"Gojo Satoru... lost?"
The word left his mouth before he even realized it. His breathing stopped momentarily as he could do nothing but stare at the TV screen, which showed Gojo Satoru's body bisected. Both of his eyes were wide, his mouth open—a look utterly unlike his usual stoic and composed expression. Even so, he couldn't help it. Gojo Satoru, who just a moment earlier had seemed like the victor of the fight, had been cut in half by Sukuna, the King of Curses.
The transmission suddenly cut out. Air finally found its way back into his lungs as he breathed deeply. Cold sweat began to gather on his palms and forehead. Once again, he forced himself to breathe steadily while flowing his cursed energy in rhythm with his pulse, his innate technique making it easier.
The training he had received as a sorcerer soon took over. His heartbeat calmed, as did his breathing, and the sweat stopped pouring out of him like a fountain. The cold logic that usually governed his mind as a sorcerer began working. It assessed everything his mind had just witnessed as a problem: Gojo Satoru had lost.
Noritoshi had placed a bet that Gojo Satoru would win this fight and restore the situation in Japan. He had bet on Gojo to handle it all: the Culling Game, the barriers, Tengen, Kenjaku, even the millions of cursed spirits that now roamed Japan. Gojo Satoru would be able to handle them all. Or so he had thought. That was why he had run away with his mother's family overseas, confident Gojo would be able to handle everything. That was why he had left his friends behind.
A faint tremor in both of his hands began to surface at the thought. His chest began constricting, sorcerer's training be damned. His friends. He had left them to fight Sukuna without him.
Blood was dripping onto the floor. He hadn't realized he was clenching his own palm until it bled. The sound of a breath being released was heard again. With a simple application of his cursed technique, his blood receded and the bleeding stopped instantly.
With the familiar motions of moving his blood with his cursed technique, his emotions no longer clouded his mind, and he was able to arrive at a conclusion. It didn't matter if he was present or not; he would be useless there. Imagining himself fighting alongside his friends against Sukuna brought a myriad of emotions, but in the end, he could only chuckle in self-ridicule.
Who was he kidding? He couldn't keep up with his friends. If he joined, he would only get in the way. His shoulders slumped at the thought. But now, he could only hope that his friends would be able to finish what Gojo had started. That was the only thing he could do as a weakling.
He clasped his hands in prayer, the stillness of the room amplifying the faint tremor in his fingers. He closed his eyes, and into the silent void of his helplessness, he muttered,
"Itadori…I hope what I was able to teach you about Blood Manipulation will be useful against Sukuna."
A long, shaky breath escaped him before he added, the words barely more than a whisper against his knuckles, "Everyone…I'm praying for your safety."
Slowly, he stood up and turned off the TV, which had begun playing a local drama.
Had his family also watched the fight? God, he hoped not. But it was likely that this was only wishful thinking. All around the world, the fight between Gojo and Sukuna had been trending. He only hoped that his little brother hadn't seen it. It was quite a gruesome sight to behold.
Walking upstairs to his room, he found his brother playing with toys. Forcing himself to smile—even though he could feel how strained it was—he said, "Harutoshi, why are you playing here? I remember telling you not to go into my room unless I'm with you, right?"
The boy, who looked to be 10 years old, lifted his head to look at him. His wide brown eyes resembled his father's more than his own. No, it was more appropriate to say that they didn't look like siblings at all.
"I'm bored. Mom said I can't watch TV or play with my phone, so I just came here."
So that pretty much made it clear. His brother hadn't seen the fight. Thank God.
The tightness in his chest receded a little. Here was his little brother, the one person he sincerely hoped he could protect from the horrors of their cruel world. But even that seemed far-fetched now. As grim as the thought was, he couldn't help but feel his friends wouldn't be able to win against Sukuna. Yet, looking at his brother, that desire to protect ignited brightly within him.
In the event that Sukuna won, then this world, or at least the age of humans, would be finished, regardless of what the rest of the world did. The merger would create a monster unlike any in recorded history, and no nation would risk attacking Sukuna now that knowledge of Vengeful Cursed Spirits had become common. The world would only spiral further downhill from there.
