The training dummy exploded into splinters.
Not from cursed energy. Not from technique. Just from the raw force of Kage's fist connecting with wood at speeds that shouldn't be possible for a ten-year-old body.
But it wasn't Black Flash.
"Again," Kage muttered to himself, resetting his stance.
He'd been at this for three hours. The training ground was littered with destroyed dummies, scorch marks from failed cursed energy manipulation, and the occasional crater where his technique had backfired spectacularly.
Zero Black Flashes.
Dozens of attempts.
Hundreds, if he counted the last week.
The problem was consistency. Kage had landed Black Flash before—instinctively, in life-or-death situations where thought gave way to pure reaction. But executing it on command, reliably, repeatedly? That remained impossible.
And impossible was unacceptable.
"You're overthinking it."
Kage didn't turn around. He could feel Gojo's cursed energy signature—bright, overwhelming, amused—standing at the edge of the training ground.
"I'm thinking the correct amount."
"That's what someone who's overthinking would say." Gojo walked closer, his footsteps barely audible. "You've been here since dawn. It's nearly noon. When's the last time you ate?"
"Food is inefficient."
"Food is necessary. Your body needs fuel, Kage. Even prodigies have biological requirements." Gojo plucked a dummy fragment from the ground, examining it. "Besides, you're not going to achieve Black Flash consistency through brute force repetition. That's not how it works."
"Then how does it work?" Kage's voice was sharp with frustration. "You've never explained. Just said to 'feel it' and 'let it flow' and other useless philosophical nonsense."
"It's not nonsense. It's just hard to explain." Gojo sat cross-legged on the ground, patting the space beside him. "Come here. Lesson time."
Kage wanted to refuse. Wanted to keep training, keep pushing, keep attempting until his body gave out or success arrived. But his cursed energy reserves were depleted, his muscles screamed, and even his enhanced healing couldn't keep up with self-inflicted damage.
He sat.
"Black Flash," Gojo began, his tone shifting to something almost professorial, "occurs when cursed energy is applied within 0.000001 seconds of a physical hit. That's the technical explanation. But the reality is more complicated."
"How so?"
"Because that timing isn't something you can consciously control. The human brain can't process information that fast, can't send signals to your body with that precision. Which means Black Flash isn't about control—it's about intuition." Gojo picked up a stone, tossed it casually. "It's like catching something thrown at you. You don't calculate trajectory and velocity. You just... catch it. Your body knows what to do."
"But I need to know how to trigger it reliably," Kage insisted. "Intuition is fine for emergencies, but what about missions? What about fights where I need that power on command?"
"Then you're asking the wrong question." Gojo's Six Eyes fixed on him with uncomfortable intensity. "You're treating Black Flash like a tool you can pick up and use. But it's not a tool—it's a state. A flow state where your mind and body sync perfectly, where thought and action become the same thing."
"That sounds like mystical bullshit."
"It sounds like mystical bullshit because it's hard to explain scientifically. But I'll try." Gojo held up his hand, cursed energy rippling around his fingers. "When I first started developing Infinity, I tried to control every aspect manually. Calculating infinite series, adjusting spatial manipulation, micromanaging every defensive calculation. You know what happened?"
"What?"
"I gave myself migraines so bad I couldn't see straight for days. Six Eyes processing all that information, my brain trying to consciously control something that needed to be automatic—it was destroying me." Gojo's expression was serious now. "The breakthrough came when I stopped trying to control it and started trusting it. Let my Six Eyes handle the calculations while I focused on intent. Automatic Infinity was born from letting go, not holding tighter."
Kage processed this, his analytical mind fighting against the concept. "But letting go means losing control. And losing control means vulnerability."
"Letting go means redefining control." Gojo stood, offered a hand to pull Kage up. "Real control isn't micromanaging every detail. It's setting the parameters and trusting yourself to operate within them. Your body already knows how to execute Black Flash—you've done it before. Your conscious mind just needs to stop interfering."
"How?"
"By fighting, not training. By reacting, not planning. By entering that flow state where you're too busy surviving to overthink." Gojo's grin returned. "Lucky for you, I'm an excellent sparring partner."
"We're both exhausted."
"I'm never exhausted. And you're too stubborn to admit when you are." Gojo's cursed energy spiked playfully. "Come on. One round. No techniques, just hand-to-hand combat and cursed energy reinforcement. First one to land a Black Flash wins."
It was a terrible idea. Kage's reserves were depleted, his body was breaking down, and pushing further would probably hospitalize him.
