The training ground was empty.
Akira preferred it that way.
Dusk was settling over Tokyo Jujutsu High, painting the sky in shades of bruised purple and fading gold. The air carried the familiar scent of cedar and earth, mingled with something else—something he'd grown accustomed to over the past three months. A faint metallic tang that clung to his skin no matter how many times he showered. The smell of cursed energy that had nowhere else to go but inward.
He stood in the center of the dirt courtyard, fists clenched at his sides, staring at the training dummy twenty meters ahead. It was a simple construct—straw and wood held together by low-grade cursed energy, designed to withstand repeated strikes from students still learning to channel their power. Akira had destroyed three of them this week alone.
His breathing was controlled. Steady. In through the nose, out through the mouth. The way Gojo-sensei had taught them during their first semester. Focus the energy. Don't let it consume you. Let it flow.
But Akira's energy didn't flow like the others'.
It churned.
He raised his right hand, palm open, and felt the familiar heat building beneath his skin. Not the clean, sharp heat of standard cursed energy manipulation. This was different. Deeper. Like magma bubbling beneath a thin crust of earth, waiting for the slightest crack to erupt.
The veins on his forearm darkened.
Not metaphorically. Not symbolically. They literally turned black, thin dark lines spreading from his wrist to his elbow like roots searching for purchase. He'd started wearing long sleeves two weeks ago. Even in this heat. Even when Kugisaki called him an idiot for it.
Better an idiot than a monster.
He pushed the thought away and focused on the dummy. Cursed energy gathered in his palm, coalescing into a sphere of dense, violet-tinged light. Standard technique. Nothing fancy. The kind of basic reinforcement attack any second-year student could manage.
He released it.
The sphere shot forward, striking the dummy dead center. The construct exploded into splinters and straw, scattering across the courtyard in a radius that definitely exceeded what a basic reinforcement should have achieved. Overkill. Again.
Akira lowered his hand. The black veins faded slowly, retreating back beneath his skin like nocturnal creatures returning to their burrows. But they didn't disappear completely. They never did anymore. If he looked closely—if he had the stomach to look closely—he could still see faint traces of darkness beneath the surface, permanent reminders of what he'd done.
What he'd become.
"You're too weak."
The voice was barely a whisper. Quiet enough that he could almost pretend it wasn't real. Almost pretend it was just his own intrusive thoughts, the kind everyone had. But he knew better.
It was the curse.
The first one he'd absorbed.
Three months ago. Grade Four. Nothing special by jujutsu standards—a low-level spirit born from the collective anxiety of office workers in a failing company. Shapeless. Pathetic. The kind of curse that even a talented first-year could exorcise without breaking a sweat.
But Akira hadn't exorcised it.
He'd been alone. Night mission. Solo assignment meant to build confidence, Gojo had said with that infuriating smile. The curse had been cornered in a supply closet, writhing and hissing, lashing out at him with tentacles made of condensed frustration and despair. He'd struck it—clean hit, technique executed perfectly. The curse should have dissolved.
Instead, his hand had gone through it.
And then it was inside him.
Not possessing him. Not controlling him. Just... there. Coiled in some space between his soul and his body, trapped and screaming and very much alive. He'd collapsed immediately, vomiting in the hallway while the curse's memories flooded his mind—years of accumulated resentment, whispered complaints about quotas and deadlines, the crushing weight of mediocrity.
When he'd finally dragged himself back to campus and filed his report, he'd lied. Said he'd exorcised it normally. No one questioned it. Why would they? He'd been terrified they'd investigate, find out what really happened, expel him—or worse.
But days passed. Then weeks. The curse stayed dormant. The only sign of its presence was the occasional whisper in the back of his mind and the darkening of his veins whenever he channeled cursed energy. Small prices to pay for... what? He hadn't known then. He still wasn't sure.
But then there'd been the second mission. Another curse. Another moment of contact. Another absorption.
And another.
And another.
Four in total now. All low-grade. All manageable. But the voices were getting louder. The veins were spreading. And the power—
Akira created another cursed energy sphere, this one without even trying. It formed in his palm unbidden, crackling with violet light that definitely wasn't standard issue. He crushed it, dissipating the energy before it could do anything stupid.
The power was intoxicating.
That was the problem.
Every curse he absorbed made him stronger. He could feel it—the raw energy they'd accumulated during their existence, now his to command. His cursed energy reserves had doubled. Maybe tripled. Techniques that had once required intense concentration now came effortlessly. He was faster. Stronger. More durable.
He was also hearing voices that weren't his own. Waking up with his arms covered in black veins that took hours to recede. Catching himself thinking thoughts that felt alien—violent impulses, cruel observations, a creeping contempt for the "normal" humans he was supposed to protect.
Akira picked up a piece of the destroyed dummy. The straw was singed black where his energy had struck it. Too much power. Too little control. The curse—the original one, the one whose voice he heard most often—fed on his self-doubt. Whispered that he was wasting potential. That if he just let go, just stopped fighting, he could be so much more than this.
He threw the straw aside and turned toward the dorms.
That's when he felt it.
