The subtle shift in the academy's atmosphere wasn't lost on anyone. A tension, as fine as spider silk yet as strong as a steel cable, stretched across the campus. Gojo Satoru's rare moments of grimness had become more frequent, his casualness a thin veneer over a core of growing concern. The whispers of the higher-ups and the escalating cursed spirit activity were undeniable signs: something big was coming.
One crisp morning, Gojo gathered Arata, Maki, Inumaki, and Panda in a large, open-air dojo. His usual boisterous energy was tempered by a sober undertone. "Alright, brats," he began, though the affection in his voice was clear, "things are about to get a lot busier. The cursed energy levels across Japan are spiking. We're seeing more high-grade manifestations than usual, and the information coming from the higher-ups is… frustratingly vague. But it all points to one thing: a storm's brewing."
He gestured to two figures standing quietly behind him. "Which means you all need to get stronger, faster. I'll be pulled away for more direct intervention missions, so your training will be handled by these fine folks."
He pointed to the first, a man with a stern, no-nonsense expression and a perpetually tired look in his eyes. He carried a long, sheathed katana at his side. "This is Kusakabe Atsuya. He's a master of New Shadow Style and one of the best weapon instructors you'll find. Maki, Arata," Gojo's gaze settled on them, "he's all yours. He'll push you to integrate your cursed tools with true martial precision. No more holding back, Kamo. And Maki, I expect you to show him why the Zen'in clan's 'failure' is a force to be reckoned with."
Maki's jaw tightened at the "failure" jab, but her eyes flickered with a competitive fire as she met Kusakabe's unflinching gaze. Arata bowed respectfully, feeling a flicker of anticipation. Kusakabe's cursed energy was sharp, disciplined, exactly what he needed to refine his sword and bow techniques.
Gojo then gestured to the second figure, a tall man with sleek blonde hair and sharp, analytical eyes, dressed impeccably in a suit. His cursed energy was calm, precise, yet held an undercurrent of formidable strength. "And this is Nanami Kento. He's a veteran, a former salaryman, and an absolute beast in hand-to-hand combat. Inumaki, Panda," he indicated them, "Nanami will be rounding out your close-quarters capabilities. He'll teach you efficiency, brute force with purpose, and how to read your opponents without relying solely on your techniques."
"Excellent!" Gojo clapped his hands again, his smile returning, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. "Now that's settled, I've got to run. Top brass just issued an emergency directive. Something about a high-grade manifesting in a… sensitive area. Gotta go poke it with a stick."
He vanished in a flash of motion, leaving the students with their new, daunting instructors. Arata found himself observing Kusakabe. He sensed the potential for immense growth under this man's tutelage. His focus on precision and integration felt like the next natural step for his sword style, especially with Minazuki.
The New Normal: Training Under Pressure
The training sessions under Kusakabe and Nanami were a stark wake-up call, immediately reminding the students that their previous accomplishments were but a drop in the ocean.
Kusakabe began by dismantling Arata and Maki's established combat habits. His movements were deceptively simple, yet devastatingly effective. In their first few spars, he disarmed Maki with a flick of his wrist; her furious assaults were rendered impotent by his uncanny ability to predict and counter. He moved with a relaxed efficiency that baffled Arata, his sword appearing to pass through obstacles and strike with impossible angles.
"You two," Kusakabe stated flatly after effortlessly deflecting a Piercing Blood and countering Arata's Minazuki strike in a single fluid motion, "are relying too much on your abilities. Kamo, your blood is a hammer, but you swing it like a flail. Zen'in, your cursed tools are extensions of your will, but your will is sometimes... crude. You think you're strong because you've beaten some curses. You're just frogs in a well."
The "frogs in a well" barb, so similar to Gojo's earlier assessment, stung. Arata felt his pride chafe, but he knew the truth in Kusakabe's words. Against someone like Gojo, or even Kusakabe himself, his raw power wasn't enough without a deeper mastery of fundamental combat. Kusakabe forced them to discard their reliance on flashy techniques, focusing on the sheer precision of the blade, the economy of movement, the proper flow of cursed energy through steel. Arata found himself practicing basic sword forms for hours, feeling the minute shifts in his balance, the nuanced control required to make Minazuki truly sing. He began to understand that integrating his Sanguine Genesis with Kusakabe's forms would make him far more dangerous, not just flashier.
