The sea was restless that night. Waves slapped against the sides of the small boat as it pushed through the dark waters. Arata stood at the bow, his calm eyes fixed on the shadow rising in the distance.
Hashima Island.
Also called Gunkanjima—the Battleship Island. Once alive with miners and families, now nothing but a skeleton of what it had been.
Concrete blocks rose out of the sea like jagged teeth, broken windows staring out like hollow eyes. Rusted steel beams stuck out at strange angles, and the collapsed buildings looked ready to swallow anyone who dared step inside. Even from the boat, the place gave off a suffocating air.
Arata breathed slowly, letting the salty wind brush against his face. He had heard about this place in history books and old news clips. But standing here now, seeing the ruins in person, it felt different. Alive in a dead way. Like the island itself was watching him.
The fisherman steering the boat cleared his throat nervously. "Y-you're really getting off here? Alone?"
"Yes," Arata answered simply.
The man hesitated, looking back at the ruins. "You… be careful. People say strange things happen here at night."
Arata gave a small nod. He wasn't about to explain curses or Jujutsu society. The less this man knew, the safer he'd be.
The boat scraped against a cracked concrete pier. Arata stepped off, boots landing lightly on the weathered surface. Behind him, the fisherman quickly pushed the boat back.
"I'll wait offshore," the man said. "Shout if you need pickup."
"Understood," Arata replied.
The boat drifted away, leaving him alone with the ruins.
Arata took his first steps deeper into the island.
Every sound carried too far—the crunch of gravel under his feet, the whistle of the sea breeze between broken walls, the faint groan of rusted steel shifting somewhere high above.
The air smelled of salt, dust, and something faintly rotten.
He passed by rows of empty apartments, their walls cracked and floors scattered with old debris. Faded posters clung stubbornly to some walls, half-torn and water-stained. The faces on them were long gone, leaving only blank outlines.
Arata's eyes scanned everything carefully. He wasn't just walking blindly. The mission details still echoed in his head.
Foreigners had been kidnapped. Rogue sorcerers involved. And now, silence from the team sent before him.
Something about it didn't sit right. Kidnapping wasn't usually the work of curse users, unless they were baiting someone.
His cursed energy stirred faintly, spreading out like a soft wave. The sensation brushed against the walls, the ground, the air itself. It came back to him carrying echoes—dark, distorted traces.
There had been fighting here. Recently.
Arata stopped at the entrance of a wide courtyard between the buildings. The cracked pavement stretched out like a scar, weeds poking through. Scattered around the courtyard were marks that didn't belong to time—deep gashes carved into the stone, as if claws or blades had torn through it.
His hand flexed unconsciously. That wasn't the work of ordinary humans.
He crouched down, brushing his fingers against the cracks. The cursed energy residue was faint, but heavy. It clung to the ground like tar, making his skin prickle.
"A curse," Arata muttered softly.
The thought lingered in his mind, heavy.
If there was a special grade curse involved, it explained the missing escorts. And it meant the foreigners were in far greater danger than anyone had thought.
He stood and continued forward, moving slower now. His senses stayed sharp, every nerve alert.
The island seemed endless as he walked through its abandoned streets. Buildings leaned toward each other like broken ribs. Entire rooftops had caved in. Rusted rebar curled out like skeletal fingers.
The silence wasn't complete. Occasionally, a pipe dripped somewhere. A loose shutter creaked in the wind. Once, he thought he heard faint footsteps behind him—but when he turned, there was nothing.
The air pressed down heavier the deeper he went.
Finally, he stopped in front of a school building. Its windows were shattered, glass crunching under his boots as he stepped inside. The halls smelled of mildew and sea air. Children's desks were still scattered in some rooms, coated in decades of dust.
But on the chalkboard of one classroom, fresh marks had been drawn—a strange cursed symbol scrawled in jagged lines.
Arata's eyes narrowed. So they're using this place…
The mark pulsed faintly with cursed energy. He didn't need to touch it to know. Someone had been here, setting up something bigger.
Outside again, Arata climbed a set of cracked stairs that led to the higher levels. From there, he could see across the island. The moonlight revealed more destruction—entire walls blackened, as if scorched by some unnatural blast.
And then, faintly, he saw it.
Movement.
A small group of figures slipping between the ruins ahead.
Arata's calm eyes followed them.
He didn't rush forward. Not yet. He knew better. First, he needed to confirm who they were. Rogue sorcerers, kidnappers, maybe even bait. Charging blindly would be reckless.
He crouched low, letting the shadows cover him as he followed at a distance.
The figures moved nervously, whispering to each other. Even from afar, he could see it—they weren't confident. They kept glancing over their shoulders, flinching at every creak of the ruins.
Arata's suspicion grew.
They didn't look like masterminds.
They looked like pawns.
The wind picked up, carrying a faint groan through the hollow buildings. Arata's eyes lingered on the broken skyline, the moon caught between jagged towers.
Hashima Island wasn't just a dead place.
It was waiting.