The morning light crept through the thin curtains of Haruto's room, spilling a pale warmth across the wooden floor. He blinked awake slowly, his body heavy but strangely refreshed. For a few heartbeats, he forgot the strange reality of yesterday—the cursed presence in the street, the reflexive burst of energy that had scattered it like smoke, and the gnawing realization that he had been reborn into a world where death lurked in shadows.
Then it all came rushing back.
Haruto sat upright, his hands gripping the sheets. His pulse quickened at the memory of that invisible force he had unleashed. It hadn't been random. It was his. He had felt it surge through him, an instinctive reaction tied not just to survival but to something deeper, something ancient.
"Pain…" he whispered under his breath, testing the word.
Not the sensation, but the name. The image of six figures linked to one will. The man who once declared himself a god. Nagato Uzumaki—the one whose power had shaped entire battles with nothing more than a thought.
Haruto had spent countless hours in his previous life reading manga panels, replaying anime scenes, analyzing theories about Pain's abilities. They were fiction back then—fantasy powers far removed from reality. And yet, yesterday, on that street corner, in that fleeting moment of danger, he had felt it. Not a copy. Not an imitation. But the real thing, resonating in his veins.
His breathing slowed.
If this was truly Nagato's power, then his life had just become a dangerous balancing act. The world around him wasn't kind. It was Jujutsu Kaisen. Sorcerers, curses, death. A single mistake could tear him apart.
And yet… his lips curved into a faint, determined smile.
If there was one gift worth the risk, it was this.
The house was quiet. He could hear the faint clatter of dishes from downstairs—his mother, preparing breakfast as usual. His father's voice drifted faintly through the walls, grumbling about the morning paper. The normality of it all was almost disorienting.
Haruto exhaled slowly and pushed himself out of bed. His body felt light, almost unnaturally so. Each movement was precise, smooth, as if some invisible calibration had been made overnight. He stretched, raising his arms, and noticed how natural it felt—as though his muscles already remembered forms he had never trained.
That's when he realized it: instinct. Nagato's instinct.
It wasn't just knowledge. His body itself carried traces of combat reflexes, subtle alignments of posture, balance, readiness. He hadn't learned these things, but they were there, woven into him.
Haruto's fingers curled. "I need to test it," he muttered.
He crossed the room to his desk. Books and stationery were scattered across it. His eyes landed on a pencil—simple, ordinary, perfectly harmless. Yesterday, the outburst had been reflexive, wild. Today, he wanted control.
Haruto sat down, placing the pencil upright on the desk. His gaze fixed on it.
"Push," he whispered.
Nothing happened.
He closed his eyes and reached inward. Yesterday, the energy had felt like pressure, swelling behind his ribs before rushing outward. He tried to recall the sensation, to trace the current that had surged through him. His focus sharpened. His heartbeat slowed.
And then—there it was.
A subtle flow beneath the skin, invisible but undeniable. Not blood, not muscle, but something else: a current of raw malice and will. Cursed energy. It coiled around him, faint but alive.
Haruto exhaled, extending his hand toward the pencil. He concentrated, nudging that current outward.
A faint ripple shimmered in the air.
The pencil trembled.
His eyes widened.
It wasn't dramatic—it didn't fly across the room or explode. But it moved. Just a twitch, just enough to prove the connection between his intent and the energy surrounding him.
Haruto's lips curved into a grin. "So it works…"
He tried again, this time pushing harder. The pencil rolled across the desk and clattered to the floor. A burst of exhaustion shot through his chest, and he clutched at it instinctively. His lungs burned, his vision blurred for a heartbeat before settling.
"Too much," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
Still, his heart pounded with exhilaration. This was real. Tangible. It wasn't imagination. The first step had been taken.
He leaned back in his chair, catching his breath. His thoughts spun wildly.
If this truly was Nagato's power, then it wasn't limited to pushing small objects. The Rinnegan—the Six Paths Technique—had been terrifying not because of one ability, but because of its system. Gravity manipulation, soul extraction, summoning, control over life and death. That was Nagato's arsenal.
