The human mind is a fascinating engine of adaptation. Give it two weeks of solitude, god-like perception, and a growing army of nightmares, and "extraordinary" becomes "routine."
My two weeks following the hospital raid were a blur of systematic efficiency. I didn't just "hunt"; I harvested. My mornings were spent in deep meditation, refining the "switch" for the Six Eyes so that I could flick it on and off with the muscle memory of a heartbeat. My afternoons were dedicated to the "Trust Fund Study"—which was really just me buying out the inventory of specialized hardware stores.
And then, the school break arrived. Two weeks of freedom from Mr. Tanaka's concerned stares and Miho's incessant poking. It was time to leave Sendai's suburbs. The "vibe" there was getting too quiet. Curses were starting to avoid my usual routes. They have a primal instinct for apex predators, and apparently, a ten-year-old in a black hoodie was topping the local food chain.
I moved three towns over, settling into a high-end hotel near a district known for its sprawling, ancient cemeteries. The "Weeping Pines Cemetery" was my primary target—a massive, tiered graveyard built into the side of a mountain, overgrown with gnarled pines and choked with the collective grief of a century.
Before heading out, I stood before the hotel vanity mirror, inspecting my latest "Construction" project.
In my hands was a mask. It wasn't paper or cheap plastic. I had spent three nights perfecting the molecular structure of CF-PEEK (Carbon Fiber Reinforced Polyether Ether Ketone).
Note to self: Carbon fiber reinforcement is all about the orientation of the fibers. If they aren't aligned to distribute the kinetic energy of a curse's strike, the mask will shatter like glass. I had to use the Six Eyes to weave the carbon filaments into a triple-helix pattern within the PEEK matrix.
The result was a mask that was technically stronger than aircraft-grade aluminum but weighed less than a smartphone. The design was a stark, minimalist Yin and Yang symbol—the white side representing the "human" facade, the black side representing the "curse" biology. No eye holes. With the Six Eyes, I didn't need them; I could see the Cursed Energy signatures right through the material.
"Identity protection," I whispered, the voice muffled and metallic behind the mask. "Because the last thing I need is a 'Missing Child' report filed by the police while I'm busy swallowing Grade 2s."
The Weeping Pines: Phase One
The cemetery was a sea of gray stone and blue-tinted shadows under the moonlight. The Six Eyes, even at a distance, had told me this place was a buffet. The concentrated fear of death and the sorrow of the bereaved had birthed a thick, oily atmosphere of CE.
I stood on the central gate's torii, looking down at the lowest tier. There were dozens of them. Grade 4s—the "crawlers" and "whisperers." Grade 3s—the "shriekers."
"I'm feeling lazy tonight," I muttered.
I held out my hand. A swirling portal of darkness opened in the air beside me. One by one, I began to drop my collection.
"Go. Wake them up."
112 Grade 4s and 54 Grade 3s flooded the cemetery. It was like watching a dam break. My army didn't have a hive mind, but they had my orders imprinted on their very essence: Aggress and weaken. Do not kill.
The graveyard erupted into a cacophony of screeching. My spirits swarmed the "wild" curses. It was a chaotic, beautiful mess of spectral violence. I watched a Grade 3 of mine—a multi-limbed shadow—tangle with a wild Grade 3 that looked like a weeping woman.
I didn't just sit there. I hopped from gravestone to gravestone, using Blood Manipulation to assist.
"Piercing Blood."
I fired low-output bolts of blood, aiming for the "limbs" of the wild spirits. I wasn't looking for the kill; I was looking to lower their hit points to the threshold where Cursed Spirit Manipulation could force a conversion.
"You're falling behind, Number 42," I shouted at a spindly Grade 4 of mine that was getting bullied by a wild one. I flicked a bead of blood at the wild curse's head, stunning it. "Do better."
After an hour of "farming," the field was littered with exhausted, flickering spirits. I walked through the carnage, my hand outstretched.
Slurp. Gulp. Swallow.
31 Grade 4s. 18 Grade 3s. The taste was getting worse. It wasn't just vomit anymore; it was starting to taste like burnt rubber and battery acid. I leaned against a weathered headstone, gagging slightly.
"God, I need a palate cleanser," I wheezed. "Whoever designed this technique was a masochist."
I waved my hand, unsummoning my army. They dissolved back into the shadows of my "storage." The lower tier was now empty, a silent graveyard once more. But my eyes were already fixed on the higher ground—the "Old Section" where the moss was thick and the air felt heavy enough to drown in.
There. Six signatures.
Grade 2s.
The Six-Fold Symphony
Grade 2 curses are the point where things get interesting. They have enough intelligence to strategize and enough CE output to actually hurt someone with high-level reinforcement.
As I climbed the stone stairs to the upper sanctuary, the six spirits emerged from behind the ancient crypts.
They were a coordinated unit. Five of them were "Brawlers"—humanoid, muscular things with heads like cracked porcelain vases. But the sixth one... it was smaller, hovering in the air, its body a mass of vibrating tuning forks.
"A support type," I noted, drawing my Inconel katana. The black blade drank the moonlight, reflecting nothing. "Annoying."
The five Brawlers moved simultaneously. They didn't just charge; they fanned out, attempting to "jump" me from all angles.
I activated Projection Sorcery.
The world stuttered. 24 frames. I saw my path—a zig-zag between the first two attackers, a leap over the third, and a strike at the fourth.
