The promotion had come swiftly, almost quietly, a formal notice slipped beneath his door by a silent clan elder. Kamo Arata: Special Grade Sorcerer. The words, emblazoned on the official document, felt like a branding iron. He was only fifteen, barely out of the Kamo estate, and yet, the Jujutsu world now expected him to stand alongside legends. Maki had scoffed when she heard, a bitter laugh echoing her own struggles against clan traditions. Inumaki had offered a soft, questioning "Tuna mayo?" Panda, ever pragmatic, had simply said, "Well, guess you're doing all the hard missions now, Kamo."
And Panda was right.
His first solo mission as a Special Grade came a week later, handed directly to him by Gojo Satoru, who, for once, seemed completely serious. "A Grade 1 has manifested in the abandoned Shibuya Crossing station. It's an environmental curse, feeding on the lingering despair of the crowds. Strong enough to wipe out a small squad of Grade 2s. Go get it."
Arata felt the familiar knot of apprehension. A Grade 1. Alone. This was precisely the kind of test Gojo had hinted at, the brutal reality of the Jujutsu world. He was still battling the inherent limitation of his blood supply, a constant, nagging worry. He packed extra blood bags, enough to sustain a prolonged battle, the cold sensation of the plastic against his skin a chilling comfort.
The abandoned Shibuya Crossing station was a cavern of echoes and shadows. The usual frenetic energy of the area was replaced by a suffocating silence, broken only by the drip of unseen water and the low, guttural thrum of cursed energy. The scent of ozone and decay hung heavy in the stale air. Arata moved with deliberate caution, Minazuki drawn, its dark blade reflecting the emergency lights that flickered sporadically. Crimson Arc was slung ready on his back, quiver full of crafted blood-arrows.
The curse manifested almost silently, rising from the tangled wreckage of a derailed train car. It was enormous, a grotesque amalgamation of rusting metal, discarded train seats, and pulsing, necrotic flesh. Its form shifted like smoke, but its core radiated an immense, malevolent, cursed energy. A Grade 1 Curse. Strong enough to make his skin crawl, to make the blood in his veins hum with a primal warning.
This was no training dummy. This was raw, indiscriminate evil.
Arata didn't hesitate. He knew direct engagement with its mass was suicide. He needed to be precise, efficient. "Piercing Blood!" A crimson beam erupted from his palm, slicing through the air with a high-pitched shriek, aimed directly at the curse's pulsing core.
The curse shrieked, a sound like grinding metal, as the beam tore through its shifting mass. But it merely reformed, regenerating the damaged section with alarming speed, its dark, formless body surging towards him. It was faster than he anticipated.
Arata pushed cursed energy into his legs. "Flowing Red Scale!" He darted back, a crimson streak, dodging a sweeping tentacle of rusted steel that would have crushed him. He drew Crimson Arc, nocking an arrow of pure cursed energy.
"Blood Bind!" he yelled, firing three arrows in quick succession. They burst upon impact around the curse's base, solidifying into thick, crimson chains, attempting to anchor its colossal form. The curse roared, its form rippling, straining against the binds, but Arata's Sanguine Genesis held, for a moment, proving its strength.
He used the opening. "Blood Explosion!" He fired an arrow directly into the curse's gaping maw, where its malformed "head" was. The detonation ripped through its interior, sending pieces of rusted metal and cursed flesh scattering. The curse staggered, a pained shriek tearing from its core.
But it wasn't enough. The curse lunged, breaking free of the weakening blood binds with a violent, rending force. Its sheer size allowed it to cover ground rapidly. Arata found himself cornered against a collapsed pillar, its shadowy mass looming over him.
He had to get closer, had to find a true weakness. He gripped Minazuki, channeling his blood into the blade, feeling its hum intensify as its internal reservoir churned. He lunged forward, not dodging, but attacking, aiming for a vulnerable point on the curse's shifting body. His sword style, precise and almost surgical, sought to sever the flow of its cursed energy.
