KENJAKU
The Kamo clan, just like the Zenin and the Gojo, was built on a wide stretch of property outside the city limits. A sprawling, small, contained city that had everything most of its members needed, which only helped to foster inclusivity. Where the Kamo clan differed was in the way they treated blood purity. It was a scathing standard that not even the Gojo and the Zenin could bother to keep up with.
Those standards were only slightly ever relaxed when the clan was in need of fresh blood, because they, more than any other, understood the detriments of too much inbreeding, and yet even with that, their hubris, arrogance, and pride ensured that whichever unfortunate man or woman that married into the prestigious clan did not last very long, especially once they had done their duty and produced children. The smart ones left, and the more... bullheaded ones faced accidents that saw them in graves.
It was that rigid blood standard of the clan, that uptight, meticulous curation of blood, genealogy, and its nuances, that ensured his rise and his new position.
"Greetings, clan head."
The two men at the entrance of the Torii gates that led into the clan called out with fervor, giving submissive bows at his presence, and not straightening up till he was past them, having not even paid them a glance as he continued to stride forward, like a steam train with no brakes.
The Kamo clan's arrogance and manic belief in blood superiority had brought about their hubris and led to his ability to reclaim the title of the clan head, right after the original clan head had suffered a clinical case of death. One of the highlights of living in such a clan was that even strange deaths, such as the rupture of the internals, as well as the explosion of the five sense organs, were treated as an accident as long as there was no real suspect.
Of course, that had not been all. There had been some political maneuvering and manipulation as well. A random spree of accidents that led three stubborn clan elders to suffer the same fate as the clan head they had followed with an almost religious reverence for the purity of his blood; then, when the clan was in disarray, a fact they had hidden from the rest of the world in the confusion that had followed post-Sukuna's destruction of Shibuya, Kenjaku had stepped in.
He continued his stride, walking down a paved road older than most living members of the clan. Ancient memory led his walk and carried his feet past cabanas, small estates, an outside sauna, a dozen-score bowed and respectful maids, and a couple of clan members who were just as quick to show humility and respect to the new clan head.
With the loss of so many elders and the clan leader, the Clan heir had stepped up, a witless child, one of the offspring of a particularly smart fresh blood that had left the clan as soon as she saw the writing on the wall, and the previous clan head himself. Apparently, some of the elders that had suffered the unfortunate accidents of turning into craters in the ground with ruptured internal organs had been some of the conservative elders that had stood in the boy's path. With them gone, he had cleaned up and stepped up to take his father's position, then Kenjaku entered.
The memory was one that brought a smile to his lips every time he remembered it. It had been one of the few times he had changed his garments, ditching Geto's monk robes for a more traditional kimono, black kimono on black hakama with a delicately stitched pattern across the two halves, done with the dried blood of its owner. A style that had been more common in the Zenin clan a hundred and fifty years ago. A kimono that clan paintings from that era would show belonged to a previous clan head.
He had strode into the same meeting room, much as he was doing today, and revealed his identity as Noritoshi Kamo, the 25th clan head of the Kamo Clan during the Meiji Era. There was doubt, there was disbelief, but at the end of the day, he proved to them through the one thing they held above all: he stamped his identity with the power of his blood manipulation.
Once that had been verified, it was disgustingly easy to reveal secrets and acts that had happened one hundred and fifty years ago, things that no other person knew other than the ancient woman that served as the clan's historian. He revealed secrets and knowledge of Blood Manipulation that had led to something of a revolution as, suddenly, he became an aspirant for the clan head.
The heir had fought him with words at first, had argued against his return, citing his acts, his supposed crimes, the experiments and the creation of the Cursed Womb: Death Paintings that had led to his exile and disappearance, but he had shrugged it off. A hundred and fifty years away was more than enough of a sentence, and now, in his clan's most trying time, he had returned, for while the rest of the world had simply remembered him as Noritoshi Kamo, the most reviled sorcerer in history, the Kamo clan remembered him as something more than the sin that had led to his exile. They remembered him as Noritoshi Kamo, the strongest sorcerer the Kamo clan had ever produced.
The boy had seen the tide turning, his support base fracturing and his rhetoric failing, and had challenged him to a fight for the title in a desperate bid to stop him from taking control. Noritoshi Kamo vs. Noritoshi Kamo. His name had been a reviled one after his disappearance, so for a boy bearing the same name to face him a hundred and fifty years later... Kenjaku had not been blind to the irony of fate, a somewhat cruel mistress he had grown familiar with after learning of how Tengen had tied him, her, and the birth of the Six Eyes and Limitless together.
