Two days later.
Tokyo, Shibuya Ward.
The night was as calm as water, with a gentle evening breeze blowing by, yet it couldn't soothe the restless hearts of the people.
A girl who seemed to have stepped right out of a painting crossed the bustling crosswalk and walked along the street, heading deeper into the endless urban sprawl.
The girl had shoulder-length hair that appeared both pink and golden, tied at the back with a bright green ribbon. She wore a white off-shoulder camisole that revealed her smooth, delicate shoulders, paired with black cropped pants that exuded youthful energy.
Though she looked no older than fifteen, her graceful figure drew frequent glances from passersby—her ample chest, slender waist, and long, well-proportioned legs made her as striking as a rose under the night sky.
Yet her expression was icy, and an aura of "keep away" radiated from her, reminding onlookers that this rose had thorns—admiring from afar was fine, but touching was out of the question.
Under the cover of night, the girl wandered through the city as the neon lights gradually faded behind her and the sounds of car horns dissolved into silence.
When she reached a desolate, dilapidated street that looked almost abandoned, she paused, then descended a set of stairs into a narrow alley.
At the end of the alley, where faint neon lights flickered, stood a dimly lit bar.
The bar's entrance was plastered with strange talismans, giving the impression of a fortune-teller's shop at first glance. If word got out, it would likely become a hotspot for students, turning into some kind of urban legend.
Ignoring the talismans, the girl pushed open the wooden door and stepped inside.
The creak of the door echoed as the interior came into view.
It was a small, cramped bar.
A dim yellow light hung from the snow-white ceiling, swaying precariously as if it might come crashing down at the slightest tremor. The few tables were neatly arranged around the space, already occupied by a handful of patrons.
Behind the counter, a man who appeared to be the owner busied himself with a cocktail shaker, his movements smooth and practiced.
Hearing the door open, the bartender glanced toward the entrance, his lips curling into a refined, scholarly smile.
"Welcome. Just one?"
"Yeah."
"What should I call you?"
"Okita Souji is fine."
"Make yourself at home."
The man nodded in understanding, gesturing toward the empty seats with a tilt of his chin.
Okita stepped further into the bar, her cold gaze immediately locking onto the bartender.
Tall, with an air of elegance.
Though he smiled, there was a natural sharpness to his features.
He wore a five-striped kasaya, his black hair tied into a topknot that draped down his back. A line of stitches ran across his forehead, as if his skull had once been pried open.
The way he shook the cocktail shaker was effortlessly stylish, exuding both skill and grace.
'So it's him,' she thought. 'No wonder he's been opposing me.'
Roy, who was sharing Okita's vision, immediately understood upon seeing this man, his doubts clearing up in an instant.
The iconic attire, the strikingly obvious stitches on his forehead—his identity was unmistakable at a single glance.
"Oh my? What a young girl we have here!"
Suddenly, a rough voice echoed through the bar.
Okita turned her head toward the table at the very back of the establishment. A burly middle-aged man sat there, likely nearing forty, his bald head reflecting the dim lighting. His bare upper torso was only covered by a blacksmith's apron, his muscular physique impossible to ignore.
"Little girl, did you lose your mommy? Why not come with uncle? That skin of yours is quite nice—it'd make for excellent furniture. No, a pillow, a body pillow... Yes! How about uncle turns you into a body pillow?"
The middle-aged blacksmith's eyes lit up the moment Okita walked through the door. He eagerly rose from his seat and strode toward her with large steps.
Like a sculptor spotting fine material, he was desperate to showcase his artistic prowess on Okita, his fervor almost palpable.
At the counter, Kenjaku's brows lifted slightly, but he didn't intervene.
The patrons at other tables acted as if nothing was happening—some continued drinking, others scrolled through their phones, their expressions utterly indifferent. Not a single ripple of concern crossed their faces; the scene at the entrance might as well not have existed.
Clang!
In an instant, a metallic ring erupted like thunder.
The scattered patrons suddenly stiffened, their faces twisting into shock and wariness as they turned their gazes toward the girl at the entrance.
The blacksmith's expression froze.
A dazzling flash of steel streaked past his eyes.
The next moment, he watched as the arms he'd been reaching out with cleanly severed at the elbows.
Both forearms hit the ground, blood gushing from the stumps like a broken dam.
"GAAAHHH!"
The blacksmith collapsed to his knees, howling in agony.
Okita sheathed her sword, her face impassive.
"Owner, is this the kind of deranged person you openly allow in your establishment? It's negligence not to have a sign at the door saying 'No dogs or lunatics allowed.'"
"Heh, though his sanity may be questionable, every curse user gathered here has their own unique skills."
Kenjaku's gaze swept over the armless, screaming man, his smile unwavering. Just as he hadn't been concerned for Okita's safety earlier, he now showed no remorse for the blacksmith's loss.
"Miss Okita's swordsmanship is truly astonishing. Even among the masters of ancient times, few could rival such skill. To achieve this level at your age is remarkable indeed."
