Two Years Later
The spring sun filtered through the cherry blossoms lining the pathway to Jujutsu High's main ceremonial hall. Petals drifted lazily on the warm breeze, a picturesque scene that felt almost too peaceful for an institution that trained warriors to fight monsters. Ryouta stood in his formal ceremonial robes, the deep blue fabric embroidered with silver threads that caught the light with every movement. Beside him, Satoru wore matching robes, though his were worn with characteristic irreverence—collar askew, sleeves rolled up to his elbows despite the solemnity of the occasion.
They were eighteen now, on the cusp of officially graduating from Jujutsu High and becoming full-fledged Special Grade sorcerers. The past two years had been transformative. After the Star Plasma Vessel mission, they had thrown themselves into training and education with renewed intensity. The carefree teenagers who had played video games and chased cats through Yanaka were gone, replaced by young men who had seen death, tasted failure, and emerged harder, sharper, and infinitely more dangerous.
"Can you believe it?" Satoru muttered, adjusting his collar for the third time. "We're about to be official. No more 'students.' We'll actually have authority."
"Terrifying thought," Ryouta replied with a small smirk. "You, with authority."
"Hey, I've been responsible," Satoru protested, then paused. "Sometimes. When it counts."
Inside the ceremonial hall, Yaga-sensei stood at the podium, his expression as stern and unreadable as ever. Behind him sat the higher-ups, ancient sorcerers whose faces were hidden behind screens and ceremonial masks, their presence an oppressive reminder of the bureaucratic machinery that governed the jujutsu world. Geto and Shoko were already seated in the front row, both in their own ceremonial attire.
Geto had changed the most visibly over the past two years. His features had sharpened, his once-open expression now more guarded and contemplative. The philosophical crisis that had begun during the Star Plasma Vessel mission had never fully resolved. Instead, it had festered, growing into a quiet, constant weight he carried. His hair had grown longer, pulled back in a half-bun, and there were dark circles under his eyes from too many sleepless nights spent wrestling with impossible questions.
Shoko, by contrast, seemed largely unchanged. She had perfected her perpetual state of bored detachment, though those close to her could see the weariness in her eyes. Two years of treating cursed wounds, of piecing together bodies shattered by battles, had taken its toll. She had become the best healer in their generation, but the cost was written in the way she chain-smoked during breaks and avoided talking about her work.
The ceremony itself was brief and formal. Yaga called each of their names, presented them with their official Grade classifications—Special Grade for all four, an unprecedented achievement for a single graduating class—and recited the ancient oaths of duty and service. Ryouta felt the weight of the words, the binding nature of the commitment they were making. He was officially a pillar of jujutsu society now, whether he wanted to be or not.
When it was over, they gathered outside, the four of them standing together as they had so many times before. But something was different now. The easy camaraderie had fractured into something more complex, more strained.
"So," Satoru said, breaking the awkward silence. "Special Grade. Sounds pretty cool."
"It means we get the impossible missions now," Shoko said dryly, lighting a cigarette despite being technically on school grounds. "The ones where the casualty rate is 'yes.'"
"We're the strongest," Satoru said with his usual confidence. "We can handle it."
"Can we?" Geto asked quietly, and there was something in his tone that made them all turn to look at him. "Handle it, I mean. We save people, sure. We exorcise curses. But the curses just keep coming. More and more every year. We're treating symptoms, not the disease."
"Geto..." Ryouta began, recognizing the dangerous path this conversation was heading down.
"I'm not saying I have the answers," Geto interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'm just... tired. Tired of watching people suffer. Tired of mopping up the consequences of ignorance and fear. Tired of a system that asks us to die for people who will never know we existed."
The words hung in the air, heavy and bitter. Satoru frowned, his usual levity fading. "What are you suggesting?"
"Nothing," Geto said, forcing a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Just thinking out loud. Forget I said anything." He turned and walked away, his hands in his pockets, leaving the three of them staring after him in troubled silence.
Their first mission as official Special Grade sorcerers came less than a week later. A Special Grade cursed spirit had manifested in Sendai, a grotesque amalgamation of a hundred drowned souls from a historical tsunami. The local sorcerers had tried and failed to exorcise it, suffering heavy casualties in the process. The mission fell to the strongest—Satoru, Geto, and Ryouta were deployed together, with Shoko on standby for medical support.
The curse was a nightmare made flesh, a towering humanoid form made of writhing water and screaming faces. It stood at the center of a flooded warehouse district, its presence causing the surrounding water to boil and steam. Lesser curses swarmed around it like pilot fish around a shark.