The fight that had followed was quick and brutal. The boy was good. His technique usage showed a creativity most clan members lacked. His hand-to-hand was passable, and perhaps if he was facing any other member of the Kamo clan, he would've won. Unfortunately for him, he was facing Kenjaku.
Even with a self-imposed restriction to the usage of Blood Manipulation only, his skill and refinement of the technique meant he simply did everything better than the boy. He had dismantled him in a minute and left his unconscious body on the ground, but not before using hardened blood to cut his hair, the traditional wrapped hair that signified his position as the clan heir.
He had spared the boy, deeming him inconsequential at the end, and that was the sole reason he was here once more, because the boy had decided to be anything but. His feet came to a stop at the outside of the meeting room, and he looked down his nose at the sorcerers that stood before the door.
He could see the change that had happened, in their barely disguised fear, in the tremor of their limbs, in the tightness of their muscles, in the balled-up fists that they held tight at their sides, in the way they stood in front of the doors as guards, but most importantly, in the way they stood before him without the reverence and the courtesy and bow that followed the sight of a clan head.
Kenjaku felt a smile cross his lips.
One of them finally took a step forward, hand raised, and moved to speak.
"N-Noritoshi-sama. The elders are in a meeting, and alongside—"
He did not bother to hear the rest of the treacherous words that were to follow. He simply raised a hand up to forestall their words, then his smile widened, and with a tilt of his head to the side, he swung the hand down in a vicious motion, activating Kaori Itadori's technique with the gesture, and an instant later, the two men were twitching and broken, their bodies twisted and grotesquely squeezed, organs rupturing and exploding as gravity multiplied a hundredfold where they stood, turning the ground into craters.
Kenjaku waved away the dust that followed, then continued his stride forward. Then he pushed against the door, his hands leaving prints from where his palms touched the blood-stained doors. The doors opened on oiled hinges to reveal a gathering of thirteen elders and one young boy. One Noritoshi Kamo.
"Treachery, is it?"
Kenjaku questioned as he took his first step into the dimly lit room. The atmosphere changed in an instant, and he could almost feel the near-physical wave of animosity. It seemed like the boy had somehow, above all expectations, managed to turn a good amount of the elders against him.
"It is not treachery when it is against a fraud and an usurper." The boy said, standing up to him, and Kenjaku thought about a dozen and one ways to convince them once more: bribery, intimidation, cajoling, and yet, as he looked at the weathered faces of the old men present, he let out a sigh before coming to a stop on the boy. In the end, he didn't have the time for this, so he made a decision as he closed the doors behind him. Perhaps it was time to take a note out of the Divine General's book.
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Kenjaku stood alone. The only living man in a room of the dead.
A simple glance around showed proof of the just-concluded bout of contained violence. Still-wet blood, thick and viscous, painted the old wood a dark red that would not fully dry for hours yet, and the thirteen elders were arranged across the floor in the various postures their final moments had left them in.
Kenjaku's eyes wandered to the boy, Noritoshi Kamo. His dead body imprinted into the wall at the far end of the room where he had made his last stand, and Kenjaku looked at him with some degree of respect. If the boy had been allowed to grow, say ten, twenty years, he would've grown to be something more entertaining.
He had been capable, in the end. More capable than the brief fight for clan leadership had suggested. It showed he had learned from their previous bout. He was not quite a genius like Gojo Satoru or Okkotsu Yuta were, but he was a far cry above the dregs that filled the clan he led.
Kenjaku shook his head at the mess, but there was no regret or second thought. His influence over the higher-ups had been rendered useless by the Divine General's massacre, now the Kamo was the last institutional lever he had, the last formal channel through which he could move resources and information.
He looked around the room one more time, then he turned and walked out.
The fight had not been quiet, and the moment he stepped out, he was greeted by over a hundred people. Elders, servants, clan members and a plethora of people. They glanced at him, and at the blood-strewn room he walked from, and bowed a heartbeat later, in fear and reverence.
He did not bother to acknowledge the bows. He walked past them, his feet carrying him to his quarters. He cleaned methodically. It would've been faster to use his technique, but there was something about a good, hot, refreshing soak that simply manipulating blood from his body didn't quite match up to.
The room was quiet when he stepped out of the bathroom, which made the sound sound louder than it had to be. Kenjaku froze on the spot, his long black hair flowing like a curtain across his back, as dark eyes watched for an attack, and when none came, he turned to where the sound originated.
A shelf on the wall that held statues, each one carved from stone that had been treated with rituals that were better left uncalled, and each one tied with red threads. There were over five hundred of them, and some of them were broken, their strings and threads cut. The statues represented everyone he had created a contract with, and the broken ones signified the dead sorcerers, yet the sound he had heard was not a familiar one.