1, 2, 3... I moved. To the curses, I was a ghost. I passed the first Brawler, my blade leaving a thin, black line across its chest. I jumped over the second, but as I reached the "frame" for my mid-air turn, the tuning-fork curse let out a piercing, dissonant hum.
"CT: The Choir of Echoes," the air seemed to vibrate with the words.
Suddenly, the physics of my movement felt... wrong. The sound wave didn't just hurt my ears; it interfered with my perception of the 24 frames. I felt a "lag" in my own technique.
Penalty!
I froze. My body turned into a 2D pane of glass, paralyzed for one second because I had failed to follow the "pre-determined" path of my Projection.
The first Brawler swung a massive, fleshy fist.
CRACK.
I was sent flying, smashing through a row of stone lanterns. I tumbled across the grass, my mask skidding against the dirt.
"Okay," I groaned, standing up and dusting off my hoodie. "The hum disrupts the timing. That's actually a very clever counter to Projection Sorcery. I'm impressed. Truly."
The six Grade 2s gathered, their porcelain faces seemingly mocking me.
"But," I said, my voice dropping an octave. "I have more than one trick."
I slammed my palms onto the grass.
"Blood Manipulation: Crimson Floor."
My CE surged. From my pores, a massive volume of blood erupted, flooding the area in a thirty-foot radius. It didn't just sit there; I manipulated the surface tension, making it slicker than oil.
The Brawlers tried to rush me again, but as soon as their feet hit the blood, they lost all traction. They slid, their movements becoming clumsy and uncoordinated.
"And for the finale," I smirked. "Hardening."
I clamped my fist shut. The liquid floor instantly turned into jagged, obsidian-hard crystalline structures. The Brawlers' feet were trapped, fused into the ground.
One of them roared, ripping its foot out with a wet tear, but I was already moving.
"Blood Armor."
Blood swirled around my arms and torso, forming a sleek, segmented plating that looked like samurai armor made of rubies. I reinforced it with a heavy layer of CE, then added a layer of my own physical reinforcement.
I looked like a crimson demon.
I charged. This time, I didn't use Projection Sorcery. I used raw speed and the friction-less slides of my own blood.
I reached the first Brawler. It swung at me, but its fist bounced off the Blood Armor with a dull thud. I countered with the Inconel katana, driving the blade through its porcelain head.
SHATTER.
One down.
The tuning-fork curse screamed again, trying to disrupt my focus, but I used my own blood to plug my ears, dampening the sound.
I moved like a whirlwind. I was a ten-year-old boy, but with the mass of my CE reinforcement, I hit like a truck. I cleaved through the second and third Brawlers, my sword movements a blur of geometry and death.
The remaining two Brawlers and the Tuning Fork realized the tide had turned. They tried to merge their CE into a singular blast of sound and force.
"Not happening," I said.
I jumped, using the hardened blood pillars as springboards. I reached the Tuning Fork curse in mid-air. I didn't use the sword. I grabbed it by its metallic body.
"You're the prize," I whispered.
I slammed it into the ground, then turned it into an orb before it could even recover.
The last two Brawlers were easy. Without their support, they were just targets. I finished them with a dual Piercing Blood—one from each hand—punching holes straight through their cores.
Silence returned to the Weeping Pines.
I stood in the center of the "Crimson Floor," my blood armor dissolving back into CE. I was covered in dust and purple ichor, but the thrill was electric.
"Six Grade 2s," I panted, looking at the orbs in my hand. "That... that was actually a workout."
I swallowed them. One by one. The Tuning Fork tasted like copper and old radio static. It was the most "refined" flavor I'd had yet.
The Official Word
I sensed them before I saw them.
Two miles out. Moving fast. Two signatures. One was high Grade 2, the other a Grade 1.
"Time to go," I muttered. I didn't want a "first contact" scenario tonight. Not while I was covered in blood and wearing a Yin-Yang mask.
I dissolved my constructs, used a bit of CE to "evaporate" the lingering blood on the floor to hide my technique, and vanished into the trees using a quick burst of Projection Sorcery.
Ten minutes later, two figures in high-collared black uniforms stepped into the upper cemetery.
One was a tall man with a tired expression, his hands in his pockets. The other was a younger woman, her eyes wide as she looked at the shattered stone lanterns and the lingering scent of "refined" CE.
"Ichi-san," the woman whispered, pointing at the ground. "The report said there were nineteen targets here. A cluster of Grade 3s and 4s, and a nest of Grade 2s."
The man, Ichi, knelt down, rubbing his fingers over a shard of porcelain from one of the Brawlers.
"They're gone," he said, his voice grim. "Not just killed. Absorbed. The residue is... thin. Almost non-existent. Like someone vacuumed the place."
"Absorbed? You mean... Cursed Spirit Manipulation? Like Geto?"
"Suguru Geto maby," Ichi replied sharply. "But the 'Heavens' are always shifting. This isn't just CSM. Look at the ground. There are traces of heavy envirmental manipulation—blood, maybe? And the physical damage... it's too precise."
He stood up, looking toward the mountain peak.
"Call it into HQ. Tell them the 'Sendai Shadow' has moved. And tell them..." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Tell them it feels like we're looking at a ghost. The efficiency of the energy usage here is... disgusting."
"Another Gojo?" the woman gasped. "But he's the only one of his kind."
"Apparently," Ichi said, turning to leave, "the world decided one wasn't enough."
On this day an direct investigation into the insident know as the shadow crypt began as the world of jujutsu first came onto the trail of the existence of a being thag would one day be called a Transcendent in the class of gojo and sukuna