But the competitive edge—the need to prove himself, to master this technique, to never be weak again—overrode common sense.
"You're on."
Sparring match. High noon.
They moved like lightning and thunder.
Gojo attacked with the casual elegance of someone who'd never doubted his own abilities. Each strike was precise, efficient, backed by cursed energy reinforcement that could shatter stone. His Infinity remained inactive—this was about skill, not invulnerability.
Kage defended with desperate focus. His enhanced senses tracked Gojo's movements, his Abyss technique created phantom shadows that confused depth perception, his years of survival training manifested as adaptive combat instincts.
But no Black Flash.
"Stop thinking!" Gojo called out, landing a hit to Kage's ribs that knocked the air from his lungs. "You're analyzing every movement! Predicting every strike! Your brain is three steps ahead while your body is stuck in the present!"
Kage rolled backward, creating distance. "I need to think to fight effectively!"
"You need to think to fight strategically. But technique—real technique—comes from muscle memory and instinct!" Gojo pressed the attack, forcing Kage into pure defensive mode. "Your body knows what to do! Trust it!"
Another exchange. Kage's shadow wrapped around Gojo's ankle, but the white-haired sorcerer simply jumped, using the momentary binding as leverage to flip and strike from above. Kage barely blocked, his arms screaming from the impact.
"You're holding back!" Gojo's voice carried frustration now. "Stop controlling every variable! Stop trying to manage the fight like it's a chess match! Just move!"
"I don't know how!"
"Yes, you do! You did it in the training pits! You did it against Q! You did it in the Despondent Mother's domain!" Gojo's cursed energy flared. "You know how to let instinct take over when survival demands it! So stop treating this like practice and start treating it like your life depends on it!"
Something in Kage's chest cracked.
Not physically. Emotionally. The barrier he'd built between calculated survival and genuine emotion, between controlled technique and desperate instinct.
Gojo was right. He'd achieved Black Flash before, but always in life-or-death moments. Never in training. Because training was safe. Training allowed thought, planning, control.
But Black Flash existed in the space beyond control.
Kage stopped thinking.
His body moved. Shadow expanded. Cursed energy reinforced. And when Gojo attacked again, Kage didn't calculate the optimal defense—he just reacted.
His fist met Gojo's block, and cursed energy compressed impossibly in that 0.000001 second window between contact and impact.
Black Flash.
The training ground shook. Gojo slid backward, his Infinity flaring to life automatically despite their agreement. And Kage stood, breathing hard, feeling the aftershocks of cursed energy singing through his nervous system.
"THERE!" Gojo's shout was triumphant. "That's what I'm talking about! You stopped thinking and started feeling!"
"I—" Kage stared at his hand, feeling the residual cursed energy. "I did it."
"You did it! And now you do it again!"
They resumed fighting, and this time Kage chased that feeling. The flow state where thought dissolved into action, where his enhanced senses fed directly into movement without conscious processing. It was terrifying—surrendering control meant vulnerability—but it was also liberating.
His second Black Flash came five minutes later. Not as clean as the first, but successful.
The third came three minutes after that.
And suddenly, Kage understood what Gojo had been trying to teach him.
Black Flash wasn't about control. It was about rhythm. The rhythm of cursed energy flowing through his body, the rhythm of combat exchanges, the rhythm of breath and heartbeat and the space between intention and execution.
He'd been trying to force the rhythm instead of finding it.
"You're smiling," Gojo observed, dodging a shadow-wrapped punch. "That's unsettling. Please stop."
"I'm not smiling."
"You absolutely are. It's creepy."
They fought until both were exhausted, until cursed energy reserves ran dry and physical stamina gave out. Collapsed side by side in the crater they'd created, breathing hard, covered in dirt and sweat and the satisfaction of breakthrough.
"Six," Kage said between gasps. "I landed six Black Flashes."
"I counted seven, but who's keeping track?" Gojo's grin was audible. "See? Told you letting go was the answer."
"I hate that you were right."
"Get used to disappointment. I'm right about most things."
They lay in comfortable silence, watching clouds drift across the sky that Kage couldn't see but could feel through temperature shifts and air pressure changes.
"Gojo?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For pushing me. For understanding what I needed even when I didn't."
"That's what rivals do. We make each other stronger by refusing to let each other stagnate." Gojo sat up, stretched. "Besides, watching you achieve flow state was educational. Your technique is so different from mine—all shadows and consumption and void. But the underlying principle is the same. Trust yourself. Trust your technique. Let it be part of you instead of a tool you wield."
