She did not wait any longer.
Yashiro pulled out a massive toy iron hammer from her backpack, something completely at odds with her gothic loli appearance, its heavy iron head and crude construction radiating a brutal, almost militaristic presence. She raised it high and swung it straight at the large glass panel in front of her.
"Excuse the intrusion."
Bang.
With a deafening crash, the already cracked glass shattered into glittering fragments.
"Who is there?!"
The three who had been struggling inside the room all flinched at the sudden impact and turned toward the sound.
The enraged shadow, however, abandoned the prey it had already trapped. It let out a soundless roar, then shot forward as a streak of black lightning, rushing straight at the intruder.
Yashiro.
"Do not even think about it."
She did not even bother to lift an eyelid. Her most loyal guardian, the Ghost Sergeant, stepped in front of her in an instant. With his body forged from old battlefield resentment, tough as iron, he took the shadow's full force head on.
"Kyeee."
The attack was swallowed whole by the Ghost Sergeant's body, leaving him completely unmoved.
As the shadow tried to gather itself for another strike, the Sergeant's empty black eye sockets suddenly lit with an ominous, deep red glow.
Slowly, he drew from his waist a bayonet, long since rusted and soaked in the grudges of countless dead.
"Domain Expansion: Weakening Prayer."
Hum.
An invisible cursed domain spread outward from the Ghost Sergeant, heavy with the despair of soldiers who longed to die in battle with honor, yet were denied even that release.
The light in the room dimmed.
Enveloped by the domain, the shadow's movements faltered. Its already indistinct form began to glitch and flicker like a television with a bad signal.
It shrieked, a thin, tearing sound, and the dense cursed energy surrounding it visibly thinned, weakening at a speed that could be seen with the naked eye.
"What kind of jujutsu is that?!"
Inside the room, a boy with short, distinctive pink hair stared, jaw hanging open in shock at this completely unheard of scene.
"It is a prayer," Yashiro said, taking on the role of commentator as she explained for Natsume's benefit. "The Ghost Sergeant's power is not damage transfer. It is a cursed domain born from his fixation, the desire to die honorably in battle and the resentment of never being granted that end."
"In this domain, all enemies are forcibly afflicted with hunger, fatigue and exhaustion. And the effect strengthens in three stages each time he draws a new weapon."
With the fight paused, the pink haired boy, seeing that Natsume's group did not seem hostile, came trotting over. Scratching his head, he gave them a bright, sunny grin.
"Wow, you guys are amazing. Thanks a ton for earlier. I am Yuji Itadori, this is Megumi Fushiguro, and the one over there who is hurt is Nobara Kugisaki. We are students from Tokyo Metropolitan Jujutsu High."
"Natsume," he replied calmly, "you can think of me as a freelancer."
Unlike the simple and straightforward Itadori, the black haired boy standing behind him, Megumi, felt a sharp jolt of shock run through him.
His gaze locked on the seemingly harmless gothic loli directing the Ghost Sergeant.
No mistake. That officer spirit was at least first grade.
What kind of person was this little girl, to command a curse that strong and not even be a jujutsu sorcerer?
But when his eyes finally moved to Natsume, his mind went completely blank, as if his thoughts had been forcibly halted.
This guy…
Megumi's pupils tightened to their limit.
…is the same as Gojo-sensei.
From Natsume, he could not feel any measurable cursed energy at all. It was like looking into a bottomless abyss, a silent universe.
Yet that overwhelming pressure, that overwhelming presence, heavy enough to make the air itself feel strained, that absolute presence that made it hard to breathe.
There was no doubt.
That was the unique aura that only someone who stood at the very peak of jujutsu sorcerers, someone worthy of being called the strongest.
A special grade sorcerer.
The boy who looked no more than seventeen or eighteen, was actually the real thing.