Naoya Zenin sped toward the Tokyo Jujutsu Archive without a moment's hesitation.
Three Curse Users and one assistant.
Plus a driver.
Five bodies in total—renting a van had been the only practical option.
"Mr. Naoya, what exactly are these for?"
The speaker was a baby-faced man who could have passed for a middle-schooler.
Zenin Ranta.
A member of the Zenin Clan's elite strike force—Unit 兵—trained Jujutsu Sorcerers who took black-ops contracts.
Seated opposite him, Naoya answered with a shrug.
"No need for you to know. Hell, I don't really know myself."
"Wait, even you don't?"
"Right. I'm just the delivery boy. Even if I explained it, you wouldn't get it."
A power system completely separate from jujutsu.
Energy that felt like it belonged to an entirely different universe—how could he hope to comprehend it?
Naoya revered Kandok; following orders was enough.
And Kandok was never the type to offer explanations.
Ranta looked puzzled, but wisely shut his mouth.
Orders from the top were orders from the top.
"We've arrived."
The driver's flat voice announced the end of the ride.
Outside the window, the countryside outskirts of Tokyo surrounded the Archive's old compound.
"Stay put out here until Ranta and I get back," Naoya said.
"Understood. Do you need help unloading—?"
"We'll handle the freight. Just watch the van and don't do anything stupid."
Naoya slid the door open and stepped out.
He hoisted one unconscious Curse User over each shoulder.
Two bodies, trussed up tight.
They'd been dosed to stay out cold for at least ten hours.
'First time seeing the Tokyo Archive in person.'
Ranta climbed the stairs behind him, glancing around like a tourist.
He'd visited the Kyoto branch before, but never the Tokyo facility.
"Yo, long time no see."
Partway across the courtyard, a familiar silhouette blocked their path.
Snow-white hair. Black blindfold.
Gojo Satoru, now a fully grown young man, smiled lazily.
"Satoru, my man! Been a while," Naoya greeted, beaming.
His arrogance might have mellowed, but his love of strong opponents hadn't.
Gojo, however, found the sudden chumminess vaguely nauseating.
—Satoru, if someone's being friendly, don't bark or puke on them.
—Yeah, yeah. I'm not a kid anymore.
The memory of that conversation with Geto brushed his mind—a sign he really had grown up.
Back when Geto had fallen and become a Curse User, the shock had cracked Gojo's worldview open. This time, with Geto still at his side, he kept his cool.
"Heard you needed disposable Curse Users." Gojo nodded at the bodies.
"Ah, so my brother filled you in. Yup—important job, though I don't know the details."
Naoya lowered his cargo to the ground and grinned.
Ranta mimicked him, placing his own captive beside the first two.
One blond, two with black hair—all men.
"Looks like we've got guests," another voice called.
A young man with an asymmetrical fringe approached—Geto Suguru, matured and wearing a black teaching uniform instead of monk robes.
"Suguru, too? What are the odds?" Naoya's eyes widened. Gathering multiple Special Grades in one spot was no small feat.
"Pure coincidence," Geto said with an easy smile. "Satoru's on downtime after a mission. I'm faculty now, so I'm usually on standby."
Since both knew Kandok, hostility was pointless.
"Right, you're a teacher these days. Suits your gentle nature," Naoya chuckled.
"Appreciated. By the way, is Mr. Kandok with you? I got word he was coming."
"He'll be along soon. I just got here first."
While the two chatted, Gojo slipped off his blindfold and scanned Naoya head to toe.
The flow of Cursed Energy, the lattice of technique—each time he looked, Naoya felt more refined.
Today was no exception; he could see right down to the percentage of mastery.
"You've deepened your Technique comprehension again, huh?"
"Huh? How did—"
Naoya cut himself off, then nodded. Those azure eyes that traced every current of Cursed Energy were answer enough.
"Seriously, your Six Eyes are busted. Yeah, I finally nailed a [Domain Expansion] the other day."
"A Domain?"
Geto couldn't help interrupting. Mastering the pinnacle of jujutsu was no small news—there were only a handful alive who could deploy one.
"Took me years, but I managed," Naoya admitted.
"Impressive. Only a few years?"
"Still miles behind Satoru. And what about you, Suguru?"
Geto's lips twisted in a rueful smile.