He parried a crushing blow, the impact jarring his teeth, and then spun, cutting deep into a section of pulsating flesh near its core. As Minazuki bit deep, Arata felt a powerful draw. The blade hummed violently, greedily, absorbing the curse's foul energy and a viscous, black fluid that acted as its lifeblood. A jolt, sickening and invigorating, shot through Arata. Minazuki was growing stronger, fueled by the very essence of his enemy.
But this temporary boost wasn't enough to turn the tide. The curse roared, recovering with a terrifying speed, its wounds closing. It slammed a massive arm down, faster than Arata could react. He managed to throw up a desperate, hardened blood shield, but the impact was devastating. The shield shattered, and Arata was sent flying, crashing through a stack of debris.
He lay amidst the rubble, gasping, every inch of his body screaming. Blood trickled from his nose, his arm was twisted at an unnatural angle, and his cursed energy felt like a dying ember. He was critically low on his own blood, Minazuki's brief surge quickly spent. He needed blood. Now. He tore open a blood bag, frantically injecting its contents, feeling the life-giving fluid rush into his veins.
The curse lumbered towards him, its shadowy form blotting out the faint light. He was out of options. Out of time. This is it, he thought, a cold despair settling over him. This is what Gojo meant. The world takes everything.
But then, a memory surfaced. Gojo's voice, harsh but clear: "You have to be willing to give it. Every drop. Every ounce of your being." And Arata's own defiance: I won't be disposable. I won't.
He had no more blood bags. His own body was failing. He had to create. He had to find a way to make his blood do more than just shift states. He had to push beyond his current understanding.
As the curse loomed, Arata roared, a primal sound torn from his raw throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, pouring every last scintilla of his cursed energy into his veins, into his very being. He didn't know what he was doing, only that he refused to yield. He felt a searing pain, a burning sensation as if his blood was boiling, twisting into something new, something more. He didn't know how to make it acidic or corrosive, but a desperate, intuitive understanding, born from the absolute brink, flared within him. His blood, already low, surged with a terrifying, new intensity.
His eyes snapped open. They burned with a fierce, crimson light. His blood, what little he had left, was no longer just a fluid. It was a weapon of fundamental destruction.
"Crimson Barrage!" he shrieked, extending both hands. Nota simple piercing blood. Not hardened needles. From his palms erupted a torrent of condensed blood, infused with this new, terrifying property he hadn't known he possessed. It wasn't simply powerful; it was consuming.
The crimson torrent slammed into the Grade 1 Curse. It wasn't just a physical impact; it was as if Arata's blood was eating the curse. The corrupted flesh sizzled, dissolved, evaporated, leaving behind smoking holes. The curse shrieked, a sound of agony and pure horror, as its very essence was unraveled. It tried to regenerate, but Arata's blood was annihilating it faster than it could reform. He poured everything he had into it, his body trembling violently, on the verge of collapse.
The curse's roars died to a gurgle, its massive form dissolving into black cursed particles, leaving behind a smoking, acrid void. It was gone.
Arata stood there, swaying, his body utterly drained. He collapsed to his knees, his vision fading. He had done it. He had unleashed something new, something terrible, something powerful beyond his current comprehension. But the price was immense. He was empty, more utterly depleted than he had ever been, his body screaming for life. He could barely breathe.
He had faced death, and in doing so, had unlocked a deeper, darker aspect of Sanguine Genesis. The Corruption of Noble Intent whispered in the aftermath; this power was indeed monstrous, born from a desperate need to destroy. He had been forced to embrace it, to become something terrible, to survive. He was a Special Grade sorcerer, yes, but the weight of that title now felt heavier than ever, stained with the reality of what it truly demanded.
He lay there, barely conscious, waiting for the inevitable, for Gojo or for death. The Crimson Dawn had truly broken for him, and it was bathed in the blood of his enemy, and almost, his own.