"Is that how you use Infinity now?"
"Most of the time. Though I'm still working on the offensive applications." Gojo offered a hand, pulled Kage to his feet. "But that's tomorrow's problem. Today, we celebrate your breakthrough with excessive amounts of food and probably a lecture from Yaga about destroying school property."
"Worth it."
"Absolutely worth it."
The cafeteria. Evening.
Suguru looked up from his homework as Kage and Gojo stumbled in, both looking like they'd fought a small war.
"Do I want to know?"
"Training accident," they said in unison.
"Training accident that left crater marks visible from the school building," Shoko added from her corner, not looking up from her medical journal. "Yaga's furious, by the way. You're both on cleanup duty for the next week."
"Worth it," they repeated, still in sync.
Suguru's expression shifted from exasperation to curiosity. "What kind of training accident?"
"The good kind," Gojo said, slumping into a chair. "Kage figured out Black Flash consistency. Landed six in one sparring session."
"Seven," Kage corrected.
"I'm being humble."
"You don't know how to be humble."
"Fair point."
Suguru's eyes widened. "Seven Black Flashes? In one session? Kage, that's... that's incredible. Most sorcerers never land one their entire lives."
"It's not about being incredible," Kage said, accepting the plate of food Shoko slid toward him. "It's about finding the rhythm. The flow state where technique stops being conscious choice and starts being instinct."
"He's becoming philosophical," Gojo stage-whispered. "I've created a monster."
"You've created a better fighter," Suguru corrected. "There's a difference." He studied Kage with interest. "How does it feel? Being able to access that power reliably?"
Kage considered the question while eating. "Terrifying and empowering simultaneously. Like I've unlocked something fundamental about how cursed energy works, but also like I've lost a layer of protection. Control was safe. Flow state requires vulnerability."
"Strength through vulnerability," Suguru murmured. "That's an interesting philosophy."
"It's a terrible philosophy that happens to work," Gojo said. "Like most things I teach."
They fell into comfortable conversation, discussing technique theory and cursed energy flow and the philosophical implications of power that required surrender. Other students filtered in and out, some curious about the crater outside, most just grateful it wasn't their problem.
Kage listened more than he spoke, feeling the exhaustion settle into his bones. His body ached, his cursed energy reserves were still recovering, and tomorrow would bring consequences for the property damage.
But he'd achieved something important today. Not just Black Flash consistency—though that was significant. He'd learned to trust himself. To let go of the rigid control that had kept him alive in the Zen'in estate but limited his growth here.
He'd learned to dance instead of drowning.
"You're doing it again," Gojo said suddenly.
"Doing what?"
"Smiling. It's unsettling."
"I'm not—" Kage touched his face, felt the slight upturn of his lips. "Huh."
"Character development," Shoko observed dryly. "How disturbing."
"I hate all of you."
"No, you don't," they chorused, and the accuracy stung more than any training injury.
Because they were right. He didn't hate them. He cared about them—deeply, dangerously, in ways that terrified him because the Zen'in Clan had taught him that caring meant weakness.
But maybe weakness was just another word for humanity.
And maybe humanity was worth the risk.
Later. Yaga's office.
"Explain."
Yaga stood behind his desk, arms crossed, expression carefully neutral. The crater outside was visible through his window—a testament to the destructive power of two prodigies who'd forgotten to hold back.
"Training accident," Kage said.
"Training breakthrough," Gojo corrected. "Different emphasis."
"You destroyed half the training ground."
"We destroyed exactly thirty-seven percent of the training ground," Gojo replied. "I measured. That's technically less than half."
"Satoru."
"Yes, sensei?"
"Stop being clever. It's not working." Yaga turned his attention to Kage. "Black Flash consistency. Is that true?"
"Seven successful executions in one session," Kage confirmed. "I can demonstrate if—"
"No. No more demonstrations." Yaga pinched the bridge of his nose. "You've done enough damage for one day." He sighed, the anger draining into something closer to resignation. "Though I suppose I should congratulate you. Black Flash mastery at ten years old is... unprecedented."
"Eleven next month," Kage offered.
"That doesn't make it better." Yaga pulled out a file, made some notes. "You're both on cleanup duty for two weeks. And Kage, I want daily reports on your Black Flash capabilities. If you can teach this to other students, it could revolutionize combat training."
"I don't know if I can teach it," Kage admitted. "It's not about technique—it's about mindset. Finding flow state. That's different for everyone."