There was no two ways about it. Even though he didn't want his little brother to know anything about sorcery beyond the basics of circulating cursed energy to prevent leakage, he had to start teaching him now. How to defend himself, how to fight, and much more. The moment the merger happened and Tengen's barrier collapsed, cursed spirits would be born all around the world.
At that point, he wouldn't be able to protect him forever. With that heavy decision settling in his chest like a stone, Noritoshi crossed the room and knelt on the floor beside his brother.
The old floorboards creaked under his weight, a familiar sound that felt oddly distant.
"Well Haru," he started, forcing the words past the tightness in his throat. He reached for a handful of blocks, his movements deliberate as he began stacking them, needing something to do with his hands. "If you're really that bored... how about I teach you a magic trick? A special one. Just for you."
Harutoshi's toys fell still. "Magic trick?" he asked, his small voice bright with curiosity. "The real one? Like you sometimes do with the red stuff?"
Noritoshi's hands froze mid-stack. The red stuff. So he had noticed, even through the simplest of concealment veils. A strained smile was all he could muster.
"Yeah," he said softly, his voice barely more than a murmur. "Something like that."
Excitement lit up his brother's face. Noritoshi ruffled the boy's hair gently before standing. "Well, if that's the case, I'll be waiting here. Go back to your room and change into something easier to move in, alright?"
His brother scurried away in such a hurry that a genuine chuckle escaped him. Then, the somber expression returned, colder and heavier than before.
He turned to his wardrobe and pulled out the gear he had assembled after he'd been ousted by the Kamo clan—the uniform of a survivor, not a clansman. The long-sleeved black turtleneck, the lightweight protective breastplate he strapped over the left side of his chest. He secured the waist guard, its familiar weight bringing him back to that time, and checked the holster for his quiver. Finally, the black pants and the shoes with their stark white trim.
Each piece carried the memory of the colony: the desperate rescues of civilians when no other sorcerer came after the calamity of the Shibuya Incident, the endless exorcisms of spirits that seemed numberless, and witnessing Maki reach her fearsome, full potential. This garb was a reliquary of hard memories. Among them was this truth: it was the armor of someone who had been cast out and had learned, stitch by scar, how to endure. He fastened the last strap, and the gear settled on him like a second skin—and a solemn vow.
He let out a light sigh. This was his resolve. By putting on these garments, he was essentially declaring his return to the Jujutsu world. At least this way was better than being dragged back into it by force—if Sukuna won and the merger began.
The familiar cursed energy woven into the fabric was a small comfort. These clothes had been exposed to his energy for so long that, without his realizing, they had become cursed objects themselves. They held no noteworthy effects beyond being exceptionally efficient at receiving and reinforcing his cursed energy. That was enough.
His hand was halfway to his bow when his phone chimed. A message from an unknown number. Curiosity, cold and unwelcome, prickled at him as he thumbed it open. A single, anonymous link glowed on the screen.
An urge, sudden and visceral, seized his fingers. It wasn't his own. Don't, a part of him screamed, but his thumb was already moving, tapping the screen with a will that wasn't entirely his.
The browser opened to a stark page. Its title was a line of text that burned itself into his vision: A Tale of Four Heroes: The Sword, The Spear, The Bow, and The Shield.
It was the last thing he saw before a jolt of lucidity crashed over him like ice water. He was being manipulated. With a snarl of pure revulsion, he crushed the phone in his grip, cursed energy flaring to shatter its circuits, and hurled the carcass across the room. He hadn't read a word beyond that title. The method didn't matter—a cursed technique, a binding vow embedded in data, something new—only the fact did. He'd been controlled without feeling a whisper of foreign energy.
A faint, eerie light began to pulse from the shattered device on the floor.
His breath hitched. Trap.
