Training Ground Three was the smallest of the campus facilities—a simple dirt circle surrounded by trees, far enough from the main buildings that destructive techniques wouldn't cause collateral damage. It was also the quietest, the most private.
Yuji was already there when Akira arrived, stretching in the center of the circle. He'd changed into training clothes—simple black pants and a sleeveless shirt that showed the definition in his arms. Physical conditioning that went beyond normal human limits, courtesy of housing Sukuna.
He looked up when Akira approached and grinned. "Right on time. How'd the exam go?"
Akira considered lying. Considered saying "fine" and moving on. But they'd agreed this morning—honesty, transparency, dealing with things together.
"Shoko says I have about two years if I keep absorbing curses. Less if I accelerate. More if I stop entirely."
The grin vanished. Yuji straightened, arms dropping to his sides. "Two years."
"Give or take. The corruption's progressing through my system. Eventually it'll reach vital organs or my brain. Then..." Akira shrugged, aiming for casual and probably missing. "Then it's over."
"And if you stop?"
"I stabilize at current levels. Keep the voices, keep the pain, but it doesn't get worse. I also lose most of the power I've gained."
Yuji was quiet for a long moment, dark eyes searching Akira's face. "What are you going to do?"
"Keep going. Keep absorbing. Use the time I have to do as much good as possible."
"That's the corruption talking."
"Shoko said the same thing. Doesn't make it less true." Akira moved to the opposite side of the circle, taking up a ready stance. "I didn't come here to talk about my terminal diagnosis. I came here to train. You still up for it?"
Yuji studied him for another moment, then nodded slowly. "Yeah. Okay. But we're talking about this later. For real."
"Deal."
They bowed to each other—a formal gesture that carried weight despite their casual friendship. Acknowledgment of mutual respect. Agreement that what happened in this circle stayed between them.
"Standard rules," Yuji said, settling into his own stance. "No lethal techniques, fight until someone yields or can't continue. I won't use Sukuna's power unless you use your absorbed energy."
"Fair."
They circled each other slowly, footwork precise, both reading the other's body language for tells. Akira had sparred with Yuji before—the boy was fast, hit like a freight train, and had reflexes that bordered on precognitive. Fighting him was like fighting a natural disaster with a personality.
Yuji moved first.
He closed the distance in a blur, fist driving toward Akira's midsection with enough force to crater concrete. Akira twisted, letting the blow pass within inches of his ribs, and countered with a palm strike to Yuji's exposed shoulder.
Yuji rolled with it, using the momentum to spin into a leg sweep. Akira jumped, barely clearing the attack, and landed in a crouch.
They separated, reassessing.
"You're faster than last time," Yuji observed. "Quicker reaction time."
"Side effect of the absorption. Enhanced physical capabilities."
"How much enhanced?"
"Honestly? I don't know. I've been holding back."
Yuji's expression shifted into something that might've been understanding or challenge. "Don't. Not here. I can take it."
Permission. Maybe even encouragement.
Akira let the leash slip slightly.
Cursed energy flooded his system, not the clean standard energy of normal reinforcement but the corrupted, amplified power of five absorbed curses. His veins darkened immediately, black lines spreading across his exposed skin. His eyes flashed violet.
And suddenly the world was clearer.
He could see the micro-expressions on Yuji's face, the minute shifts in weight distribution, the gathering of cursed energy in specific muscle groups. Everything slowed down just enough for him to process it, react to it.
Yuji charged again.
This time Akira met him head-on.
Their fists collided mid-strike, the impact creating a shockwave that kicked up dust and rattled the nearby trees. Akira felt the force travel up his arm, but it didn't hurt—the absorbed energy cushioned it, distributed it, made him more resilient.
They exchanged blows in rapid succession. Yuji's punches were precise, powerful, driven by years of athletic training and cursed energy reinforcement. Akira's were faster, more erratic, influenced by the combat memories of the absorbed curses.
The office worker curse had known aikido. The security guard curse had military training. The gang member curse fought dirty, targeting joints and pressure points.
Akira's fighting style became an amalgamation of all of them, unpredictable and vicious.
A knee to Yuji's thigh. An elbow to his ribs. A grab that turned into a throw that Yuji somehow reversed mid-air, landing on his feet like a cat.
"Holy shit," Yuji breathed, wiping blood from his split lip. He was grinning again, wide and genuine. "You're actually keeping up."
"Surprised?"
"Impressed." Yuji's cursed energy spiked, reinforcement increasing. "But let's see how you handle this."
He became a blur.
Akira barely tracked the movement—Yuji closed ten meters in a fraction of a second and drove his fist into Akira's guard with enough force to send him skidding backward. Before he could recover, Yuji was on him again, a combination of strikes that forced Akira fully defensive.
Block. Deflect. Dodge. Barely avoid. Block again.
Yuji was too fast, too strong. Akira's enhanced abilities kept him in the fight, but barely.
"Stop holding back," the fifth curse growled. "Use us properly. Show him what you really are."
The temptation was there—to let go completely, to unleash the full power of five absorbed curses. He could probably match Yuji then. Maybe even exceed him.
But that wasn't the point of this.
Akira changed tactics. Instead of matching Yuji's aggression, he redirected it. Used the aikido principles to guide strikes past him, threw off Yuji's timing with irregular counter-attacks, targeted balance rather than strength.
It worked. Barely.
Yuji overextended on a hook, and Akira caught his wrist, twisted, and used his own momentum to throw him. Yuji hit the ground hard but rolled immediately, coming up ready.
They paused, both breathing hard.
"You fight weird," Yuji said. "Like five different people at once."
"That's because I kind of am."
"The curses. You're using their combat experience."
