No mission today.
Soujun followed his daily training routine.
Mishima Utako was likewise practicing swordwork in her own yard. Yesterday's battle had helped a bit. He could see the progress.
In the few days since she moved in, the courtyard flowers and plants had been wrecked.
She seemed to have no friends and rarely went out. Every day was either training her body or practicing with the blade, and when she was not with the blade she was training her body.
So this is a homebody, right?
Soujun turned away and headed to Field No. 5.
He picked a quiet room at random.
He took down the fly-head that hovered over him.
It had changed drastically. The limbs and torso had finished assimilating. Only the fly's head perched on the neck still faintly showed its original form.
A single hair with a crimson tip pierced the back of its skull. Scarlet light quickly welled up.
The crimson began to erode the fly's head, like liquid light flowing across it and then slowly into it.
The features subtly grew to resemble Soujun's.
Almost there. In a few more days the assimilation would be complete.
—
Soujun and Mishima only met when taking missions. Outside of work they had no contact at all.
An unspoken understanding.
After another day of rest, Soujun accepted a Grade 1 exorcism.
Time to turn up the difficulty.
Same meet point and time. When Soujun arrived, Mishima was already in the car, face lit with excitement and anticipation.
This time the site was a hospital.
By the time they arrived, the outer perimeter was taped off. People inside had been evacuated, the nearby crowd cleared. It was very quiet.
Mishima set the Curtain again.
She wore her uniform, so the security staff recognized her and did not interfere. That was the convenience.
Soujun did not wear his, but since he went in with Mishima, no one stopped him. That was the convenience of having an aide.
They stepped into the Curtain.
The entire hospital sat under low pressure.
At the center of the vortex, a massive humanoid curse sat cross-legged on the ground.
Its head looked like a lump of rotting flesh, covered in sores and scabs, with viscous pus dripping to the floor. From the ulcerated patches squeezed faces of various sizes that pressed outward in a frenzy, but something tugged and bound them so they could not break free, muttering and screaming without end.
Arms of many lengths were embedded across its skin. Its four limbs were also pieced together from severed arms, grasping at empty air without purpose. Cursed mist billowed and clotted so thickly the air itself seemed to ripple.
This was the target.
The floor was corroded into pits and stank of blood and rot.
The hospital was large, and lower-grade curses roamed all around, wandering aimlessly.
It had become a theme park for curses.
They shared a glance.
Soujun understood.
The aide wanted the dragon. As the primary, he would clear the adds.
The fly-head took off from above him, a hair trailing from the back of its skull as if it could extend without limit.
It darted among the lesser curses, wings beating, speed extreme.
Its claws were razor-sharp. Each stab into a curse tore away a chunk of flesh.
It stuffed the flesh into its mouthful of fangs and chewed. Tasting the sweetness, it worked faster, madly gouging out gobbets of fresh meat. When a curse's counterattack came, it switched targets with blinding speed and repeated the routine.
The curses were exorcised in this bizarre way. They could not hit it, could not block it, could not escape it.
Vile little thing.
Soujun ignored it and watched Mishima grip her blade and sprint up the outer wall. Reaching the top, she leapt into space and dropped above the target's head.
Countless arms grabbed for her and were cut away one after another. Severed limbs rained from the sky.
Riding her fall, she drove the sword into the top of its head, punching deep until only the hilt remained.
The curse howled and swung a massive palm to swat her.
She was faster. Her arm twitched, the tachi shivered, and she lopped off nearly half its skull. As she withdrew, she scooped out a swath of human faces. Before the palm landed, she had already jumped down, slipped behind it, dipped her stance, brought the blade forward, stamped hard, and burst into speed. The tip screamed through the air and rammed clean through the curse, splitting it open. She stood up slowly in front of it.
She flicked the blade to shed blood and was about to relax when
a great surge of malice swelled behind her. The pressure halted the air. Bits of severed flesh were tugged by an unseen force and knit back together.
The curse was regenerating.
What a pain. Mishima raised a wary brow and turned to guard.
Only now did the curse push itself off the floor. Its vast shadow covered the ground and covered Mishima, making her look very small.