He moved without thought. In a single fluid motion, he was across the room, his hand outstretched. A hemisphere of dark, shimmering blood erupted from his palm, enveloping the glowing fragments just as their light intensified to a blinding gleam. He held the technique firm, a barrier between the unknown and his home, muscles coiled for the detonation he was certain would follow.
The light passed through his blood dome as if it weren't even there—no resistance, no reaction. It washed over him, cold and weightless, and with it came a sudden, heavy pull at the core of his consciousness. His thoughts scrambled, his technique flickered and died, and the world began to dissolve into a featureless white.
The last thing to fade away was the memory he had with his family.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
Consciousness returned in a nauseating wave. Had he died?
Voices swam around him, murmuring in an unfamiliar cadence. His focus hadn't returned. He blinked hard, forcing his eyes to track the blurry shapes looming over him. Robes. They wore ornate, ceremonial robes. His vision remained bleached and unstable.
[Flowing Red Scale]
The technique activated on instinct. Heat surged through his veins, his pulse hammered a rapid rhythm, and his senses sharpened into painful clarity. His physical capability skyrocketed.
The robed figures—priests, perhaps—recoiled as he moved. In a burst of motion that left them gasping, he was across the stone floor, putting distance between himself and the group. Only then, as his grip tightened on something in his hand, did he process the object: a sleek, unfamiliar bow. And only then did he see he wasn't alone with the priests.
Three other people stood nearby, each as disoriented as he was. A young man with a sword. Another with a spear. And one, standing slightly apart, clutching an unassuming shield. The air in the darkened space crackled with confusion.
But that didn't matter. He focused, and blood flowed from his skin, coalescing in the air before him. With a sharp exertion of will, he compressed it into a single, dense orb the size of a marble. Immediately, a wave of lightheadedness washed over him as his body registered the acute loss.
Right. Choso's trick.
Drawing on his cursed energy, he converted a portion directly into fresh blood, letting it flow out and compress into a second orb. This one glowed faintly with energy, compressed so intensely that heat-steam visibly hissed from its surface. Suffering from blood loss was now almost impossible, thanks to that lesson. But this power had strict limits: he could only maintain two of these maximally compressed orbs. A third would drain his cursed energy completely. Even now, he could feel his reserves dip to roughly 45 percent.
Blood flowed from him a third time. This stream did not form an orb. Instead, it hovered around him in a shimmering, crimson mist—a defensive barrier daring anything to approach. While he couldn't afford another projectile, he still needed protection. This mist remained connected to him by thin, nearly invisible threads of blood, and through them, he manually circulated it, creating a perpetual, controlled loop that defended him without further taxing his drained system.
"Speak." Noritoshi's voice was cold, cutting through the murmurs. "Where am I? Who are you? What is the purpose of this kidnapping?"
The three others kidnapped alongside him could only stare in apparent shock. The robed men huddled together, whispering nervously. A second of heavy silence passed.
"Didn't I tell you to speak?" he began again, his voice hardening like forged steel. The blood mist around him swirled ominously.
That seemed to do the job. The man in the center of the priests flinched and stammered, "M-my lord! You… you have been summoned to this world as the Bow Hero. To save us from the calamity known as the Waves!"
Noritoshi's brows creased in severe confusion. Summoned? This world? Was this man insinuating he was no longer on Earth?
"Explain," he demanded, taking a half-step forward. The air grew heavier. "What do you mean by 'this world'?"
The robed men trembled, their fear now palpable.
That's when one of the others on the altar—the young man with the spear—finally found his voice. "Hey, dude, just calm down a little! We're not going to figure this out if you keep threatening these poor guys."
The other summoned one's words held merit. After a tense moment of consideration, the defensive blood mist dissipated, reabsorbed into his skin—but the two compressed blood orbs remained, orbiting his shoulders like tiny, menacing satellites.
"Fine," Noritoshi said, his voice still edged with a promise of violence. "I'll hear your explanation. But if any of you so much as twitch suspiciously, your lives are forfeit."
One of the other robed figures, perhaps an elder, sank to his knees. "Your patience, noble hero. If you would but accompany us, His Majesty the King will personally attend to all of your questions. Please, we beg of you."
