The year that followed the death of Riko Amanai was a quiet, creeping poison.
Jujutsu High returned to a semblance of normalcy on the surface. Classes were held, missions were assigned, and the seasons turned. But for those of us at the heart of the storm, the world had been fractured into a "before" and an "after." The laughter that once filled the hallways between our dorm rooms was gone, replaced by a heavy, oppressive silence. Our trio was dead; in its place were three individuals orbiting a shared trauma, each locked in their own private prison.
Satoru became a ghost. His newfound power made him the clan's and the school's ultimate weapon, and they used him relentlessly. He was sent on mission after solo mission, exorcising special-grade curses and resolving situations that would have taken a team of Grade 1 sorcerers weeks to handle. He completed them all with a terrifying, almost casual, efficiency. The few times he was actually at the school, he was a stranger. The warm, infuriatingly chaotic brother I knew was buried beneath layers of divine power and a chilling, untouchable calm. He'd watch my training from a distance, his Six Eyes analyzing my progress with the detached air of an engineer checking a machine's performance. The wall he had promised to build was complete, and he was living on the other side of it.
Shoko became the weary anchor. She threw herself into her studies, her infirmary becoming her fortress. She was the only one who could speak to both Satoru and Geto without the air becoming completely suffocating. She'd bring me snacks, check my progress with Reverse Cursed Technique, and sigh, a deep, tired sound that held all the words she couldn't say. She was the chronicler of our slow decay.
And Geto… Geto was fading.
He lost weight, his already lean frame becoming gaunt. Dark circles became permanent fixtures under his eyes. He still fulfilled his missions, still consumed curses, but the pride and purpose were gone, replaced by a grim, mechanical sense of duty. The smile he occasionally offered was a hollow, brittle thing. I would see him sometimes, after a mission, his hand over his mouth as he choked back the metaphorical and literal taste of the curses he'd swallowed. The disgust on his face was no longer just for the taste; it was for the non-sorcerers—the "monkeys"—who created them. His ideology was hardening, the poison taking root.
My own life became a lonely, monastic routine. My mornings with Geto were a thing of the past. My afternoons with Shoko were somber and quiet. My evenings with Satoru were now just… evenings. I trained alone, for hours on end. The experience of dying had left an indelible mark on me, a constant, low-level hum of terror that could only be silenced by pushing myself to the absolute limit.
My control over Reverse Cursed Technique grew from a desperate spark into a small, manageable flame. I could heal minor cuts and bruises on myself, though anything more still required immense concentration. My focus shifted to my Innate Technique, [Emptiness]. Guided by Satoru's few, clinical instructions during his brief visits, I began to codify its applications.
The defensive intangibility, I called White. It was a shield of conceptual non-existence.
The offensive erasure, I called Black. It was the touch of the absolute void.
I spent countless hours trying to master White, to make a part of myself phase through a falling leaf without draining all my energy. I practiced Black on training dummies, not with brute force anymore, but with the surgical precision my Stygian Eyes afforded me, targeting a single "point of death" to unravel the whole. I was getting stronger. But my reasons for doing so had changed. It was no longer about a vague sense of survival. It was about the gnawing certainty that another, greater tragedy was coming, and this time, I refused to be helpless.
A year passed. A year of silence and distance. Satoru and Geto were now seventeen, on the cusp of graduation. I was seven.
The catalyst came on a sweltering summer day. Satoru had just returned from a mission involving a dispute with the Zen'in clan. He appeared in the training grounds where I was practicing, his mood darker and more volatile than usual.
"Arrogant, power-hungry fossils," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "They treat their own children like tools, bartering over Cursed Techniques like they're trading cattle. It's pathetic."
He watched me for a moment, his gaze distant. The mention of the Zen'in clan, of children being treated like property, had clearly triggered something. It had unearthed a memory he had buried under a year of solo missions and god-like isolation. The final words of Toji Fushiguro.
He looked at me, a decision solidifying in his brilliant blue eyes. "Aki. I'm going to check something out. Come with me."
My heart skipped a beat. This was unusual. He rarely asked me to join him on anything anymore. "Where are we going?"
"To see a kid," he said, his tone flat. "The man I killed… Toji Fushiguro… he had a son. He's about your age. I'm going to see what the Zen'in clan has planned for him."
