The world returned to Arata in agonizing shards of pain and sensation. The acrid smell of ozone and dissolved curse flesh burned in his nostrils. The cold, damp stone of the abandoned Shibuya station pressed against his cheek. His entire body screamed, every muscle fiber protesting, every nerve ending aflame. He tried to move, but his limbs felt like lead, heavy and unresponsive. He was utterly, completely drained.
Then, a familiar presence. Gojo Satoru knelt beside him, his blindfolded gaze, though unseen, felt like a palpable weight. There was no casual cheerfulness now, only a quiet intensity. Gojo's hand, surprisingly gentle, settled on Arata's forehead. A faint pulse of cursed energy flowed into him, not to heal him completely – Gojo was not a Reverse Cursed Technique user – but to stabilize his dangerously low vitals, to pull him back from the very edge of unconsciousness.
"You pushed it, Arata." Gojo's voice was low, devoid of judgment, yet carrying the profound weight of what had just transpired. "You truly pushed it. That was... something new. Something the Kamo clan's records don't speak of."
Arata tried to speak, but only a dry cough escaped his lips. The memory of the curse's dissolving form, the sickening sizzle of his own blood consuming it, flashed through his mind. It was terrifying. Monstrous. And he had done it.
"You broke through a wall," Gojo continued, rising. "The wall of 'normal' blood manipulation. But remember the price. That wasn't free. You emptied yourself to a dangerous degree. The world grants power, Arata, but it always demands a payment."
Soon, other Jujutsu High personnel arrived, silent figures in dark uniforms. Arata was carefully, gently lifted onto a stretcher. He felt a profound weakness, a hollowness that settled deep in his bones. As he was carried away, he glanced back at the ravaged section of the station, where the Grade 1 curse had dissolved. The very air there seemed tainted, a lingering stain of the terrible power he had just unleashed. The Corruption of Noble Intent felt less like a concept and more like a visceral reality clinging to him.
The next few days were a blur of recovery. Medical sorcerers worked tirelessly, replenishing his blood, mending his strained muscles, and easing the internal shock to his cursed energy channels. He slept fitfully, his dreams haunted by the image of the dissolving curse, by Gojo's cold words about being "disposable," and by the terrifying new sensation of his blood becoming a destructive force.
When he was finally strong enough to sit up, Maki, Inumaki, and Panda came to visit. Their usual banter was muted, replaced by an uncharacteristic somberness.
"You really messed that thing up, Kamo," Panda said, his voice softer than usual. "The reports are insane. They're calling it 'Crimson Erosion.' Said it melted through the reinforced concrete like acid."
Arata flinched at the word "acid." He hadn't thought of it that way. He had just pushed his blood, urged it to destroy, to consume. The realization that he had unknowingly manifested such a terrifying property sent a fresh shiver down his spine. This power was truly monstrous.
Maki stood by the door, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. After a long silence, she finally spoke, her voice lower than he'd ever heard it. "You almost died, Kamo. Gojo-sensei… he said you were at your limit." There was no scorn in her voice, only a strange mix of concern and something else – perhaps a grudging respect, or even fear.
Arata met her gaze. "I... I know." He didn't offer excuses. He couldn't. The fear was real. The cost was real.
Inumaki, who had been quietly fiddling with his collar, finally offered a soft, "Shake." It was an expression of deep concern, almost sympathy.
"He pushed you," Panda added, looking directly at Arata. "Like he said he would. To the brink."
Arata nodded. "He did. And… I found something." He didn't elaborate on the specifics, on the terrifying new property of his blood. He wasn't sure he could explain it, let alone wanted to. The secret of "Crimson Erosion" felt too dangerous, too personal, to share just yet.
But the experience had changed his approach to his power. The hesitation was largely gone. He still conserved blood, knowing his limits, but the tactical calculations were no longer driven by fear of depletion, but by strategic efficiency. He would use his strength when it was needed, without holding back. The knowledge that he could, if utterly desperate, manifest such a devastating, consuming force of blood, was both a terrifying burden and a grim reassurance. It had awakened a raw, fundamental will to survive.
His training resumed, a few days later, with renewed intensity. He continued to practice his existing techniques, integrating the fluidity Gojo had urged him to embrace. He spent more time with Minazuki, allowing its blade to absorb small amounts of his own blood during practice, understanding its potential as a supplementary reservoir, a true extension of his technique. He worked on refining his Crimson Arc arrows, making them faster, more unpredictable. He now understood that mastery of versatility wasn't just about combining techniques, but about pushing them beyond their known limits, forcing them to become something "more."
He found himself observing Maki, Inumaki, and Panda with new eyes, too. He remembered their combined assault, their strengths and weaknesses, Gojo had pointed out. He began to see their individual struggles more clearly, not just as classmates, but as fellow sorcerers navigating a dangerous, unforgiving world. The distance between them, born of his Kamo heritage and his isolated upbringing, began to subtly lessen. He wasn't just "the Kamo heir" to them anymore; he was Arata, the one who had faced a Grade 1 alone and survived, the one who bled crimson and burned with a terrifying, new power.
The whispers of the "Kamo Gojo" still reached his ears, but now, when he heard them, a flicker of something new ignited within him – not resentment, but a grim, silent challenge. Gojo had shown him the abyss, and Arata had chosen to fight his way out. He would forge his own path to the top, even if it meant becoming something equally terrifying, born from the very blood of his past. The Crimson Dawn had truly risen, brutal and undeniable, marking him forever.