He let out a silent sigh. What kind of mess has he been dragged into. But he kept a stern and stoic face outward. "Alright, lead the way."
They were led from the darkened chamber into a broad hallway of fitted stone. The architecture was unmistakable—a castle from a medieval European fantasy, cold and imposing. The air was fresh, scented faintly of old stone and distant greenery, reminiscent of the secluded courtyards of the Kamo compound. Yet the atmosphere was heavy, thick with a tense silence broken only by the scuff of boots and the whisper of robes.
Then he saw it: a tall, window. The scenery beyond the glass confirmed his deepest, most unsettling suspicion. A wave of cold dread washed over him, sharpening his anxiety into a piercing certainty.
The sky was a vast, unfamiliar expanse of high, thin clouds. And below, sprawled at the foot of the castle, was a town—a perfect, picturesque sprawl of timbered houses and winding cobblestone streets, like an illustration ripped from a storybook.
He wanted to stop, to press his hands against the glass and comprehend the scale of this displacement, but there was no time. The priests hurried them past the window, their pace urgent. The brief glimpse was over, replaced by the relentless march down the hall until they arrived before towering doors—the entrance to the throne room.
The great doors stood open. On a raised dais at the far end of the vast hall, an old man sat upon an ornate throne. The King.
Before the sovereign could speak, his sharp eyes—seemingly accustomed to assessing threats—locked not on Noritoshi's face, but on the two dense, crimson orbs silently orbiting his shoulders. The king's composed expression faltered for a fraction of a second. He leaned subtly toward the official beside him, their whispered exchange lost in the vastness of the hall but clear in its intent. The official paled, then gave a stiff, nervous nod. An order to not provoke him, perhaps?
The king straightened, his voice booming out to mask the moment of unease. "So, these four young men are the legendary Holy Heroes? I am Auticray Melromarc the Thirty-Second, ruler of these lands. Heroes, show me your faces!"
His gaze returned to Noritoshi, and this time it was direct, a monarch addressing a potential asset—and a clear danger. "You, wielder of the bow. The sacred implements you bear are meant for the protection of this world. There is no need for such… overt hostility within these walls. Stand down."
The command was clear, but Noritoshi did not flinch. The blood orbs continued their slow, ominous rotation. To dismiss his only prepared defenses in a room full of armed guards and unknown power felt like folly. "My hostility is a response to an unwarranted kidnapping," he stated, his voice cutting through the hall's grandeur. "You speak of protection, yet you provide no assurance. Explain the terms of my presence, or the 'overt hostility' remains."
A tense silence followed. The other heroes watched, wide-eyed. The king's jaw tightened, but he also saw the unyielding logic in Noritihosi's stance—a soldier's pragmatism, not a bandit's malice.
A compromise was needed.
"Very well," the king said, his tone shifting from command to negotiation. "You may retain your… precautions. But they must be sheathed. Contain them. Let them not be a visible threat to my subjects, who look to you for hope, not fear. In return, you have my word that no harm shall come to you while you hear our plea. You will have the full explanation you demand."
Noritoshi considered. The king had offered a concession of perception in exchange for a concession of posture. It was a first step, a test of intent. With a thought, the two blood orbs shot toward his free hand, merging into a single, fist-sized sphere that he held loosely at his side, the violent compression still palpable but now contained. The immediate, swirling threat was gone, replaced by a potent, held potential.
"Then speak," Noritoshi said, his stance still guarded, but the path to dialogue now open. "I am listening."
"Now then, I shall begin. This country—no, this entire world—stands on the brink of destruction."
The Shield's mutter reached Noritoshi's ears clearly: "A regal, if dramatic, introduction."
The one holding the sword nodded slowly, his voice carrying that detached quality again. "It's consistent with summoning narratives across multiple cultures. The threatened kingdom, the chosen heroes, the prophetic destruction. Either this world operates on remarkably similar mythological frameworks, or we're dealing with something that actively shapes itself to fit our expectations."