She dashed in and cut at its leg. It felt like slicing water, leaving no mark.
The curse had strong resistance to edged weapons, so she switched to striking with the blade's flat. Once she wrapped it in cursed energy it was still sharp.
Yet compared to the curse's mass, it was too slender.
The tide turned. She was the weaker side. In truth she had been from the start.
Did she not have a technique?
When the swordwork and bodywork she relied upon could not take hold, she began to look exhausted.
Cut after cut, regen after regen.
The curse's recovery started to slow.
Her cursed energy was draining fast, her stamina even faster.
The swordplay was still beautiful, which only highlighted her powerlessness.
Mishima ignored everything except swinging the blade.
When she could no longer grip it and the curse knocked the sword away, she used her fists and feet. Even as she struggled to keep up and took repeated hits, she refused to back off.
If she could not kill it, she would be killed.
That was written across her face.
A stubborn one.
Soujun watched her closely. His double pupils were like a deep well under moonlight, glittering with fine light.
He analyzed the fight and watched for her limit.
Mishima was using the nearness of death to force a breakthrough. Soujun let her try.
Pity. Even at this point, she did not succeed.
It was already very hard.
Soujun walked forward and stepped in front of her at the critical instant.
His hair band released and black hair fell free. One hair surged long in an instant and wrapped the curse's torso, limbs, and neck, drawn tight.
The curse froze.
Instinct screamed.
Do not move. You will die.
Soujun curled a finger. The hair cinched tighter and bit deeper into flesh, stained scarlet.
He lightly released his finger.
Zheng.
Silence fell first.
The ringing flowed like a brook through Mishima's heart and calmed her spirit, then swelled to fill the space.
The curse collapsed. Head and limbs rolled away. The torso lay in a neat lattice of slices across the ground. A few bright drops burst into mist on the hairs and drifted as a red haze.
Malice poured out. The chunks still tried to pool together.
Soujun tipped his head. The blood-scent sharpened his mood. In his view the curse in front and Mishima behind both came into focus.
"You worked hard. I will handle it from here."
Mishima saw only his profile and the slight upward curve at the corner of his mouth.
The hair wove into a net and swept the curse again and again. Each pass minced it finer. It had no way to fight back. With every movement the net sliced once more, until flesh became slurry mixed with dirt and would not reform.
The scarlet began to show threads of cold gray.
Mishima knelt weakly, using the sword to prop herself up, unwilling to fall.
She watched.
Her teeth were clenched.
She had seen his ID. If she remembered, it said Grade 2.
She had compared herself with other sorcerers and was sure she was Grade 2 peak.
She had come to push for quasi Grade 1.
She did not expect the gap to be this big.
What was this.
Her eyes dropped. Her gaze sank into shadow.
—
Soujun waited a little while until the curse dispersed into black vapor and was fully exorcised. The fly-head had also had its fun, ate and drank its fill, and drifted back above his head.
Nothing anomalous remained in his senses.
He went to Mishima. She was sitting on the ground, now pitying herself, now grimacing, emotions shifting.
So easy to read. Charitably it was "transparent." In truth she did not hide her feelings. Joy and anger were plain on her face.
He sensed no malice, so he did not overthink it. He helped her to her feet.
She gathered herself, smiled, and gave a thumbs-up. Very strong.
He returned one. You were good too.
Her mood recovered quickly.
They were a little more familiar now.
When she was able to move, she lifted the Curtain. They cleaned up and went back to the car together.
"The mission went smoothly. How about a little celebration," Mishima said suddenly. "To a good partnership."
"Your injuries," Soujun glanced over. She was in bad shape, spattered in blood, left arm limp, barely able to stand.
"Scratches. Some rest will do," she said breezily. The professional tone from the start was gone.
Soujun nodded.
He drove back, unlicensed, playing at being Zhang San.
Looked more like he was the aide.
World turned upside down.
—
At dusk, Mishima arrived at Soujun's place.
She had changed into loungewear and did not bring her tachi, which lent her a softer air.