Megumi.
A jolt of adrenaline shot through me, clearing the haze of my monotonous training. This was it. The next major event. The first step on a new path.
"I want to come," I said immediately, my voice firm.
Satoru nodded, as if he expected no other answer. In the year since the incident, he had become intensely, almost suffocatingly, protective. The thought of letting me out of his sight, especially when dealing with something related to his greatest failure, was likely unacceptable to him. "Fine. But you stay close."
The elementary school was a world away from Jujutsu High. It was loud, bright, and teeming with the chaotic, mundane energy of normal children. Satoru, with his towering height and overwhelming presence, drew stares as we walked through the gates. I, a small, quiet girl with black hair and crimson eyes, clutching his hand, only added to the strangeness of the picture.
We found him easily. He was in his first-grade classroom, sitting alone at his desk while the other children chattered and played. Megumi Fushiguro. He had spiky black hair that seemed to defy gravity and dark green eyes that held a stoic, defensive gravity far beyond his years. He looked up as we entered, his expression immediately wary.
The teacher tried to intervene, but a quiet word and a look from Satoru sent her scurrying away. Satoru pulled up a child-sized chair and sat opposite Megumi, the piece of furniture groaning under his weight. I stood quietly by Satoru's side, a silent observer.
"Fushiguro Megumi, right?" Satoru began, dispensing with any and all pleasantries. "I have some things to tell you about your father."
Megumi's expression didn't change, but his small hands clenched into fists on his desk.
"First off, he's gone. I killed him," Satoru said, his voice devoid of malice or apology. It was a fact. The sky is blue, water is wet, I killed your dad. "Second, he had a massive amount of debt. Third, he made a deal to sell you to the Zen'in clan. They'll be coming for you soon, probably once your Cursed Technique manifests."
He laid out these life-shattering truths with the blunt force of a demolition crew. I watched Megumi, expecting him to cry, to scream, to do something. He did nothing. He just sat there, absorbing the blows, his stoicism a shield against a world that had clearly already taught him not to expect kindness.
"What do you want?" Megumi asked finally, his voice small but steady.
Satoru leaned forward. "I took care of things. The Zen'in clan won't be getting you. I'm here to ask you what you want. I'll support you, take care of you and your sister. But it's your choice."
Megumi was silent for a long time. He looked at Satoru, then his gaze drifted to me. Our eyes met. Red on green (i used the manga). I saw a flicker of something in his guarded expression—not fear, but a weary recognition. He was looking at someone else who didn't fit, someone who stood in the shadow of an overwhelming adult.
I gave him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
He looked back at Satoru. "I don't care what happens to me," he said, his voice resolute. "But if you can guarantee that my sister, Tsumiki, will have a good and happy life… then I'll do it. I'll go with you."
The sheer selflessness of his answer struck me dumb. This little boy, who had just been told his father was dead and that he had been sold like an object, was only concerned with the happiness of his stepsister. It was a moment of profound goodness in the ugly, selfish world of jujutsu.
"He's right, Satoru-nii," I said softly, finding my voice. "Tsumiki-san has to be happy, too. That's the most important part."
Satoru looked at me, then back at the fierce, determined little boy in front of him. A genuine, warm smile—the first I had seen from him in a year—touched his lips. It was a faint echo of the old Satoru, a momentary break in the clouds of his godhood.
"Deal," Satoru said, his voice lighter than it had been all year. "I'll take care of everything. The Zen'in clan won't lay a hand on either of you. You have my word."
He stood up, the small chair creaking in relief. A new pact had been forged. A new family, born from the ashes of the old one, was taking its first, shaky steps.
I walked over to Megumi's desk. While Satoru was finalizing things, I reached into the pocket of my dress and pulled out a small, strawberry-flavored candy I'd been saving. I placed it on his desk without a word.
He looked at the candy, then up at me, a silent question in his eyes.
I just offered him a small, quiet smile.
Looking at Megumi Fushiguro, at his fierce loyalty and his unwilling entrance into my dark world, I felt a flicker of something I hadn't felt since that day on the beach in Okinawa. It was hope. The old world, the world of the inseparable trio, had ended in fire and blood. But maybe, just maybe, the new one didn't have to be a complete tragedy. A new story was beginning. And this time, I had a friend to face it with.