Haruto's gaze darkened. He wasn't there yet. Not even close. Right now, he could barely shove a pencil. But the seed was planted.
And more importantly, he had an idea.
"Tendo…" he whispered.
The thought had sparked last night, in the quiet aftermath of his fight with the curse. If his body could channel this energy, could manipulate forces outside himself… what if he created something external? A vessel. A puppet. A body to carry his will.
He imagined it—a figure, human-shaped, bound to him through cursed energy. It wouldn't just be a weapon. It would be a mask. A shield. A way to move unseen in this dangerous world.
The idea wasn't fully formed yet, but the word felt right. Tendo.
Haruto stood, bracing himself on the desk. He needed to push further. A pencil was one thing. What about something heavier?
His eyes flicked toward the small wooden chair near the window. He placed his hand forward, palms open, and inhaled deeply.
The cursed energy stirred.
He focused, drawing it outward, molding it into intent.
"Push."
The chair rattled violently, legs scraping against the wooden floor. For a moment, it tilted, one leg lifting a few inches before crashing back down with a sharp crack.
The sound echoed through the room, and Haruto froze.
"Haruto! You okay up there?" his mother's voice called from downstairs.
He swallowed quickly. "Y-yeah! Just dropped something!"
Silence, then the faint sound of her returning to her tasks.
Haruto exhaled sharply, sweat dripping down his temple. His chest heaved, his muscles trembling as if he had run a marathon. The backlash was brutal. Even a small exertion left him drained.
But the result was undeniable.
The chair had moved.
He collapsed onto the bed, staring at the ceiling. His whole body ached, but the exhilaration eclipsed the discomfort. The path forward was clear: control, stamina, precision. Without those, the power would consume him before he could use it properly.
Still, he couldn't help the smirk tugging at his lips.
From a pencil to a chair. From instinct to intent.
Tomorrow, he would push further.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur. He showered, dressed, and joined his parents for breakfast. They chatted about school, about groceries, about the little things that made up a normal life. Haruto nodded and responded like any other teenager, hiding the storm inside him.
To them, he was just their son.
But beneath the calm surface, his mind raced with possibilities, strategies, and risks.
The world outside didn't know it yet. But the rebirth of Pain's power had begun.
And Haruto was determined to master it—step by step, one experiment at a time.
The day dragged on, the weight of discovery buzzing constantly in Haruto's head. At school, lectures blurred into meaningless noise, and the laughter of classmates sounded distant. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt it—the subtle flow beneath his skin, that current of cursed energy waiting to be tapped.
When the final bell rang, he hurried home, barely exchanging words with anyone. His parents greeted him warmly, asking about his day, and he responded with the usual lines. But beneath the practiced normalcy, he could barely contain the urge to retreat to his room, to chase the power humming in his veins.
Yet today, the four walls of his bedroom weren't enough.
If he kept rattling chairs and knocking things over, his parents would notice. And he couldn't risk that—not yet.
So when the sun dipped low and painted the sky in streaks of orange, Haruto slipped out.
The neighborhood was quiet, lined with small houses and narrow streets. He walked casually, hands in his pockets, until he reached the edge of a park a few blocks away. It wasn't a big park, just a patch of open space with a few trees and benches. Most families had already gone home for dinner.
Perfect.
Haruto scanned the area. A lone swing creaked in the breeze, and the rustle of leaves filled the air. No one was around. He stepped into the clearing and exhaled slowly, letting the tension fall away.
"All right," he murmured, flexing his fingers. "Let's see what else I can do."
He began with something simple—a small pebble near his feet. Kneeling, he placed it on his palm and focused.
The cursed energy stirred sluggishly, like water resisting his command. He closed his eyes, guiding it, molding it, forcing it outward. The pebble vibrated faintly, then hopped off his hand to the ground.
Haruto grinned. "Better than this morning."
He tried again, this time without touching it. Extending his hand, he willed the pebble to rise. It wobbled, lifted an inch, and dropped. Sweat pricked his forehead, but his grin didn't fade.
