The training ground felt different today. The usual hum of distant activity from the school was absent, replaced by an unnerving silence. The reinforced earth beneath Arata's feet seemed to absorb all sound, leaving only the frantic beat of his own heart. The sky, usually a vibrant blue, was overcast, a bruised grey that mirrored the growing dread in his gut.
Gojo Satoru stood at the center, his blindfold a stark band against his white hair. But today, his usual infuriating cheerfulness was gone. His posture was still relaxed, almost languid, yet it radiated an oppressive weight, a palpable sense of danger that made the air itself feel heavy. Maki, Inumaki, and Panda were nowhere in sight; Gojo had explicitly ordered them away. This was to be a private lesson.
"Kamo Arata," Gojo's voice cut through the silence, devoid of its usual playful lilt. It was flat, cold, like the edge of a blade. "Today, we're not sparring. We're fighting. To the absolute limit. I want to see what you're truly willing to sacrifice to stand at the top. Because out there," he gestured vaguely towards the unseen world beyond the school walls, "the world doesn't care about your potential. It cares about your results. And it will take everything from you if you're not ready to give it."
Arata felt a cold knot tighten in his stomach. This wasn't a test of skill; it was a test of survival. He drew Minazuki, the blade singing a low, mournful hum as it left its sheath, its dark, liquid sheen reflecting the grim light. He shifted his weight, adopting the Kamo clan's foundational stance, but his hands trembled almost imperceptibly.
"Whenever you are, Gojo-sensei," Arata replied, his voice barely a whisper, the bravado from yesterday's spar utterly gone.
Gojo merely stared, his blindfolded head tilted slightly, an unnerving silence stretching between them. Then, without a word, he moved.
He didn't charge. He simply appeared before Arata, a blur of impossible speed. Arata's instincts screamed, but his body was too slow. A casual flick of Gojo's wrist sent a powerful gust of cursed energy that slammed into Arata, throwing him off his feet and skidding across the ground like a ragdoll. He hit the reinforced earth with a sickening thud, the air knocked from his lungs. Minazuki flew from his grasp, clattering uselessly a few feet away.
"Rule number one, Kamo," Gojo's voice was suddenly right above him, devoid of pity. "Hesitation kills. The world outside doesn't wait for you to gather your thoughts."
Arata scrambled back, gasping for air, his ribs aching. He pushed himself up, his eyes darting towards Minazuki. He had to get his blade.
"Piercing Blood!" he roared, channeling a desperate burst of cursed energy, unleashing a crimson beam from his outstretched hand. It was raw, unrefined, fueled by terror.
Gojo didn't even bother to dodge. He simply let the beam hit him. It dissipated harmlessly against his Infinity, vanishing as if it had never been.
"Pathetic," Gojo stated, his voice flat. "That's your best? That's the 'Scion of Sanguine Genesis'?"
Arata felt a surge of humiliation, quickly overshadowed by a primal fear. He lunged for Minazuki, snatching it up, his hand trembling around the hilt. He poured cursed energy into his legs. "Flowing Red Scale!" He became a crimson streak, darting around Gojo, trying to create an opening. He nocked an arrow on Crimson Arc, aiming for Gojo's blindfolded head.
"Blood Explosion!" The arrow detonated with a concussive boom, a crimson wave of force.
Gojo merely walked through the explosion, utterly unfazed. He raised a hand, and the air around Arata warped. Arata felt an invisible force slam into him, pinning him to the ground, crushing him. He gasped, his muscles screaming.
"You think your little parlor tricks will work against true power, Kamo?" Gojo's voice was a low growl now, chillingly close. "Do you think the curses out there, the ones that feast on human fear and despair, will care about your 'potential'? They'll rip you apart, piece by piece, and your clan will simply find another heir. That's the reality of our world. You're disposable."
The words were like ice, piercing Arata's carefully constructed world of duty and destiny. Disposable. He, the Kamo heir, the prodigy, was disposable.
He fought against the invisible pressure, his veins bulging. He felt the rapid drain of his blood, the chilling emptiness spreading through his limbs. He was running out. He needed to replenish. He fumbled for a blood bag, his fingers clumsy with panic.
"No," Gojo said, his voice sharp. The invisible force intensified, crushing Arata's arm, preventing him from reaching the bag. "No crutches. You fight with what you have. You bleed. You break. Or you die."