She seemed mostly recovered.
Soujun could not help thinking sorcerers really could take a beating. With a decent healer, half-dead one minute, bouncing the next.
She was in high spirits. After a quick hello she led him out.
Her treat, as promised.
All the way she shared favorite places to eat, a very different vibe from her work persona.
Before long they reached an izakaya. It was off the beaten path but busy inside. Mishima moved like a regular.
—
Why did I agree to go drinking.
Soujun regretted it. He never imagined she would be a boozehound.
She clanked down several bottles at once and, after only a few sips, was already tipsy.
She liked both dishes and drink.
Her table manners with alcohol were bad.
Her tongue got thick and she muttered nonsense.
He could feel eyes gathering from around the room. Goosebumps prickled his skin.
"Even though you saved me, I really do not like your smile. Saying things like 'you worked hard, I will take it from here,' did you think I would be very moved? Big sis hates that kind of smile the most."
Apparently still not vented, she slid in beside him, one hand over his shoulder, the other grabbing a bottle.
Glug glug.
She poured it down, sighed in satisfaction, then slammed the base on the table.
Thump.
In that instant he could clearly feel the room's attention increase.
He took an awkward sip of tea.
She did not let up, elbowing him and chirping on.
"You are fine when exorcising. Arrogant, wild, eyes above the crown. I like that. But most of the time you are too steady. I am four years older yet it feels like you are my big brother. What is that. No bite at all."
She smacked his back.
"Not a hint of teenage energy."
"And also, hahahaha…"
She seemed to remember something and could not stop laughing.
"Ha… hahaha, only fifteen and already such an old soul. Hahaha."
She pointed and jabbed at him.
Exaggerated.
Forty plus fifteen divided by two. He had the physiology of eighteen and the looks and mental age of twenty-seven.
The fusion was complete.
Some people look twenty-seven at fifteen and still look twenty-seven at forty.
Know what ageless means?
At some point she had gone back to sitting across from him.
Soujun relaxed too.
Before coming to Jujutsu High he had known very few people in fifteen years.
His parents and Yaga Masamichi. Only three.
Even if you counted the nanny, coaches, and tutors, it barely exceeded two handfuls.
He had been a shut-in.
Scenes like this were rare for him.
Around them came the banter of other drinkers. Friends maybe. Family maybe. Co-workers ground down by the day maybe. They gathered in twos and threes to wash off fatigue and vent the pressure inside.
The atmosphere grew lively.
Soujun sipped tea and ate, letting the drunk's words pass in one ear and out the other, just treating them as jokes.
Good for the appetite, honestly.
He was in a good mood and did not stop her. He let Mishima run free.
Talking and talking, she started crying.
"I try this hard and still have to watch you people pass me. Unfair. So unfair. Why is it that for some, getting strong is as easy as eating and drinking. I finally squeeze up to the same grade and still cannot win. Turn away for a second and I am left behind again. Damn it. You are that kind of genius too, right? Go die a little for me. You do not get how I feel. No one does. I feel awful. Mom." She let out a strange howl of a sob.
Soujun had to duck his head and cover his face to block the stares.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Mishima climb onto her seat and start singing loudly.
Her voice was pretty, but she was tone-deaf.
The whole room's eyes converged. He scratched at the floor mentally. When she started to climb onto the table, he could not sit still and reached to steady her.
Mishima reflexively crossed her arms in front of her chest.
Huh?
He slowed and gentled his movements.
She forced her eyes open through the blur and seemed to recognize him, then let her guard down.
He found the shoe she had kicked off and helped her put it back on.
He paid in a rush and made for the door.
She fell asleep halfway back, so he had to carry her.
Her soft snores brushed his ear and the reek of alcohol stung. His body recoiled on instinct.
He held his breath against it and worried about drool on his back the whole way.
Exhausting. More tiring than a mission.
Back home, he dumped her onto the sofa.
Long exhale.
He found a blanket and covered her, then stopped meddling. He went to shower immediately and came out clean and refreshed.
The rest could wait for tomorrow. He felt a little worn out.
__________________________________________________________
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