The transition from the ancient, suffocating confines of the Kamo estate to the sprawling, deceptively serene grounds of Tokyo Jujutsu High was less a change of scenery and more a jarring shift in atmospheric pressure. Arata, now fifteen, felt it acutely. The air here, though still imbued with cursed energy, hummed with a different frequency – less the heavy, ancestral thrum of the Kamo home, and more a chaotic, vibrant hum of raw, untamed potential. He was ostensibly here for "advanced training," a polite euphemism for the clan's desire to both expand his horizons and keep a watchful, yet distant, eye on their most valuable asset.
His first impression was of an unsettling freedom. No longer were his movements dictated by Kenji's rigid schedule or his father's silent expectations. Here, the paths were winding, the buildings a mix of traditional and modern, and the sounds were not just the rustle of silk and the clang of steel on steel, but the distant shouts of training, the murmur of casual conversation, and even the occasional burst of laughter – a sound rarely heard within the Kamo walls. It was a paradox: a sanctuary for sorcerers, yet a crucible where the young were forged into weapons against a hidden darkness. For Arata, it felt like a cage with slightly larger, more permeable bars.
He arrived with a single, small duffel bag, his Minazuki katana sheathed at his hip, the Crimson Arc slung across his back. His formal Kamo robes had been replaced by the standard Jujutsu High uniform – a dark, practical outfit that felt strangely liberating in its simplicity. He was led by a junior instructor, a nervous young man who seemed overly deferential, a constant reminder of the Kamo name that preceded him.
As they approached the main courtyard, a cacophony of voices drifted towards them. Arata's senses, honed by years of intense training, immediately picked out distinct cursed energy signatures. Strong ones. He saw three figures, already in their uniforms, gathered near a large, gnarled tree.
One was a girl, tall and lean, with sharp features and an almost aggressive aura of self-possession. Her cursed energy felt… different. Almost absent, yet her physical presence was formidable. She wielded a long, polearm-like cursed tool, practicing swift, brutal strikes against an imaginary foe. Her movements were fluid, powerful, devoid of wasted effort. This had to be Zen'in Maki. Arata knew of her, of course. The Zen'in clan's outcast, born without cursed energy, yet a formidable warrior through sheer skill and cursed tools. He felt a flicker of something akin to respect, and perhaps, a strange kinship in their shared burden of clan expectations, albeit from opposite ends of the spectrum.
Next to her, a boy with a high collar obscuring his mouth, his hair a striking white. His cursed energy was… unique. It felt like sound, compressed and volatile. Inumaki Toge. The Cursed Speech user. Arata had read about his technique, the immense power and equally immense risk.
And then, the third. A towering, broad-shouldered figure, clearly not human. A Panda. Arata blinked. He had heard rumors of a cursed corpse at Jujutsu High, but to see one so… casual, so integrated, was startling. Its cursed energy was stable, powerful, and surprisingly calm.
Maki paused her training, her sharp eyes immediately locking onto Arata. Her gaze was direct, assessing, and held a hint of something Arata recognized instantly: resentment. It was the look of someone who had fought tooth and nail for every scrap of recognition, now facing a privileged heir.
"Another Kamo," she stated, her voice flat, devoid of any warmth. "Great. Just what this school needed. More 'pure-blooded' talent." The sarcasm was thinly veiled, a cutting edge Arata felt keenly.
Arata, accustomed to formal greetings and deferential tones, felt a prickle of annoyance. He chose a measured response. "Kamo Arata. It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Zen'in-san." He bowed slightly, a gesture of politeness that seemed to only deepen Maki's disdain.
Inumaki offered a small, hesitant wave. "Salmon."
Panda, surprisingly, stepped forward. "Hey, new guy! Don't mind Maki, she's just grumpy. I'm Panda. This is Toge." He gestured to Inumaki. "You're the Kamo prodigy, right? Heard you can do some crazy stuff with blood." His tone was genuinely curious, devoid of judgment.
Arata felt a fleeting sense of relief. "Yes. My technique is Blood Manipulation. And… something more." He didn't elaborate on Sanguine Genesis. It was too new, too terrifyingly unique to share with strangers, especially one who harbored such animosity.
Maki scoffed. "Something more? Don't tell me you're another one who thinks their blood is special. We've got enough of those types running around." Her eyes flickered to his Minazuki katana, then to the Crimson Arc. "Fancy toys for a fancy boy."