"Standard formation," Geto said, taking command with practiced ease. He was still their tactical genius, able to coordinate complex battle strategies with frightening precision. "Satoru, you're the vanguard. Draw its attention. I'll flank with my curses and restrict its movement. Ryouta, you're our wild card. Wait for an opening and strike the core."
It was a strategy they had refined over dozens of missions. Satoru, with his Infinity and overwhelming offensive power, was the perfect distraction. Geto's Cursed Spirit Manipulation allowed him to swarm the enemy from multiple angles. And Ryouta, hidden by his Veil of Unbeing, was the assassin who ended the fight.
Satoru didn't bother with preamble. He walked forward, hands in his pockets, his Infinity shimmering around him. "Hey, ugly!" he called out, his voice echoing across the water. "You're in my territory now!"
The curse roared, a sound like a thousand drowning screams, and sent a tidal wave crashing toward him. Satoru didn't move. The water struck his Infinity and simply stopped, the kinetic energy dissipating into nothingness. He raised a finger. "My turn. Blue."
The gravitational well appeared directly in front of the curse's core, pulling it forward with irresistible force. Before it could recover, Geto's curses struck from behind—a swarm of flying cursed spirits that wrapped around its limbs like chains, restricting its movement.
Ryouta watched from his hidden vantage point, his Primordial Six Eyes analyzing the curse's structure. He could see the core, a pulsing knot of condensed negative emotion buried deep in the chest. He activated his Primordial Kinetics, removing the concepts of "distance" and "resistance" from the space between himself and the target. In a single, fluid motion, he crossed the battlefield—not running, but simply being at the destination—and drove his hand into the curse's chest. His Primordial Divergence separated the core from the surrounding cursed energy, and the entire construct collapsed, dissolving into harmless mist.
The fight had lasted less than two minutes. It was clinical, efficient, and utterly one-sided. They had become a machine of perfect coordination, each component working in flawless harmony with the others.
But as they stood in the aftermath, surrounded by the wreckage, Ryouta couldn't shake the feeling of emptiness. Geto's words from the graduation ceremony echoed in his mind. We're treating symptoms, not the disease. They had saved this district, but somewhere else, another curse was being born. The cycle was endless.
Back in Tokyo, life settled into a strange routine. They were adults now, technically. They had their own apartments, their own lives outside the constant oversight of Jujutsu High. But the bonds they had formed still pulled them together. Once a week, they would meet at a small ramen shop near the school, a tradition that had survived graduation.
It was during one of these dinners that Ryouta noticed how far Geto had drifted. He ate mechanically, his mind clearly elsewhere, barely participating in the conversation. When Satoru cracked a joke, Geto's laugh was hollow, forced. When Shoko complained about her latest assignment, he just nodded absently.
After the meal, Ryouta caught up with him outside. "Geto. We need to talk."
Geto stopped, his shoulders tensing. "About what?"
"About whatever it is that's eating you alive," Ryouta said bluntly. "You're not okay. None of us are, but you especially. Talk to me."
For a long moment, Geto was silent. Then, finally, he spoke. "Do you ever wonder if we're on the wrong side, Ryouta?"
The question was a punch to the gut. "What do you mean?"
"We protect non-sorcerers. We die for them. But they're the ones creating the curses. Their fear, their hatred, their ignorance—that's what births the monsters we fight. We're fighting an endless war, and the people we're protecting are the ones perpetuating it." He turned to face Ryouta, and his eyes were filled with a desperate, terrible need for validation. "Wouldn't the world be better without them? Wouldn't we finally have peace?"
Ryouta felt a chill run down his spine. This was it. The precipice. One wrong word here, and Geto would fall. He chose his next words very carefully. "You're asking the wrong question, Geto. The question isn't whether the world would be better without non-sorcerers. It's whether we have the right to make that decision. And the answer is no. We don't. The moment we appoint ourselves as judges of who deserves to live, we become the very monsters we fight."
"But—"
"No buts," Ryouta interrupted, his voice firm. "I understand the frustration. I understand the exhaustion. But genocide is never the answer, no matter how logically you dress it up. If you truly want to change things, then fight to reform the system. Fight to educate non-sorcerers about curses. Fight to break the cycle. But don't fight to erase an entire category of humanity. That path leads nowhere but darkness."
Geto stared at him for a long moment, then looked away. "You're probably right," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. "I'm just... tired."
"Then rest," Ryouta said gently. "Take a break. Talk to someone. Don't let this consume you."
Geto nodded, but Ryouta could see the doubt still lurking in his eyes. He had planted a seed of resistance to Geto's darkening philosophy, but he didn't know if it would be enough.