"Then you'll figure out how to teach mindset." Yaga's expression softened slightly. "You've come far in three months, Kage. From the traumatized kid who barely spoke to someone who lands seven Black Flashes and smiles about it. That's growth."
"I'm not—"
"You are. And it's good to see." Yaga gestured toward the door. "Now get out. Both of you. Before I remember how angry I should be about the crater."
They fled before he changed his mind.
In the hallway, Gojo bumped Kage's shoulder. "See? Character development. Even Yaga noticed."
"That's not character development. That's PTSD recovery."
"Same thing in jujutsu society."
"That's depressing."
"Welcome to our world." Gojo's grin was sharp. "But seriously, I'm proud of you. Today was a big step."
The words hit unexpectedly hard. Pride. From someone Kage respected, maybe even admired. The Zen'in Clan had never offered pride—only grudging acknowledgment when he exceeded expectations and punishment when he didn't.
"Thanks," Kage said quietly. "For everything. The training, the philosophy lessons, the stubborn refusal to let me self-destruct through overwork."
"That's what rivals do," Gojo repeated his earlier words. "We keep each other human."
They parted ways at the dorm entrance—Gojo heading to his room with promises of pranking Suguru later, Kage to his own space for necessary recovery.
But before Kage could close his door, Suguru appeared.
"Got a minute?"
"Always."
Suguru entered, sat on the floor with the casual comfort of genuine friendship. His cursed energy signature was troubled again, cycling with that familiar pattern of doubt and questioning.
"I watched you today," Suguru said without preamble. "During your training. The way you moved toward the end—it was different. More fluid. Like you were dancing with your technique instead of wielding it."
"That's what Gojo said. Flow state."
"It looked peaceful." Suguru's voice carried an edge of longing. "You were fighting—destroying training equipment, pushing your body to the limit—but you looked peaceful. I envy that."
"Why?"
"Because when I fight, when I absorb curses and command cursed spirits, I never feel peaceful. I feel heavy. Like I'm drowning in malevolence that never quite washes off." Suguru's hands clenched. "You found a way to be powerful without losing yourself. I'm not sure I can do the same."
Kage sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. "Your technique is harder. Absorption means carrying the weight of every curse you've ever consumed. That's not the same as manipulation—that's becoming the thing you fight."
"Exactly. And I don't know how much longer I can do it." Suguru's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "How much malevolence can one person absorb before they become malevolent themselves?"
The question hung heavy in the air.
Kage thought about the Despondent Mother's domain. About the weight of maternal suffering, the way grief had twisted love into something monstrous. About how close he'd come to believing he was cursed simply by existing.
"I don't know," he admitted. "But I know you're not there yet. Your cursed energy is still kind, Suguru. Still protective. Whatever doubts you're carrying, they haven't corrupted who you are."
"Not yet."
"Not ever, if we have anything to say about it." Kage's voice was firm. "You're not alone in this. When the weight gets too heavy, you tell us. Me, Gojo, Shoko—we'll help carry it. That's what friends do."
Suguru was quiet for a long moment. Then: "When did you become wise?"
"I'm not wise. I'm just stubborn about keeping the people I care about alive and functional."
"That might be the same thing."
They sat in comfortable silence, two kids processing powers they didn't ask for and futures they couldn't predict. Outside, the sun set over Tokyo, painting the sky in colors Kage couldn't see but could feel through the changing temperature.
"Kage?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. For understanding. For not pretending everything's fine when it's clearly not."
"Same to you."
Suguru stood, stretched. "Get some rest. Tomorrow Yaga's going to work us to death for that crater."
"Looking forward to it."
After Suguru left, Kage lay on his futon and thought about flow states and rhythm and the space between control and surrender.
He'd mastered Black Flash today. Seven successful executions. A technique that most sorcerers considered impossible to predict, let alone control.
But more than that, he'd learned something fundamental about himself.
He'd spent his entire life trying to control everything—his cursed energy, his emotions, his relationships. Control was safety. Control was survival.
But true mastery required letting go.
Trusting himself. Trusting his technique. Trusting the people around him to catch him when control failed.
It was terrifying.
It was necessary.
It was growth.
Kage's shadow pooled on the ceiling, responding to his contentment rather than his anxiety. Abyss technique flowing naturally, no longer something he forced but something he was.
The void child had learned to shine.
Now he was learning to dance.
And tomorrow, he'd teach himself to fly.
One Black Flash at a time.