He'd formed the blueprint, but the house stood empty. One last step—embedding a Technique into the Domain—kept tripping him up.
"Embarrassing, but the final layer—the Technique to bind into the Domain—won't settle."
"Ah…"
Naoya's face clouded; even he knew how to feel sorry.
"Shouldn't have brought it up. My bad."
"No apology needed. [Cursed Spirit Manipulation] is versatile but awkward for a Domain. I summon in bulk already; pouring extra energy into a Domain feels wasteful."
"Makes sense," Naoya mused. "At best you'd get guaranteed hits from the spirits—hardly worth the cost."
"Exactly. Still, for completeness' sake I may settle for a 'good enough' Domain someday." Geto sighed.
"Thoughts, Satoru?"
Gojo scratched his head. "Same. Doesn't seem worth it unless you discover a fresh angle."
The three of them folded their arms, brains whirring—until footsteps broke the huddle.
I entered the courtyard, flanked by Koyanskaya of Light and the silent, unsettling Ushi-Gozen.
The sight of Gojo, Geto, and Naoya standing shoulder to shoulder was somehow surreal.
"Looks like the gang's all here."
"Yo, you made it," Gojo answered for the trio. Even Geto and Naoya managed welcoming smiles.
"Why the gloomy faces? Heavy conversation?"
"Just pondering Suguru's Domain troubles," Gojo said.
"Mr. Geto's Domain, huh?" I frowned. Turning a massive summon spell into a Domain was theoretically possible, but the risk of Technique burnout after the fact…
Before the debate spiraled, Geto cleared his throat. "Ahem! Shouldn't we discuss how we're handling these?" He shot a nervous glance behind me.
Right—Koyanskaya's smile was all teeth, and Ushi-Gozen's lack of one was even scarier. Time to move.
"Indeed. First, I'll need the Cursed Womb: Death Paintings you've got in storage."
Their eyes widened in unison. Gotcha.
"Hold up—you want Special Grade cursed objects? Why?" Gojo asked first, predictably.
"To recruit them. Better they fight beside us than gather dust."
"That's your whole reason?"
"Plenty, isn't it? Also gives us leverage against the higher-ups."
Gojo's gaze sharpened. The elders had likely colluded with Mahito's clique of Special Grade spirits—purging them wasn't reform; it was house-cleaning.
"Not a bad angle. What about the principal?"
"Told him to blame it on my 'threats.' He's nursing a migraine, but it can't be helped."
"Fair. No one can stop you when you dig in," Gojo sighed—truth spoken without ego.
Even the strongest modern sorcerer would struggle against our group.
"Sorry for twisting arms, but Mahito's too dangerous for a normal civilian like me."
"Civilian, my ass," Gojo muttered, frowning.
Technically, he wasn't wrong—I couldn't use Jujutsu or Magecraft. By the world's metrics, I was a civilian.
"Still… something about you feels different," he said softly.
"Me?"
"Yeah. Colors look denser. Can't pin it down because—well, can't see you—but it's not malicious. Mahito's Technique hits hard and fast, not slow-burn."
That was reassuring. "Good to know. Shall we fetch the artifacts?"
"I'll grab them. The security sorcerers guarding the vault leave a nice energy trail."
Gojo launched skyward.
The Archive contained over a thousand enchanted doors, but only one led to the vault. For anyone else it was a needle in a haystack; for the Six Eyes, child's play.
"Back," he announced about ten minutes later, slinging a cross-body bag.
"Every Cursed Womb: Death Painting, volumes one through three separated as you asked."
"Thanks. Hand over the Special Grades, please."
"You got it."
He produced a sealed jar—an eerie fetus floating inside like a specimen in formaldehyde.
All I had to do was feed these to the Curse Users.
Their 'rebirth' would handle itself.
The manifestation might differ from the manga—but we'd see soon enough.
I knelt beside the unconscious prisoner.
First up: number one, Choso.
'Wait, that face…'
The man on the ground was Shigemo Haruta—canon's pathetic trash of a Curse User.
Perfect.
No pangs of conscience feeding him a Death Painting. In fact, I couldn't wait.
'Bon appétit.'
I pried Shigemo's jaw open and slid Choso's jar between his teeth.
Gulp.
Forced swallowing complete, I stepped back to watch the show.
Crunch—crack!
Exactly as predicted, Shigemo's body began to metamorphose at once.