Timeframe: Day after Kyoto arrival
Location: Kyoto Jujutsu Tech, outskirts
The early morning haze clung to the temple roofs, fog rolling like slow breath over the cold stone.
Akira stood in the middle of the training field, breath misting as he faced down three Kyoto second-years.
Miwa held a wooden blade, stance defensive. Kamo stood still with one hand already blood-stained. A third figure, a lanky boy named Inomaki Renji — a relative of Toge from Tokyo — stood quietly behind, curse mark across his throat faintly glowing.
"Non-lethal only," Gakuganji's voice rasped from the upper balcony. "If he activates his technique, you're cleared to suppress."
Akira didn't flinch. Suppress. That meant hurt him until he stayed down.
Kamo raised a brow. "You've been silent this whole time. Nervous?"
"No," Akira said, calm.
Miwa exhaled. "Can we not make this a bloodbath?"
Too late.
Kamo struck first, blood arcing from his palm like a lash. Akira slid sideways, dodging barely — then felt his foot sink. The ground had shifted — a hidden blood marker. His ankle locked with cursed weight.
He read my movement instantly…
"Restrain," Inomaki said sharply, his throat lighting up — his cursed command rooting Akira's legs even harder in place.
Miwa moved in fast, blade swinging for his shoulder.
But Akira didn't dodge.
He rewound.
"Let this second shatter."
A flash. The second unraveled. All three attackers blinked — Akira was already gone from the snare, standing five feet away, curse energy rippling in thin streaks.
Kamo's eye twitched. "He used it. That's strike one."
"Again," Gakuganji barked.
Akira's chest rose and fell. His technique was still raw — every activation burned his skin a little.
They attacked again, and again.
Three sessions.
Four loops.
Five headaches pounding like drums inside his skull.
By the end of it, Akira had rewound time six times — enough for his vision to begin ghosting. On the sixth reset, Miwa's movements flickered like static, and the ground beneath him felt out of sync.
He didn't even wait for the next strike.
He dropped to one knee, vomiting bile onto the dirt.
Kamo stopped mid-strike.
"Hey," Miwa said, stepping forward, concerned. "That's enough!"
But the handler — silent, always watching from the sidelines — raised a hand. "He's not done."
Akira wiped his mouth. "Yes I am."
He stood slowly, wiping the blood from his nose.
"I'm not a punching bag for the board."
The handler walked closer. The man's name was Kido Sougen, a retired Grade 1 with scars on every visible inch of skin — and not the cool kind. Bite marks. Curse burns. His voice was always calm, but cruel.
"You're not being tested for combat," Kido said. "You're being measured for containment."
Akira stared back. "Then measure this."
He didn't activate his technique.
He just walked off.
Miwa jogged after him. "You okay?"
"No."
She kept pace anyway.
Akira's eyes flicked upward. Clouds began to gather — an unnatural swirling over the edge of the forest.
"...Echo," he whispered.
"What?"
He stopped.
There, just above the tree line — barely visible unless you knew what to look for — stood a figure on a branch.
Same hair. Same build. Same eyes.
But it didn't breathe.
Didn't blink.
Didn't move.
It just watched.
Akira squinted.
The figure lifted its hand — mimicked the anchor sign — then turned, stepping backward into thin air like it never existed.
Miwa gasped. "Did you… see that?"
Akira nodded once. "Yeah."
She looked at him, uneasy. "Was that…"
"One of me," he said softly.
Back in his room that night, Akira sat with his back against the wall, lights off.
He replayed every move from the fight, trying to remember which second he'd looped last — but the memories began overlapping. Miwa's sword struck and didn't. Kamo's blood hit and missed.
And that echo…
It hadn't moved like a memory.
It had chosen to appear.
They're gaining autonomy, he thought. I'm not rewinding anymore. I'm… branching.
His hand trembled slightly.
What happens when one of them doesn't want to come back?
He looked over at the stack of scrolls beside his bed — reading materials from the Kyoto archives. The top scroll was unmarked, sealed in red wax.
He hadn't opened it yet.
He would. Tomorrow.
Tonight, he just stared out the window, heart ticking faster than the clock.
Down the path behind the compound, between flickering lamp posts — stood another Akira.
This one smiled.
Then vanished.