His eyes searched across the statues till he found it. The statue was just as androgynous as the rest, a simple clay effigy, but unlike the rest of the broken statues, it had not simply shattered to signify the death of the person it was bound to. Instead, there was a cut. A clean, straight cut that bisected the statue into two equal parts.
He searched his memories for the identity of the statue, and his eyes widened slightly the moment he realized the owner. Yoruzu, Sukuna's one-sided lover. He had a suspicion. He had not forgotten the Shikigami, or Uraume's words. Kenjaku looked at the statue for a long moment.
Then he turned away. Things were getting fun.
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NANAMI
The meeting room of the interim council was the same chamber that the higher-ups had used for their last and final meeting.
Usami had originally suggested they change it, but Principal Yaga had argued against it, and Utahime had supported him. His reasoning was obvious. Despite the fact that the room had been cleaned, the blood scrubbed, furniture replaced, and the floors and windows fixed, there was a certain air in the room.
A certain cursed energy residual that ensured that nobody would forget that night. It was a reminder and a warning to themselves, on the burden that came with their regime change. The only difference was in the lighting. Unlike the manufactured dark the elders had preferred, the current room was brightly lit. The light came from wide-open windows all around.
Nanami sat with his hands folded on the round table and looked at the faces around it.
Usami, still dressed in his formal robes, was the closest example of the type of people that had been here before the Divine General decided on retribution and slaughter. Principal Yaga sat upright, features stern and hidden behind his shades. Nanami found himself wondering about his suspended execution. Principal Gakuganji had a twisted expression on his aged and weathered features, the weight of his unsaid words and complaints tightening said features. Mei Mei, the money-hungry woman with a shark-like grin.
The Gojo elder, Arata, was present as well. The older man had been begged to return, the only actual person with experience in the role. The new head shrine maiden sat beside him, eyes closed. Apparently, her predecessor had been the only one to see the sign on the wall and had ensured her successor was kept out of things, guaranteeing she survived the massacre. Utahime sat beside her, the scarred woman nervous. There were six other representatives of the Zenin and Kamo clans, yet compared to the already mentioned names, they might as well not exist.
Nanami zoned back in as voices rose. He resisted the urge to scratch at his missing eye and the bandage that covered it. Instead, he focused on the new topic being discussed. An upheaval in Jujutsu regulations, because despite the Culling Games and Shibuya's destruction, bureaucracy moved onward. Nanami knew this better than most as a previous salaryman.
He focused on the topic.
They were discussing the question of what came next, considering the state of Japan. The destruction of Shibuya might be the most massive breach their society had ever experienced, but Nanami had come to learn that there were institutions in place that could cover up even that. Alongside their connection with the government, it meant they would've had a strong hold on such things.
The explosion of curses that had followed, as well as the Culling Games, put a halt to those plans. Short of brainwashing the entire world, the existence of curses was a secret that was out of the bag, and it was left to them to revise the regulations and pick up the pieces.
Nanami watched Usami and Utahime argue politely over the table, and he was left wondering what Gojo Satoru would think of this room whenever he was released.
A soft smile crossed his lips, but before he could think further, the door opened, revealing a well-muscled young man in a fur jacket, a white singlet, blonde braided hair, and a massive grin.
Hakari Kinji swaggered into the room with the grin of a man who had an idea.
"I heard there were talks about changing things up, now that the elders are dead," the boy said, finding a chair and dropping into it without care for propriety, which, considering why he was suspended in the first place, wasn't much of a surprise. "New rules. Laws. Regulations. New frameworks. All of that."
"Hakari Kinji," Usami said, and Nanami noted the hint of annoyance in his tone. "Unofficial Grade One sorcerer, and a suspended student at Tokyo Metropolitan Jujutsu High." The snake-eyed man gave Nanami a quick glance before returning his eyes to the boy who looked more man than teen. "What are you doing here?"
"I've come to preach the gospel," Hakari replied, leaning forward with the energy of a man with a proposal he was genuinely enthusiastic about. "So. What do you all think about state-sanctioned fight clubs?"
Yaga's face met his palm with an audible sound.
Gakuganji gritted his teeth so hard, Nanami was certain he heard one crack.
Mei Mei and Utahime chuckled.
Gojo Arata looked at the ceiling, and Nanami could almost see him wonder if he should've ever left retirement.
Nanami looked at Hakari, at the absolute sincerity behind the grin, and found himself letting out a laugh. Yes, he had a good enough idea of what Satoru would think when he saw what they had become in his absence.
A/N: Yes, SIRaga is a bad influence.