The spear user blinked at him. "Dude. We just got kidnapped to another world and you're already writing a thesis?"
A faint tremors crept up the sword wielder's voice. "I'm just saying—"
"Yeah, yeah, figures." The spear user waved it off, but his grin was good-natured. "Look, let's just hear them out before we start overthinking everything."
He leaned slightly toward the sword wielder, lowering his voice—though Noritoshi's enhanced hearing caught every word. "Between you and me though? This is nothing like the anime. Way more intense. Especially with that guy over there."
His chin jerked subtly in Noritoshi's direction.
The sword wielder's gaze flicked toward him briefly, assessing. Those crimson orbs still orbited Noritoshi's shoulders like tiny, patient moons. The blood mist had dissipated, but the compressed projectiles remained—an unspoken promise.
"Yeah," the sword wielder murmured back, his voice equally quiet. "In games, the Bow class is usually ranged support. Squishy. But him?" A pause. "He's giving more 'final boss' energy than 'party member.'"
The spear user snorted, quickly covering it with a cough. "Right? Dude looks like he's about to demand tribute, not ask about quest rewards."
The shield wielder, who had been pretending not to listen, finally muttered under his breath, "At least someone here looks like they know what they're doing."
Neither of the others disagreed.
Noritoshi absorbed their whispered assessments without reaction, his expression unchanging. Final boss. Tribute. In different circumstances, he might have found it amusing. For now, he simply filed their observations alongside everything else.
Noritoshi listened, distilling the king's long, ornate story into its grim essentials.
Long ago, a prophecy foretold the world's end through recurring cataclysms known as the Waves. These Waves would wash over the world again and again until nothing remained. The prophecy was ancient, but its appointed time was now. A legendary hourglass, its sands beginning to fall a month prior, served as the countdown, predicting the Waves would arrive in monthly intervals.
At first, the people mocked the legends. But when the sands fell, the calamity struck: a fissure to another dimension tore through Meiromarc, unleashing hordes of terrifying creatures. The kingdom's knights and adventurers barely repelled that first incursion, but the next Wave was prophesied to be worse. Facing a hopeless future, the kingdom enacted the last resort described in the legends: they summoned heroes from another world.
That about sums it up. At the very least, this revelation offered a sliver of cold comfort. The ritual to summon them was not some trivial spell to be cast on a whim. It required specific conditions—the Waves of destruction had to be active. That implied severe limitations. It meant this kingdom, for all its desperation, did not hold the god-like power to casually pluck people from other worlds. After all, not even Gojo Satoru, the pinnacle of power in his world, possessed an ability as absurd as casual interdimensional travel. The very laws of reality seemed to resist it. This was a desperate, last-resort measure, not a display of omnipotence.
Throughout the explanation, he had been watching the King intently. He realized with a start that the man was not speaking Japanese, nor any language he recognized. The lips movements were foreign and flowing in an alien cadence. And yet, he understood every word perfectly. Another effect of this so-called Legendary Weapon, he deduced, a fresh layer of unease settling over him. This thing was already rewriting his perception, integrating him into this world whether he wished for it or not.
After the king finished, a heavy silence hung in the throne room for a beat. Noritoshi was the one to break it, his voice flat and final.
"I refuse my role as a hero. I have a family in my world. I ask you to send me back."
A murmur rippled through the people present. Before the king could respond, the young man with the sword—the Sword Hero—spoke up, his earlier timidness replaced by a brash, bargaining tone.
"Yeah, I'm with him. We don't have any responsibility to your world. What's in it for us? You didn't summon us here to work for free, did you?"
Noritoshi's eyes flicked toward him, a flicker of surprise crossing his stoic expression. This one's spine appears when there's potential profit, he noted.
Then, the one holding the small shield—the Shield Hero—spoke. His voice was quieter, more measured, but no less firm.
"They're right. We have no obligation here. If we're dedicating our lives to saving your kingdom, we deserve more than gratitude. More importantly, is there even a way for us to return home? That's what I want to know."