Arata's hand unconsciously went to the hilt of Minazuki. "These are tools, Zen'in-san. Like any other."
"Tools are only as good as the hand that wields them," Maki retorted, her grip tightening on her polearm. "And some hands are born with everything, while others have to claw their way up from nothing." Her words were a direct jab, a challenge thrown down before he'd even settled in.
He felt the familiar pressure of the comparison, the weight of his inherited power being held against him. He wanted to retort, to tell her of the cuts, the pain, the constant fear of losing himself to his technique, but he bit back the words. It wouldn't matter. She saw only the privilege, not the burden.
Before the tension could escalate further, a new voice, bright and annoyingly cheerful, cut through the courtyard. "Oya oya! Looks like we have a new addition to the zoo!"
Arata turned. Standing there, hands in his pockets, was Gojo Satoru. He wore his signature blindfold, obscuring his eyes, but his presence was immense, radiating an almost arrogant power that somehow still felt… benevolent. He was everything the Kamo elders were not: irreverent, unbound, and utterly, terrifyingly strong.
"Kamo-kun, right?" Gojo sauntered towards him, a wide, almost blinding smile on his face. "Heard you were coming. The clan's golden boy. The 'next Gojo,' they're calling you. Pressure much?"
Arata's jaw tightened. The comparison, spoken so casually by the man himself, stung. "Gojo-sensei. I am Kamo Arata." He emphasized his name, a subtle defiance. "And I am not you."
Gojo chuckled, a light, dismissive sound that grated on Arata's nerves. "Oh, I know, I know. You're far too stiff. All that Kamo tradition, it really weighs you down, doesn't it? All those fancy incantations and blood sacrifices slow you down." He paused in front of Arata, his blindfolded gaze somehow piercing. "But I also heard about that little incident in the alley. Pure instinct, wasn't it? Ditching all the ancient Kamo dogma, just… doing it."
Arata stiffened, surprised Gojo knew the details. The official report had been vague, sanitized.
"Don't look so surprised," Gojo continued, shrugging. "News travels fast in our little world. You saved that girl, good for you. But you did it by ditching all the ancient Kamo dogma, didn't you? You just... did it." Gojo paused, his smile fading slightly, a hint of something deeper in his voice. "That's where true strength lies, Arata. Not in what your ancestors did, or what your clan tells you to do. It's in what you choose."
He gestured vaguely. "Your family's cursed technique… It's all about blood. Life and death, connection and sacrifice. Don't let them make you forget the 'life' part. Don't let them make you see only the sacrifice." He tapped Arata lightly on the forehead. "You've got power, kid. Incredible power. But it's a double-edged sword, especially the Kamo kind. Be careful it doesn't cut you, and don't let it turn you into something you're not. You're more than just a bloodline, Arata. Remember that."
With that, Gojo turned and ambled off, leaving Arata alone in the courtyard, the setting sun casting long shadows. Maki watched the exchange, her expression unreadable, a flicker of something in her eyes that Arata couldn't decipher. Inumaki offered another quiet "Salmon," and Panda just nodded, a thoughtful look on his face.
Arata looked at his wrist, the faint, almost invisible scar where he'd cut himself. Gojo's words resonated, unsettling and liberating. You're more than just a bloodline. He had always been told his power came from his lineage, from the endless cycle of blood and sacrifice. But what if it truly came from within him, from his choices, from his desire to protect? Gojo had offered him a glimpse of a different path, a freedom he hadn't dared to imagine. Yet, beneath the dazzling smile and casual advice, Arata sensed a profound sadness in Gojo, a hidden warning.
He was a prodigy burdened by overwhelming power, just like Arata. And in Gojo's eyes, Arata saw not just inspiration, but also a stark reminder of the potential for isolation, for the very strength that elevates to become the very thing that destroys. The Corruption of Noble Intent was a subtle poison, and Arata was beginning to understand that even the brightest lights could cast the longest, darkest shadows. His time at Jujutsu High, under Gojo's unconventional tutelage and amidst the challenging presence of his new classmates, promised to be a turning point, pushing him to confront not just the external threats but the internal battle for his humanity. The weight of his legacy felt heavier than ever, but perhaps, here, he might finally begin to truly understand its price.