Meanwhile, Nanami's training for Inumaki and Panda was equally unforgiving. Nanami, with his no-nonsense demeanor, dismantled Panda's brawling style, teaching him how to use his immense strength with surgical precision. "Force without purpose is wasted effort," Nanami would calmly state, effortlessly redirecting Panda's blows with minimal movement, often exploiting a subtle opening Panda hadn't even realized he'd created. For Inumaki, Nanami focused on close-quarters defense, forcing him to rely on evasive maneuvers and quick, decisive strikes, rather than solely on his devastating but telegraphed cursed speech. He taught them to read their opponents' intent, to anticipate, to move before thought, a level of instinctual combat that few sorcerers ever achieved.
The students were bruised, exhausted, and humbled. They were Special Grades, Grade 1s, but in the presence of these pragmatic, battle-hardened instructors, they were still students. The weight of the impending "storm" felt heavier now, tempered by the knowledge that they were being pushed to their absolute limits, honed into sharper weapons for the fight to come.
Gojo's New Burden: A Fateful Encounter
Meanwhile, far from the disciplined training grounds of Jujutsu High, Gojo Satoru materialized in the desolate expanse of an abandoned city block, shrouded in a perpetual dusk. The air was thick with a cloying dread, the kind that indicated a curse of immense power. This wasn't a standard investigation; it was a high-priority cleanup, a disturbance too great for even experienced Grade 1 sorcerers to handle.
He moved through the decaying buildings like a ghost, his Limitless technique rendering him untouchable, his Six Eyes (even behind the blindfold) discerning every ripple of cursed energy. He tracked the source to a derelict hospital, its windows shattered, its aura radiating pure, unadulterated despair.
Inside, the cursed energy pulsed, not with the mindless malice of a common curse, but with a profound, almost human sorrow. Gojo's usual detached amusement faded, replaced by a deep frown. This cursed energy signature felt… familiar. Troubling.
He found it on the top floor, in what looked like a converted operating theatre. A swirling vortex of dark energy, immense and volatile, pulsed in the center of the room. And within that vortex, a lone, hunched figure stood, radiating an anxiety so potent it made the very air vibrate.
It was a young man, perhaps a year or two older than Arata, with an awkward posture and dark, troubled eyes. He was trembling, his hands clasped together, as if praying. But the overwhelming, suffocating, cursed energy wasn't coming from him, not directly. It poured from behind him, from a colossal, grotesque entity that loomed over him like a protective, yet monstrous, shadow. Its form was indistinct, yet undeniably female, a twisted amalgamation of limbs and malice, its eyes burning with an ancient, furious grief.
Gojo's blood ran cold. He knew this cursed spirit. He knew the boy.
"Okkotsu Yuta," Gojo stated, his voice surprisingly gentle, stripping away his usual irreverence. "And Rika."
The boy, Yuta, flinched, his head snapping up. His eyes, wide with fear, met Gojo's unseen gaze. The cursed energy radiating from Rika intensified, coiling protectively around Yuta, a silent, terrifying roar of primal possessiveness.
"Who… who are you?" Yuta stammered, his voice laced with terror.
Gojo took a step forward, raising a hand in a calming gesture, though the sheer power emanating from him was anything but calm. "I'm Gojo Satoru. And I'm here to help you, Yuta. Yo, and Rika."
He paused, a flicker of something profound crossing his face – understanding, sorrow, and a glimmer of immense potential. He felt Rika's overwhelming, raw power and the boy's immense burden. It was a power utterly different from Arata's precise, calculated Sanguine Genesis, but equally, if not more, devastating in its unrestrained form. This was a force that could change the very balance of the Jujutsu world, just like Arata's awakened abilities.
The tension in the room was electric, a collision of overwhelming forces. The storm was gathering, and Yuta Okkotsu, the haunted prodigy, was clearly at its heart. Gojo knew then that his path, and the path of his students, including Arata, were about to converge in a confrontation unlike anything they had ever faced.