His eyes lingered on Okita, genuine admiration coloring his expression.
"Consider this drink my apology."
He handed her the freshly mixed cocktail.
Then, stepping away from the counter, he approached the writhing blacksmith, picked up the severed arms from the floor, and reattached them to the stumps.
"Mr. Awasaka, I understand your artistic pursuits, but I hope you can exercise some restraint at this moment. Otherwise—I might also find it hard to hold back."
The scream was abruptly cut short.
For a fleeting moment, Jiro Awasaka saw a malice as ferocious as a demon on her face.
Even for someone like him, long accustomed to turning humans into furniture, his heart skipped a beat, and a chill ran down his spine.
"I... I understand..."
Jiro stood up, shoulders slumped, and trudged back to his seat with a sullen expression, slumping down as if life had lost all meaning.
Okita glanced at the blacksmith.
His arms, severed moments ago, had already been reattached. The blood had stopped spurting, leaving only a faint scar in their place.
In the span of just a few words, Kenjaku had treated his injuries and reconnected the severed limbs.
'Reverse Cursed Technique... He can heal others?'
Cursed energy is power born from negative emotions—negative emotions are stress itself, utterly incapable of healing.
But if you multiply a negative by another negative, you get a positive. By applying this principle to cursed energy, positive energy is created, which can be used to heal oneself or even others.
This is the Reverse Cursed Technique.
Though called a "technique," it's fundamentally just a manipulation of cursed energy. If strengthening the body is considered "reinforcement," then the Reverse Cursed Technique is a form of "inverse sorcery."
The healing effects of the Reverse Cursed Technique vary drastically from person to person. Some can only heal minor cuts, while others can reattach severed limbs, and a rare few can even heal others.
Why such disparities exist remains unanswered to this day.
Unlike regular cursed energy, which flows from the abdomen, reverse cursed energy originates in the brain and spreads throughout the body. The brain's domain remains beyond the reach of modern science.
"But in the entire jujutsu world, only Tokyo Jujutsu High's nurse, Shoko Ieiri, and Yuta Okkotsu can heal others. Can Kenjaku do it too... or is he using some other power?"
Cursed spirits, in theory, cannot possess innate techniques related to healing.
They are fundamentally aggregates of negative cursed energy, while healing falls under the domain of reverse cursed energy. Entities like Mahito manipulate souls—a concept entirely separate from healing.
"Uraume."
Kenjaku frowned at the blood splattered across the floor and called toward the bar's kitchen.
At his summons, a boy around Okita's age emerged from the back. He wore monk-like robes, sported a bob cut, and had an androgynous face as cold as ice.
"What?"
"Clean up the blood. It's unsightly, don't you think?"
"Tch, don't call me for something so trivial."
Uraume clicked his tongue, visibly annoyed.
He raised a finger, and frigid cursed energy surged forth, instantly freezing the blood on the floor. With a crisp crack, it shattered into a fine mist, dissolving into nearly invisible crystalline dust.
Kenjaku opened the door, and a sudden gust of wind swept through, carrying the white mist out of the bar. Before long, all traces of blood had vanished from the interior, leaving only a faint metallic scent lingering in the air.
Watching Uraume stride toward the kitchen with visible irritation, Kenjaku merely chuckled dismissively before turning his gaze to the handful of patrons inside.
The bar wasn't crowded.
Including himself and Uraume, there were only seven people.
The middle-aged blacksmith from earlier sat hunched in a corner, his face etched with boredom.
In another corner, a young man with golden hair tied in a side ponytail stole glances at the newly arrived Okita, his cheeks tinged with a faint blush.
Lastly, there was a grandmother and grandson pair—the grandson sporting a mohawk, looking somewhat dull-witted, while the elderly woman beside him appeared nearly ninety, her hair streaked with white.
"Time's almost up. Seems this is all we'll get," Kenjaku remarked, glancing at the wall clock with a slight sigh, somewhat dissatisfied with the turnout.
But curse users bold enough to oppose Jujutsu High were already few and far between. Most curse users in the country lived under the shadow of jujutsu sorcerers, never daring to step into the light—lest they draw the attention of the higher-ups and face execution.
If it were just ordinary sorcerers hunting them down, the typically unhinged curse users wouldn't be too concerned.
But when the higher-ups got involved, they sent Gojo Satoru.
Gojo was a mountain pressing down on every curse user's back. None dared to oppose him openly. As long as he existed, curse users would forever remain in the shadows, scraping by in the sewers, occasionally taking jobs to survive before erasing all traces and fleeing with their tails between their legs.
"Geto Suguru… I truly never expected you to still be alive," the elderly woman—nearly ninety—spoke up from her seat, casting a contemplative look at Kenjaku.
"Back when you, a special-grade curse user, were at the forefront, we could afford to live lavishly. But ever since you faked your death last year, the curse user world has been stagnant. Everyone's been too afraid of Gojo Satoru to breathe. If you were alive, why not spread the word sooner?"
Ogami's face was thick with displeasure.