Arata screamed, a raw, animal sound, as he pushed every last drop of cursed energy into Minazuki. He channeled his remaining blood into the blade, feeling its internal reservoir fill, but it was barely a drop in the ocean compared to what he needed. He focused on the blade's inherent ability to draw cursed energy and blood from its surroundings. He swung Minazuki in a desperate, wide arc, aiming for Gojo's chest, not with skill, but with pure, unadulterated rage and terror.
Gojo caught the blade between two fingers, stopping it effortlessly. His blindfolded head tilted, as if examining Arata's desperate, blood-drained face.
"You're empty," Gojo stated, his voice almost a whisper, yet it echoed in Arata's mind. "You're at your limit. And you're still not enough."
He twisted his fingers, and Minazuki was ripped from Arata's grasp, spinning away to embed itself in the earth far behind him. Arata collapsed, his body trembling uncontrollably, his vision swimming. He was lightheaded, dizzy, the world fading to a crimson haze. He could feel his life force draining, every cell screaming in protest. He was going to die. Here. Now. At the hands of the man who was supposed to be his mentor.
"This world is cruel, Arata," Gojo continued, his voice a low, chilling drone. "It doesn't care about your noble intentions. It doesn't care about your family's legacy. It only cares about power. And if you don't have enough, if you don't push past your limits, if you don't embrace the darkness within your technique... you're just another corpse."
Arata lay there, gasping, his body convulsing. He felt the cold embrace of death reaching for him, the terrifying void. He saw flashes of his life: the oppressive Kamo estate, the endless training, the fear of his power. And then, a different flash: the terrified eyes of the woman in the alley, the fleeting sense of purpose. He didn't want to die. Not like this. Not before he could truly understand, truly wield his power for something more than just clan duty.
Gojo raised his hand, a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer of cursed energy gathering at his fingertips. Arata knew this was it. The final blow. He closed his eyes, a single, desperate thought burning through his fading consciousness: I won't be disposable. I won't.
Then, the pressure vanished. The crimson haze receded. Arata coughed, a ragged, painful sound, and slowly, agonizingly, opened his eyes.
Gojo stood over him, his hand lowered. His blindfold was still in place, but Arata felt an intense, almost physical gaze upon him. The oppressive aura had lessened, replaced by something else – a cold, hard resolve.
"Get up, Arata," Gojo commanded, his voice firm, no longer mocking. "You're not dead. Not yet. But you were close. Closer than you've ever been."
Arata tried to move, but his limbs wouldn't obey. He was utterly spent, his blood supply critically low, his body screaming in protest.
"This is the reality," Gojo said, his voice echoing the harsh truth. "This is what happens when you hold back. This is the price of strength in a world that devours the weak. Your technique, Sanguine Genesis, is terrifying. It can change the very nature of blood, but it demands everything. You have to be willing to give it. Every drop. Every ounce of your being."
He walked over to Minazuki, pulling it from the earth with a single, effortless motion. He walked back and placed the hilt gently into Arata's trembling hand. "This blade, Arata, can drink. It can store. It can become an extension of your very will. But it needs you to push it. To demand more from it. And from yourself."
Gojo knelt, his voice dropping to a low, intense whisper. "You have the potential to stand at the top, Arata. To challenge me. To surpass me. But you have to want it. Not for your clan's sake, not for some inherited duty, but for your own. You have to be willing to walk through hell and back, to bleed until you're empty, and then find a way to keep fighting. That's what it means to be a sorcerer at the pinnacle. That's what it means to truly wield Sanguine Genesis."
He stood up, his towering figure casting a long shadow over the broken Arata. "The world is about to get much, much darker, Kamo. And if you don't find that conviction, that absolute, unyielding will to survive and to fight, you won't make it. You'll be just another sacrifice. Now, get up. The lesson isn't over until you can stand on your own two feet."
Arata lay there, battered, bruised, and utterly depleted. But something had shifted within him. The fear was still there, a cold, persistent dread, but beneath it, a new fire had been kindled. A desperate, burning resolve born from the brink of death. He had seen the abyss, and he had pulled back. He wouldn't be disposable. He wouldn't be a sacrifice. He would fight. He would bleed. And he would find a way to transcend his limits, to truly ignite the crimson dawn within himself. The Gojo comparison still stung, but now, it was less about resentment and more about a terrifying, almost impossible goal. He would challenge Gojo. He would reach the top. Not for the clan, but for himself.
Slowly, agonizingly, Arata began to push himself up, his muscles screaming in protest, his vision still swimming. His hands, gripping Minazuki, were steady. The crimson dawn was no longer just a metaphor; it was a brutal, bloody awakening.
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