A presence. Not hostile. Not threatening. But absolute. Overwhelming. Like standing at the base of a mountain and suddenly becoming aware of how small you were in comparison.
Gojo Satoru stood at the edge of the training ground.
Akira had no idea how long he'd been there.
The strongest sorcerer alive leaned against a wooden post, hands in his pockets, that ever-present blindfold covering his eyes. But Akira knew he was being watched. You could always tell with Gojo-sensei. Even with Six Eyes hidden, his attention was a physical thing—a weight that pressed down on you, measuring, evaluating, dissecting.
Akira's heart hammered. Had Gojo seen? The black veins? The excessive power in that last strike? Did he know?
"Training late, Kurozawa?" Gojo's voice was light. Casual. The same tone he used whether he was discussing the weather or announcing that everyone was about to die. "That's dedication. Or insomnia. Hard to tell sometimes."
"Just... working on control, sensei." Akira kept his arms at his sides, resisting the urge to check if the veins were visible. Don't draw attention. Act normal. "I'll clean up the dummy."
"Don't worry about it." Gojo pushed off the post and started walking—not toward Akira, but in a slow circle around the perimeter of the courtyard. "Someone'll get it in the morning. Besides, that was a good hit. Really good. Your energy output's improved significantly since last semester."
There was something in the way he said it. Not quite a question. Not quite an accusation. Just an observation that demanded a response.
"Thank you, sensei."
"Mmm." Gojo stopped circling, now standing between Akira and the path back to the dorms. Not blocking it. Not threatening. Just... there. "You've been volunteering for a lot of solo missions lately. More than usual for a second-year. Trying to prove something?"
Akira's mouth was dry. "Just trying to improve."
"Improvement's good. Important, even. But you know what's also important?" Gojo tilted his head slightly. "Knowing your limits. Understanding what you can and can't handle. Recognizing when you're in over your head."
The words hung in the air.
He knows.
The thought struck Akira like a physical blow. Of course he knew. This was Gojo Satoru. Six Eyes saw everything—cursed energy, techniques, probably the exact number of curses currently festering in Akira's soul. He'd known from the beginning. He'd been watching. Waiting.
But for what?
"I'm handling it." The words came out before Akira could stop them. Defensive. Stupid.
Gojo's expression didn't change. The slight smile remained fixed in place, impossible to read. "Are you?"
Silence.
Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed. The sun had fully set now, leaving only the pale light of the courtyard's cursed energy lamps to push back the darkness. Akira could feel his own energy responding to his anxiety, heating beneath his skin, threatening to darken the veins again. He forced it down. Forced himself to breathe.
"I'm not going to hurt anyone," he said quietly. "Whatever you're worried about, it won't happen."
"I'm not worried." Gojo's smile widened slightly. "Concerned, maybe. Curious, definitely. But worried? No. If I was worried, we'd be having a very different conversation right now."
He turned then, finally moving out of Akira's path, heading toward the main building. But he paused after a few steps, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Get some sleep, Kurozawa. You've got a group mission tomorrow. Fushiguro, Kugisaki, Itadori. Should be a good team exercise. Try not to show off too much, yeah? Wouldn't want the others to feel inadequate."
Then he was gone, vanishing into the darkness with that unnatural speed that made it impossible to tell if he'd walked away or simply teleported.
Akira stood alone in the courtyard, heart still racing.
He knows he knows he knows—
"Good," the voice whispered. "Let him know. Let them all know what you're becoming. They can't stop it."
Akira clenched his fists. The black veins spread to his elbows this time, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. He watched them for a long moment, these alien marks that were somehow also part of him now. Evidence of every choice he'd made. Every curse he'd consumed instead of exorcised.
He'd done it to save people. That first curse—if he'd failed to stop it, it would have attacked a security guard making his rounds. The second had been cornering a group of teenagers. The third, a child. The fourth—
The reasons were good. They had to be. Because if they weren't, then what did that make him?
Akira looked down at his hands. In the dim light, the veins looked like cracks in porcelain. Like he was something fragile that had been broken and poorly repaired. One more impact and he'd shatter completely.
But not yet.
Not tonight.
He took a breath—deep, steady, controlled—and let the cursed energy recede. The veins faded back to faint shadows beneath his skin. Manageable. Hideable. For now.
Tomorrow he'd work with the others. Itadori, who carried Sukuna inside him like a ticking time bomb. Fushiguro, whose technique drew on shadows and shikigami. Kugisaki, who wielded nails and curses with equal efficiency. They were strong. Talented. Normal, by jujutsu standards.
They couldn't know what he was becoming.
Akira turned toward the dorms, leaving the destroyed dummy and the watchful darkness behind. His shadow stretched long across the courtyard, cast by the cursed energy lamps. For just a moment, in his peripheral vision, it seemed to move independently. Seemed to writhe and twist like something alive.
He didn't look back.
Inside his soul, four voices whispered in discordant harmony. And deep in whatever space existed between thought and being, something that had once been human began to forget what humanity felt like.
But Akira Kurozawa walked on, back straight, hands steady, wearing the mask of normalcy like armor against the void growing inside him.
Tomorrow would be better.
It had to be.