Step by step.
He moved on to larger targets—a fallen branch, then a trash can near the bench. The branch rolled easily, the trash can rattled but didn't budge. Each attempt left him gasping, his cursed energy draining faster than he expected.
It was frustrating. In his mind, the image of Pain's effortless Shinra Tensei loomed like an impossible standard. Cities crushed, armies scattered, gods toppled—Nagato had done it all with ease.
And here he was, barely able to nudge a trash can.
Haruto clenched his fists, his teeth grinding. "No. This is how it starts."
The memory of yesterday—the curse lunging at him, his reflexive burst of power—flashed through his mind. That hadn't been weak. That had been raw, instinctive, unstoppable. If he could just understand that moment, reproduce it consciously…
He closed his eyes, recalling the sensation. Not panic, but certainty. A will that refused to bend.
The cursed energy flared, sharper this time.
The trash can toppled over with a loud clang.
Haruto stumbled back, chest heaving, heart racing. He laughed breathlessly, his voice tinged with disbelief. "Yes… yes!"
But the victory was short-lived. His legs buckled, and he fell to his knees. The drain was brutal, his body trembling from the effort. His vision blurred at the edges, and for a moment, he feared he might black out.
He pressed his palms to the ground, forcing steady breaths. The cursed energy within him was vast—he could feel it—but his body couldn't channel it properly. It was like trying to force a river through a cracked pipe.
Haruto clenched his jaw. I need control. Without it, I'll burn myself out before I can even fight.
The idea of Tendo resurfaced, sharper than before. If he couldn't sustain prolonged use of this power directly, maybe he didn't need to. If he could create an external vessel, a puppet fueled by his cursed energy, it could fight in his place, carry the burden, extend his reach.
Not just a weapon, but a mask. A shield. A way to survive in a world where sorcerers and curses would kill without hesitation.
His lips curved into a faint smile despite his exhaustion. "Tendo… you'll be my first step."
He rested on the bench for a while, letting his body recover. The night air was cool against his skin, calming the fire in his veins. Streetlights flickered on one by one, and the quiet park grew dim.
For the first time since awakening in this world, Haruto allowed himself to think about the bigger picture.
This wasn't just about surviving school or keeping his parents safe. He was in their world—the world of Jujutsu Kaisen. The names he had read in manga were real people now: Gojo Satoru, Geto Suguru, Kenjaku. Titans who could reshape history with their choices. And somewhere in that tangled mess of fate, he had been thrown like a stone into a river.
He couldn't afford to be a bystander.
Not with this power.
His gaze lifted to the night sky. Stars dotted the dark canvas, faint but steady.
"I can't waste this chance," he murmured. "Nagato's strength… it's mine now. And if I use it right, I won't just survive. I'll shape this world."
The words hung in the air, heavy with intent.
But even as determination burned in his chest, exhaustion dragged at his limbs. Haruto pushed himself to his feet, wobbling slightly, and made his way home.
By the time he slipped back into his room, his body felt like lead. He collapsed onto the bed, too tired to change clothes, too drained to even think further. His last conscious thought before sleep claimed him was simple, almost childlike.
Tomorrow… I'll push further.
The next day felt unbearable in its normalcy. Classes, chatter, the shuffle of students in the hallways—it was all noise compared to the pulse thrumming beneath Haruto's skin. The experiments from last night replayed in his mind: the pebble, the trash can, the surge of power that had left him trembling.
Every hour that passed, his hands itched with the need to try again. By the time the final bell rang, he could hardly sit still.
This time, he didn't head straight home. He took a detour, following quieter streets until he reached a narrow alley near the edge of the district. Old warehouses loomed over cracked pavement, their windows dark and broken. No children played here. No neighbors walked their dogs.
Perfect.
He dropped his bag by a wall and flexed his fingers. The air smelled faintly of rust and damp stone.
"All right," he muttered. "Round two."
He started small, drawing a pebble into his palm and pushing it away. The motion was smoother now, his cursed energy flowing with less resistance. The pebble skipped a few feet before falling still.