"Hmm..." The king hummed, shooting a sidelong glance at one of his vassals. "Of course, we are prepared to compensate you for your efforts."
The Spear Hero pumped his fist in a silent yes! The Sword Hero flashed a smug, satisfied grin. The Shield Hero also looked relieved, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
"Naturally," the king continued, his voice regal and measured. "I have made arrangements to support you financially and provide whatever you may require, in thanks for your service to our world."
"Oh, hell yeah! Cool!" the Spear Hero blurted out. "As long as you promise that, I guess we're good!"
The Sword Hero nodded along, his grin smug and unwavering.
Noritoshi watched them, a faint feeling of worry settling in his gut. Even more brazen than he thought. Do they have no concept of courtly decorum, of the danger in speaking so rudely to a sovereign? In the accursed place he came from, that is the Kamo clan, such blatant disrespect before a clan head—let alone a king—would have swift and severe consequences. They were treating this like a business negotiation with a generous client, not a pledge to a monarch who held their fates in his hands.
He acted the way he did because he knew what kind of consequences his actions could bring. It seems the same couldn't be said for these two.
But his own question still hung, unanswered, in the heavy air of the throne room. He did not celebrate. He did not smile. His eyes remained locked on King Auitcray, a silent, unwavering pressure awaiting the only answer that mattered to him.
All eyes in the throne room turned to Noritoshi as the king addressed his direct demand.
"As for your request, Bow Hero and Shield… I am sorry." King Auitcray's voice held a note of genuine, weary finality. "I cannot send you back. According to the ancient rites, new heroes can only be summoned… if all four of the current ones are dead."
A stunned silence gripped the hall, followed by a muted gasp from the other summoned boys. The Spear Hero's triumphant grin vanished. The Shield Hero's face went ashen. The reality of their situation—not as guests, but as prisoners with a death sentence—crashed down upon them.
"The legends are clear," the king continued, his words falling like stones. "The only path for a hero to return to his world is to see the fight through to its end. To repel all of the Waves."
Noritoshi stood perfectly still amidst the rising panic of the others. Inside, a cold fury solidified. The last shred of hope for a quick return shattered. So that's it. There never was a choice. He's conscripted in a war not his own, with his lives—and his only way home—as the currency.
His clenched fist trembled once, first with fear, worry, anxiety, but it changed into resolve. The air around him seemed to grow colder. Fine.
If this was the only road back to his brother, to the family he had sworn to protect, then he would walk it. He would fight. He would survive. And he would carve a path through this world's apocalypse, no matter what it took.
"Then the terms are set," Noritoshi said, his voice low and dangerously calm, cutting through the murmurs. He looked directly at the king, his eyes devoid of plea, now filled with the chilling focus of a man who has just identified his only objective. "Explain everything. The Waves, the enemies, the rules of these weapons. Leave nothing out."
The king held his gaze for a moment, then sighed, a gesture that seemed to age him further. "What I have told you is the extent of the common knowledge—the legends passed down through generations. The specifics of your Cardinal Weapons… their deeper functions, their laws… those are mysteries known only to the weapons themselves, and to the heroes who wield them. My role is to provide you the canvas; you must learn to wield the brush."
A frustrated tension tightened Noritoshi's jaw. More unknowns. More variables.
"Hey, don't sweat it, Bow Guy," the Spear Hero interjected, flashing a grin that was part bravado, part genuine offer. "We're all in this together, right? Once we get out of here, we can figure that stuff out. I'm sure it's not that complicated."
The Sword Hero nodded slowly at him. "My menu's already got a help section. And I happen to know a little about these kinds of things. We'll show you the ropes."
Noritoshi gave them a curt, assessing nod. Their optimism was naive, but their offer of practical information was not without value. They were his comrade now, however unpolished.
King Auitcray cleared his throat, reasserting the formality of the occasion. "Now, before we proceed, let us begin as allies should. Heroes, state your names and your stations, so that this kingdom may know the champions fate has sent us."
The Spear Hero puffed out his chest, taking the lead.
