with highly pressurized blood, capable of detonating with concussive force upon impact, or even mid-air, a crimson concussive wave.
He practiced relentlessly, his focus absolute, his mind a whirlwind of calculations and creative applications. The physical toll was immense; each unique arrow required precise cursed energy expenditure, draining him faster than simple blood projectiles. The clan's reserves of blood bags were frequently called upon, a testament to the sheer volume of material his training consumed. But the versatility it offered was unmatched.
His unique talents did not go unnoticed. The clan elders, initially wary, now saw him as their undeniable future. At the age of twelve, a formal ceremony was held, a rare event for one so young. In a hushed chamber, under the watchful eyes of the clan's most influential members, Arata was presented with his tools.
First, the bow. It was sleek, dark wood, unadorned save for a single, crimson-veined grip. It felt light, balanced, an extension of his arm. The elders had named it Crimson Arc. It was a First Grade Cursed Tool, imbued with a natural affinity for cursed energy. Its unique property allowed Arata to form arrows directly from pure cursed energy, rather than needing physical projectiles, and the act of shaping these energy arrows significantly improved his overall control and refinement of his cursed energy output.
Then, the katana. It was sheathed in lacquered black, its hilt wrapped in deep crimson silk. When he drew it, the blade gleamed with an unnatural, almost liquid sheen. It was named Minazuki. Not a common blade, but a Special Grade Cursed Tool, forged from a rare, blood-absorbing ore. Its primary ability was its capacity to store massive amounts of blood within its very structure, acting as a reservoir, and to release it instantly whenever Arata desired, augmenting his limited supply. It felt alive in his hand, humming with a dark, resonant power that seemed to call to his blood, a perfect counterpart to his evolving abilities.
The whispers intensified after the ceremony. "The Kamo clan's Gojo," some murmured, a comparison that both thrilled and chilled the elders. "He possesses a genius for cursed energy manipulation unlike any since Satoru Gojo."
Arata heard these comparisons, sometimes directly, sometimes through veiled compliments. "Your talent, Young Master, is truly on par with the Six Eyes," an elder would say, his eyes glinting with a mix of admiration and expectation. "Perhaps even greater, for your power is born of our very blood, not some random mutation."
He hated it. He hated the comparison. Gojo Satoru was a legend, a force of nature, a man who stood alone at the pinnacle of the Jujutsu world. Arata respected his power, but he resented the shadow it cast. He wasn't Gojo. He was Kamo Arata. His power, Sanguine Genesis, was his own, born from his unique connection to blood, not some inherited ocular anomaly. He didn't want to be the "Kamo Gojo"; he wanted to be the first Arata. The constant comparisons, while meant to flatter, only served to highlight his isolation, the crushing weight of expectation, and the fear that he would forever be measured against an impossible standard, losing himself in the process.
He was the promised child, the next great pillar of the Jujutsu world. But the path ahead, forged in blood, honed by sacrifice, and overshadowed by the blinding light of another's legacy, seemed darker, more isolating than any he could have imagined. His power was his greatest gift, and perhaps, his most terrible curse. The Crimson Dawn was breaking, not just outside his window, but deep within him, promising a future of unmatched strength, and an even greater, unspoken cost.