The first few days at Tokyo Jujutsu High were a study in jarring contrasts for Kamo Arata. The Kamo estate, for all its oppressive weight, had been predictable. Every shadow, every whisper, every rigid expectation was known. Here, the unpredictability was a constant hum, a low-frequency vibration that set his teeth on edge even as it subtly, almost imperceptibly, began to loosen the rigid knots in his soul.
He found himself in classes alongside students who spoke with a casualness that bordered on irreverence, discussing cursed techniques as if they were discussing the weather. The theoretical lessons, the intricate diagrams of cursed energy flow, the historical texts on ancient sorcerers – these were easy for Arata. His mind, honed by years of relentless study, absorbed them effortlessly. It was the practical, collaborative exercises that proved challenging. He was used to solitary refinement, to pushing his limits in the quiet of his training chamber. Here, he was expected to coordinate, to trust, to rely on others whose methods were alien to his own.
His classmates were an enigma.
Zen'in Maki remained a sharp-edged presence. During joint training sessions, her movements were a blur of efficiency, her cursed tool a brutal extension of her will. She compensated for her lack of cursed energy with a terrifying physical prowess and an arsenal of specialized weapons. Arata watched her, fascinated by her defiance, by the sheer force of will that allowed her to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with sorcerers born with immense power. He saw the fire in her eyes, a burning resentment that mirrored his burden of expectation, though for vastly different reasons. She was the discarded, he the chosen, yet both were defined by their clans in ways they couldn't escape. Her cutting remarks, though they still stung, began to lose some of their initial bite, morphing into a peculiar form of challenging camaraderie. She never offered praise, but her silence, when he executed a particularly complex blood manipulation, spoke volumes.
Inumaki Toge was a whirlwind of cryptic pronouncements and quiet observation. His cursed speech was a power Arata both respected and feared. During drills, Inumaki's "Don't move!" or "Explode!" would ripple through the training ground, forcing Arata to quickly adapt his strategies to anticipate the devastating linguistic attacks. Outside of training, Inumaki communicated mostly through ingredients – "Salmon" for yes, "Bonito flakes" for no, "Tuna mayo" for concern. Arata, initially baffled, found himself slowly, painstakingly learning to decipher the nuances of Inumaki's limited vocabulary. There was a quiet strength about him, a deep sense of responsibility that belied his playful demeanor. Arata found himself respecting the immense self-control Inumaki exercised, the constant vigilance required to prevent his words from becoming weapons against his friends.
And then there was Panda. The cursed corpse. Arata had never encountered anything quite like him. Panda was boisterous, surprisingly thoughtful, and possessed a raw, unrefined strength that was deceptively potent. He was the anchor of their small group, a grounding presence that seemed to absorb and diffuse the tensions that often sparked between Maki and Arata. Panda's cursed energy felt stable, almost comforting, a stark contrast to the volatile nature of Arata's own. He was the easiest to talk to, offering simple, direct advice or just a listening ear. "You think too much, Kamo," Panda had rumbled one afternoon, watching Arata meticulously plan a training exercise. "Sometimes, you just gotta punch it." Arata had scoffed, but the simplicity of the advice had stuck with him.
Arata's oraining continued, albeit with new constraints. He still practiced his Sanguine Genesis, refining his ability to shift blood between liquid, solid, and gaseous states. He spent hours with Minazuki, learning to feel its internal reservoir, the subtle hum of stored blood within its blade. He practiced with Crimson Arc, forming energy arrows, focusing on the precise cursed energy output required for his "Blood Bind," "Blood Mist," and "Blood Explosion" techniques. The bow, as Gojo had cryptically noted, did indeed improve his overall cursed energy control, forcing him to be more efficient, more precise with his output.
But the limitation was always there, a phantom ache in his veins: the finite nature of his blood supply. Every complex technique, every powerful arrow, every hardened construct demanded a physical toll. The clan had sent a generous supply of blood bags with him, carefully prepared and stored in a temperature-controlled vault within the school grounds, but even these were finite. He found himself subconsciously conserving his power, holding back during drills, a habit that frustrated his instructors and drew sharp glances from Maki.
"What are you waiting for, Kamo?" Maki had snapped during a simulated combat exercise, after he'd hesitated to use a large-scale blood construct to block a simulated attack. "You've got the power. Use it!"
Arata had mumbled a vague excuse about "efficiency," but the truth was, he was always calculating. How much blood would this cost? How many more techniques could he deploy before he needed to replenish? The thought of being caught in a real fight, depleted and vulnerable, was a cold dread that never fully left him. It was a stark reminder that even with Sanguine Genesis, he was still bound by the most fundamental of biological limits. The concept of an inexhaustible supply of Reverse Cursed Technique eremaineda distant, unthought-of miracle.
The comparisons to Gojo Satoru continued, both from instructors and, more subtly, from the whispers of the other students. "He's got that same aura of overwhelming power," Arata overheard once. "Like Gojo-sensei, but… colder." The "colder" part stung, a reminder of the isolation his power seemed to bring.
He saw Gojo frequently, drifting through the school with that infuriatingly casual confidence. Gojo would offer cryptic remarks, sometimes about Arata's technique, sometimes about his rigid demeanor. "Still trying to fit a square peg in a round hole, Kamo-kun?" he'd quipped one morning, seeing Arata meticulously polishing Minazuki. "That blade wants to sing. Let it." Arata didn't understand what he meant, but the words lingered. Gojo was a constant, shimmering reminder of the pinnacle, a peak Arata was expected to reach, yet a peak that felt impossibly distant and, perhaps, fundamentally different from his path.
One afternoon, during a particularly intense sparring session, Arata found himself facing Maki in a one-on-one. She moved with a furious grace, her polearm a blur, forcing him to constantly defend. He used hardened blood shields, blood whips to deflect, but her relentless assault pushed him back. He saw the raw determination in her eyes, the sheer will to overcome. He felt a grudging respect, and something else – a challenge he hadn't anticipated. He was the heir, the prodigy, but here, in this moment, he was simply a sorcerer facing another, equally determined. The weight of his legacy felt lighter, momentarily, replaced by the exhilarating thrill of a genuine fight. He realized, with a jolt, that this was what Gojo meant by "letting go." Not of control, but of the internal shackles.
His time at Jujutsu High was slowly, subtly, reshaping him. The rigid lines of his Kamo upbringing were beginning to blur, softened by the unexpected camaraderie, sharpened by the genuine challenges, and constantly overshadowed by the enigmatic presence of Gojo Satoru. He was still the Kamo heir, burdened by Sanguine Genesis and its terrible cost, but he was also, for the first time, beginning to forge his path, one blood drop at a time. The Crimson Dawn was still breaking, but its light, here, felt less like a heavy burden and more like a promise of something new.
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