Not bad.
He turned to a rusted metal pipe half-buried in weeds. Focusing, he extended his hand. The energy rippled, visible now as a faint distortion in the air. The pipe shifted, scraping against the ground before toppling over with a dull clang.
A grin tugged at his lips. Each test was progress, each success a reminder that this wasn't a dream.
But then the air changed.
It was subtle at first—a chill pricking at his neck, a weight pressing against his chest. The alley seemed darker, the silence thicker. Haruto froze, every instinct screaming a warning.
Then he saw it.
A smear of black, a twisted silhouette rising from the shadow of the warehouse. Its body was hunched, limbs too long, its head a hollow mask of teeth and eyes that weren't eyes at all.
A curse.
Haruto's breath caught.
He'd read about them, seen them drawn in the manga, but the reality was worse. Its presence was suffocating, its aura like oil seeping into the air. And it was looking at him.
Drawn by his cursed energy.
"Of course…" Haruto whispered bitterly. "Like a moth to a flame."
The curse lunged.
Haruto's body moved before thought. His hand snapped forward, cursed energy flaring instinctively. The air warped, and the curse slammed backward as if struck by an invisible wall.
It screeched, its form shuddering before crawling forward again.
Haruto's heart thundered in his chest. His reflex had saved him, but it wasn't enough. He needed control—intent.
He swallowed hard, forcing himself to steady his breath. "Focus… push."
The cursed energy surged. He shaped it, directed it, not just a reflex this time but a choice.
"Shinra—" He cut himself off, biting the word back. No. It wasn't that. Not yet. It was only the beginning.
The energy burst outward.
The curse shrieked, its body flung against the wall with a wet crack. It twitched, spasmed, and dissolved into oily black smoke that dissipated into the night.
Haruto stood frozen, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face. His legs trembled, and for a moment he thought he might collapse.
But the alley was silent again.
It was over.
He exhaled shakily, clutching his knees. The cursed energy within him was still turbulent, but his control had sharpened in that instant. He had chosen the attack, directed it, destroyed the threat.
For the first time, it hadn't just been survival.
It had been combat.
Haruto sank down against the wall, closing his eyes. His mind reeled with what had just happened.
The curse had come to him. Not by chance, but because of his energy. If a weak one like that could find him, stronger ones could too. He couldn't afford to experiment carelessly anymore.
And yet, his pulse still raced with exhilaration.
He had done it. He had fought, and he had won.
"Step by step," he murmured, echoing the words he had clung to since yesterday.
But now he understood something else: raw force wouldn't be enough. If he wanted to survive, if he wanted to thrive, he needed structure. Strategy. He needed more than reflexes.
He needed Tendo.
The idea crystallized as he sat there, the word a mantra in his mind. A puppet, a vessel, a mask. A way to fight without exposing himself directly. A way to extend his reach without burning his body out.
His first true creation.
Haruto forced himself to his feet, exhaustion dragging at every muscle. He picked up his bag, his steps unsteady but his eyes sharp.
The world had just confirmed his fears—and his resolve.
He wasn't just a bystander in this story.
He was a player.
And his first move had already been made.
The following day crawled forward with unbearable slowness. Haruto sat through math equations, history notes, and idle chatter, but none of it pierced the haze of anticipation crowding his thoughts. Every tick of the classroom clock reminded him of last night: the pebble, the pipe, the trash can crashing down as cursed energy surged out of him.
That power—it wasn't a dream.
But it wasn't enough either.
By the time the school day ended, Haruto's jaw ached from clenching it, his legs restless beneath his desk. When the final bell rang, he was the first out the door. He didn't head home. Instead, he cut through side streets, weaving away from the usual bustle of the neighborhood until the buildings grew older and the paint more cracked.
A half-abandoned industrial district lay on the edge of town. Warehouses, rusted fences, weeds pushing through cracked pavement. Nobody came here after dark.
Perfect.