"I'm Motoyasu Kitamura! Twenty-one years old, a college student. Nice to meetcha!"
The Sword Hero spoke next, his tone cooler, more detached.
"Ren Amaki. Sixteen. High school student."
The Shield Hero gave a shallow, wary bow.
"Naofumi Iwatani. Twenty years old. Also a college student."
All eyes then turned to the fourth. Noritoshi did not offer a polite smile or a bow. He stood straight, his posture that of a soldier reporting for duty.
"Kamo Noritoshi. Heir to the Kamo Clan. Jujutsu Sorcerer."
A faint ripple of confusion passed through the hall. Clan? Sorcerer? The king's eyes narrowed slightly, likely filing the titles away for later consideration.
"Now then," the king said, his voice projecting warm authority as he addressed them. "Motoyasu, Ren, and... Noritoshi, was it?"
A hesitant voice cut through the hall. "Umm... excuse me, Your Grace. You forgot about me."
King Auitcray paused, as if mentally scanning a list. "Ah. That's right." The acknowledgement was bland, devoid of the earlier performative warmth. "Mr. Naofumi."
Noritoshi's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. He noted the interaction—the slight delay, the dismissive tone, the stark difference in address. From their limited interaction, the king had shown himself to be calculated, not careless. This was not an oversight. It was a pointed omission.
But why? The question clicked into place in his mind like a piece of a tactical puzzle. The Shield Hero was the last to be named, the one whose weapon was mainly defensive, was the shield seen as inferior? Or was there a deeper, more personal bias at play? Either way, it was a deliberate signal—a subtle attempt to diminish Naofumi's status in the eyes of the kingdom official before he had even begun. A divide and conquer tactic, or simple contempt? Noritoshi filed the observation away.
"Now then, Heroes," the king announced. "Please, take a moment to consult your status. It will provide you with an objective evaluation of your capabilities."
Before Noritoshi could question what that meant, Ren spoke up with cool confidence, as if explaining a basic game mechanic.
"If you look carefully at the edge of your vision, you should see a small, translucent dot, right? Focus on it. Your menu—or 'status screen,' I guess—should appear."
No. Noritoshi's focus sharpened. That dot had not been there a moment ago. He was certain of it. His senses had been on maximum alert since arriving in this world, Flowing Red Scale still active even now, scanning for threats, for exits, for flows of energy. His peripheral vision had been clear. It was only after Ren declared its existence that the faint, ghostly pixel shimmered into being at the corner of his eye.
Ren noticed his intense, scrutinizing stare. "Did you… really not see it until now?"
"I was hyper-aware from the moment I arrived," Noritoshi stated, his voice low and analytical. "No such marker existed. It only manifested after you described it."
Ren's detached expression finally cracked, replaced by keen interest. He let out a thoughtful hum, his eyes assessing Noritoshi not as a fellow displaced person, but as a fascinating anomaly. "Interesting. So for you, it's not a default UI element. It's conditional. It requires an observer to make it real."
Noritoshi didn't know what to make of Ren's observation, but he filed it away as another point in this illogical world. To his side, Motoyasu and Naofumi had already fallen into a trance, their eyes glazed as they stared at empty air. They've accessed theirs, he noted. It was a vulnerable tell, that unfocused gaze as their eyes moved through empty space. He made a mental note to acquire spectacles at the earliest opportunity.
Finally, he turned his focus inward, toward the newly manifested dot at the edge of his perception. With a thought, his status unfolded before him.
Noritoshi Kamo
Class: Bow Hero Lv 1
Equipment:
· Small Bow (Legendary Weapon)
· Other World Clothes
· Arrow Holster
Skills: None
Magic: None
A slight feeling of dissatisfaction settled over him. This was no objective evaluation. It was a superficial ledger. Where was the entry for his cursed energy reserves? The entry for his Blood Manipulation technique? The fact that his "Other World Clothes" were saturated with his energy, making them a reinforced, low-grade cursed tool? The screen was blind to the essence of what made him a sorcerer.