Late that night, Ryouta retreated to his hidden dojo beneath his apartment. The space was sparse, just tatami mats and practice dummies, but it was his sanctuary. For the past six months, he had been developing a new technique—something he needed desperately after seeing the cracks forming in their team dynamic.
He had been studying the nature of barriers, not as protective walls, but as information networks. Every barrier had a sensory component, feeding data back to its caster. What if he could create a network of microscopic barriers throughout an entire area, giving him perfect awareness of everything happening within? It would be surveillance on a conceptual level.
He had practiced relentlessly, placing tiny barrier fragments across the dojo, learning to interpret the feedback they provided. Tonight, he finally felt ready to expand it to a larger area—his entire apartment building. He sat in seiza position, closed his eyes, and began weaving his cursed energy into an intricate web of perception.
Hours passed. Sweat beaded on his forehead from the concentration required. But gradually, he felt it click into place. He could sense every resident in the building, every movement, every fluctuation of emotion and cursed energy. It was overwhelming at first, a flood of data, but he filtered it, focusing only on what mattered.
The technique was complete. He had mastered it.
And then, as always, the system appeared.
╔═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
║ ◇ PRIMORDIAL SYSTEM ◇
║
║ [TECHNIQUE MASTERED: Barrier Network - Omniscient Field]
║ [CURRENT MASTERY LEVEL: EXPERT]
║
║ [10X PRIMORDIAL AMPLIFICATION AVAILABLE]
║
║ AMPLIFIED FORM: "PRIMORDIAL OMNISCIENCE"
║
║ Primordial Omniscience extends your sensory network to
║ a conceptual level. Within your domain of influence, you
║ do not merely sense events—you perceive intentions,
║ possibilities, and the weight of choices before they are
║ made. It is not mind-reading, but awareness of the
║ potential paths reality can take within your sphere.
║
║ ► YES - Transform to "Primordial Omniscience" forever
║ ► NO - Continue developing standard Barrier Network
╚═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
Ryouta stared at the panel, his breath catching. This was exactly what he needed. With this, he could monitor Geto, could sense the exact moment he began to slide too far and intervene before tragedy struck. He could protect his friends not just physically, but philosophically.
But the cost... once he accepted this amplification, it would be permanent. He would forever perceive the world through this lens of omniscient awareness. There would be no unknowns, no mysteries, no privacy—not for him, and not for anyone within his sphere of influence. It was a power that bordered on divine surveillance.
He thought of Geto's troubled eyes. He thought of the manga's tragic future, of the blood and betrayal that awaited them if he failed. He thought of his promise to Satoru—together, always.
[YES]
The transformation was instantaneous and profound. His perception expanded exponentially. He could suddenly feel the entire neighborhood, every cursed spirit, every sorcerer, every human. More than that, he could sense the weight of decisions being made, the branching paths of causality. He knew, with absolute certainty, that three blocks away, a man was deciding whether to jump from a bridge. He knew that in the apartment above, a woman was contemplating calling her estranged sister. He knew that somewhere in the city, Geto was awake, staring at his ceiling, wrestling with demons Ryouta could now almost touch.
It was overwhelming. It was terrifying. It was exactly what he needed.
The next morning, Satoru showed up at his door unannounced, two cans of coffee in hand. It was a ritual they'd maintained—whenever one of them sensed the other was troubled, they'd show up with caffeine and companionship.
"You look like hell," Satoru said cheerfully, pushing past him into the apartment.
"Didn't sleep much," Ryouta admitted, taking the offered coffee. His new omniscience was still adjusting, the constant flow of information exhausting.
"Geto?" Satoru asked, and the levity dropped from his voice.
"Among other things," Ryouta said. They sat on his small balcony, watching the city wake up. "He's not going to get better on his own, Satoru. This isn't just exhaustion. It's a fundamental crisis of philosophy."
"So what do we do?" Satoru asked quietly.
Ryouta was silent for a long moment, his new omniscient awareness spreading out over the city, feeling the pulse of life and death, hope and despair. "We stay close. We remind him why we do this. We show him there are other paths." He turned to his brother. "And if it comes to it, we save him from himself."
"Even if he doesn't want to be saved?"
"Especially then," Ryouta said firmly. "That's what brothers do."
Satoru studied his twin, seeing something new in those silver-gold eyes—a depth of awareness that hadn't been there before. He didn't understand what had changed, but he trusted it. "Together," he said, echoing their old promise.
"Together," Ryouta confirmed, clinking his coffee can against Satoru's.
They sat there as the sun rose higher, two brothers on the edge of a precipice they couldn't fully see, armed with nothing but their bond and their determination to protect the people they loved—even from themselves.
The easy days were over. The true test of their strength, not in battle but in conviction, was just beginning.