He stopped in a narrow alley between two warehouses, the shadows long and heavy. The air carried the stench of rust and stale water. Setting his bag aside, Haruto flexed his hands, a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"All right," he muttered. "Let's see how far I can push this."
He began with small debris: a bottlecap, a pebble, a scrap of paper drifting near the gutter. With a breath and a focused push, the pebble jumped. The bottlecap skittered across the ground. The paper lifted, fluttering before collapsing.
It was smoother than yesterday. Each attempt demanded less strain.
"Not bad," Haruto whispered, the thrill of progress rising in his chest.
Then the air shifted.
A weight pressed against him, heavy and sour, like breathing through tar. His skin prickled, and a chill ran down his spine. Haruto froze, every instinct flaring.
From the corner of the alley, a shape peeled itself out of the shadows.
It was small—no taller than Haruto's shoulder—but grotesque. Its limbs were too long, bending at wrong angles, its body wrapped in oily darkness. A masklike face split open with jagged teeth that dripped black saliva.
A curse.
Haruto's throat tightened.
He had read about them, seen their depictions in manga, but the reality was worse. The malice radiating off it was suffocating, its hunger a palpable thing. And it was staring straight at him.
Drawn here. By his cursed energy.
"Of course," Haruto hissed, his stomach twisting. "I'm bait."
The curse lunged.
It was fast—faster than he expected. His mind screamed at him to move, but his body reacted first. His arm shot forward, cursed energy flaring instinctively.
The air bent.
An invisible force burst outward, slamming into the curse mid-pounce. It shrieked, hurled backward into the wall with a wet crack.
Haruto staggered, chest heaving. Reflex had saved him again. But the curse wasn't finished.
It clawed its way upright, its body twisting unnaturally as it scuttled forward. Its teeth clacked, a guttural sound bubbling from its throat.
Haruto swallowed hard. "No… not like last time. Not reflex. My choice."
He planted his feet, raising his hand again. The cursed energy stirred, sluggish but alive, waiting. He forced his breath steady.
"Push."
The current answered.
It wasn't clean—not yet—but the burst was sharper than before, laced with intent.
The curse shrieked as the invisible pressure slammed into it again, harder this time. Its body smashed into the wall, bones cracking, oily flesh splattering. It twitched, spasmed, then dissolved into black smoke that curled upward before vanishing into nothing.
Silence swallowed the alley.
Haruto stood frozen, his arm still outstretched. His chest heaved, sweat pouring down his face, his muscles trembling from the strain. His vision wavered at the edges, exhaustion gnawing at him.
But the curse was gone.
He had done it.
For the first time, it wasn't just survival. It wasn't just instinct.
It was him. His will. His control.
Haruto's knees nearly gave out, and he staggered back, bracing himself against the rough wall. His breath came ragged, his body screaming for rest, but his lips curled into a grin.
"Yes…" he whispered, the word trembling. "That's it. That's the beginning."
He slid down to sit, his back against the wall. His mind replayed the encounter in jagged flashes—the curse's lunge, the pressure in his chest, the moment of release.
That wasn't luck. That was the seed of something greater.
But fear laced through the triumph. The curse had come to him because of his energy. That meant he couldn't train openly anymore. The more he tested himself, the more predators he'd attract.
If that had been a weak one, what would happen when stronger ones came?
Haruto clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms. I can't rely on direct bursts forever. My body won't last. I'll burn out before I even get the chance to grow.
The thought sharpened into something clearer, more concrete.
Tendo.
The name pulsed in his mind like a promise. A puppet, a vessel. A fighter that carried his cursed energy so he didn't have to stand in the open. A mask for his true self.
His first creation.
The night deepened, the alley growing darker. Haruto forced himself to his feet, shaky but resolute. He grabbed his bag, slung it over his shoulder, and began the long walk home.
His legs felt like lead, but inside, his chest burned—not with exhaustion, but with resolve.
The world had just confirmed what he already suspected: he couldn't afford to be reckless, but he also couldn't stand still.
He wasn't a bystander. He wasn't just another student.
He was a player in this world.
And tonight was only the first step.