As if in direct response to his criticism, the text under Equipment shimmered and reconfigured.
Reinforced Other World Clothes
A faint, mirthless smirk touched his lips. Heh. This little system wasn't just a passive menu. It was listening. Or perhaps, more accurately, it was learning.
His scan of the dense status data was interrupted by Motoyasu's booming voice.
"Huh. Level 1. Looks like we don't start out as overpowered heroes after all. That's… a little nerve-wracking."
Naofumi shifted uncomfortably, and though he tried to hide it, a flicker of similar anxiety showed in Ren's carefully neutral expression.
"Precisely," the king interjected, seizing on their uncertainty. "A summoned hero's strength is not granted; it is forged. You must raise your Legendary Weapons through your own efforts. That is the path to growth."
The practical implication struck Naofumi immediately, voicing Nortioshi's thoughts out loud. "So… does that mean we'll be teaming up? Forming a party?"
"Wait a moment, heroes," the king said, raising a hand. "The four of you should set out separately and recruit companions from among the people of this world."
"What? Why?" Ren asked, his brow furrowed.
"According to the legends, the Cardinal Weapons you possess will interfere with one another if their bearers form a party. Your growth—both the weapon's power and your own levels—will be severely stunted if you remain in close proximity. To grow strong, you must travel apart."
Motoyasu scratched his head, processing. "So, what, we can't level up if we stick together? That's a weird rule."
An isolation tactic, Noritoshi thought instantly, his political instincts flaring. Whether the legend was true or not, the effect was the same: it split them up, making each hero dependent on the kingdom for guidance, resources, and allies. It prevented them from forming a united front. In his world, dividing potential threats was Rule One of control.
Before the king could elaborate further, a line of stark, glowing text materialized directly in Noritoshi's vision, superimposed over the throne room. It felt as if it emanated from the bow in his hand.
Attention: The Legendary Weapons and their owners will experience adverse effects if they fight together.
Caution: It is preferable that the Heroes and weapons are used individually.
He tore his eyes from the message to glance at the others. Motoyasu was blinking rapidly, Ren's lips were pressed into a thin line, and Naofumi was staring into space with a look of deep concern. They had all seen it.
"Did you all just receive a directive?" Noritoshi asked, his voice cutting through the silence. "A warning about party interference?"
A chorus of hesitant confirmations answered him. The king, noticing their distraction, fell silent, a calculated look in his eyes.
Good. Noritoshi's mind was already several steps ahead. The king's words could be political maneuvering, but this… this was a direct communication from the artifact itself. It wasn't just learning from his observations earlier. It was now teaching, laying down its own immutable laws. And by providing the same warning to all four of them simultaneously, it had just validated its own rules as objective, weapon-enforced reality.
The king offered a regal, concluding nod. "You have had a trying day. Retire now to the chambers prepared for you. Rest. On the morrow, my men shall scour the city and the nearby lands to find suitable companions to aid you on your journeys."
The others murmured their respectful thanks—Motoyasu with enthusiastic relief, Ren with a curt nod, Naofumi with a quiet, weary acceptance. They turned to follow a steward who appeared to lead them away.
Noritoshi offered the barest incline of his head, a gesture of acknowledgment, not gratitude. A prepared room in a stranger's castle was not a gift; it was another variable in an unknown equation. As he fell into step behind the others, his mind was already working. A night to observe. To plan. To test the limits of this room's security and this weapon's capabilities. The king's promise to "find" them companions felt less like support and more like an assignment of watchers. He would sleep lightly tonight, if at all.
The heavy doors of the throne room closed behind them, sealing the four heroes in the echoing silence of a stone corridor, alone together for the first time since their summoning, each now carrying the weight of a solitary, weapon-enforced destiny.
But he wondered, based on their attitude, could they even feel the weight at all?
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Hey guys. Author here. Some of you have asked, why could Noritoshi convert his cursed energy into blood? That ability is unique to Death Womb Painting, right?
To answer that, trust me gang, let me cook.