"Yeah. It's instinctive now. I don't even think about it—their muscle memory just activates."
Yuji considered this. "Does it feel like you're in control? Or like they're moving through you?"
The question cut deeper than Akira expected.
"I don't know," he admitted. "In the moment, it feels like me. But afterward, when I analyze what I did, some of the techniques aren't things I've trained. Aren't things I should know. So maybe they're influencing me more than I realize."
"That's terrifying."
"Tell me about it."
They circled again, slower this time. The initial intensity had burned off, replaced by something more measured. This wasn't just training anymore—it was communication through combat, the kind of conversation that only made sense between fighters.
Yuji attacked again, but this time Akira was ready. He matched the assault, and they fell into a rhythm—strike and counter, attack and defend, a flowing exchange that tested skill over power.
Minutes passed. Neither gained a decisive advantage.
Finally, Yuji called a halt, stepping back with hands raised. "Break. I need water before I pass out."
They collapsed at the edge of the circle, both drenched in sweat. Yuji pulled a water bottle from his bag and tossed another to Akira.
Akira drank deeply, grateful for the cold relief. His cursed energy settled back to baseline levels, the black veins fading to their dormant state. His eyes returned to brown.
"That was good," Yuji said between gulps of water. "Really good. You've gotten way stronger."
"Thanks to the curses."
"Does that bother you? That the power isn't really yours?"
Akira thought about it. "Sometimes. Feels like cheating. Like I'm borrowing strength I didn't earn."
"But you're the one containing them," Yuji pointed out. "You're the one bearing the weight of those voices, those memories. That takes strength too. A different kind, but still strength."
"You sound like you've given this a lot of thought."
"I have." Yuji stared at his water bottle, expression distant. "I think about it all the time. Sukuna's power—it's not mine. It's his. I'm just the container. But I choose how to use it. Choose to fight for people instead of against them. That choice matters, even if the power itself is borrowed."
"And if the power starts changing who you are? Making you think things you wouldn't normally think?"
Yuji's jaw tightened. "Then I rely on the people around me to tell me when I'm going too far. To pull me back if I start to lose myself." He looked at Akira directly. "That's what friends are for, right? Being the mirror when you can't see yourself clearly anymore."
The words settled between them, heavy with implication.
"Is that what we are?" Akira asked quietly. "Friends?"
"Yeah." Yuji's response was immediate, certain. "We are. And friends don't let friends turn into monsters alone."
Something in Akira's chest unclenched. A tension he hadn't realized he'd been carrying.
"Thanks."
"Don't thank me yet. I'm a terrible influence. Ask anyone."
"I've heard. Nobara has stories."
"Nobara exaggerates." But Yuji was grinning again, the heaviness lifting. "Come on. One more round, then we grab dinner. I'm starving."
They stood, taking positions again.
This time the fight was lighter, more playful. Testing techniques without the intensity of actual combat. Yuji tried a new application of cursed energy reinforcement—concentrating it in specific impact points for explosive strikes. Akira experimented with layering different curses' energy signatures for varied effects.
It was training in the purest sense: learning through doing, improving through repetition, growing stronger together.
By the time they finished, the sun was setting, painting the sky in brilliant oranges and purples. They were both exhausted, covered in bruises that would heal thanks to cursed energy, grinning like idiots.
"Food?" Yuji suggested.
"Food," Akira agreed.
The cafeteria was busier at dinner—most students ate together after evening training. Yuji and Akira joined Megumi and Nobara at their usual table, trays loaded with curry and rice.
"You two look like you got hit by a truck," Nobara observed. "Productive training?"
"Very," Yuji said through a mouthful of rice. "Kurozawa's gotten scary good."
Megumi glanced at Akira, taking in the fading bruises and satisfied exhaustion. "No incidents?"
"None. Full control the entire time."
"Good." Megumi returned to his food, the single word carrying approval and relief in equal measure.
They ate in comfortable silence for a while, the casual camaraderie of people who'd been through difficult things together and come out the other side still standing.
"So," Nobara said eventually, "Gojo-sensei announced a group mission for next week. Grade Two, possibly approaching Grade One. All four of us plus supervision."
"Supervision?" Yuji frowned. "We haven't needed oversight since first year."
"Special circumstances." Nobara's eyes flicked to Akira. "Given recent revelations, administration wants experienced backup. Probably Nanami-san or Kusakabe-sensei."
Akira felt heat creep up his neck. "Because they don't trust me."
"Because they're being cautious," Megumi corrected. "Appropriate given the situation."
"Still feels like being on probation."
"You are on probation," Nobara said bluntly. "Might as well own it. Besides, having a Grade One sorcerer watching our backs isn't exactly a downside."
She had a point.
"What's the mission?" Yuji asked.
"Cursed womb. Potentially gestating into a Special Grade if we don't handle it soon. Location is an abandoned hospital in Chiba. High concentrations of negative emotions from decades of death and suffering."
Akira's cursed energy stirred at the description. The absorbed curses were interested—a gestating Special Grade would be powerful, rich with energy. The temptation was already forming.
"Take it," one of the voices whispered. "When the time comes, absorb it. Imagine the power."
He pushed the thought away violently.
"When do we deploy?" Megumi asked.
"Three days. Gives us time to prepare and strategize."
Three days. Seventy-two hours to ready himself mentally and physically for the temptation of a potentially Special Grade curse.
Under the table, Akira's hands clenched.
Yuji noticed—of course he noticed—and their eyes met across the table. A silent exchange: I'm watching. You're not alone.
Akira nodded fractionally. I know.
The conversation shifted to logistics, equipment, technique coordination. Akira participated mechanically, part of his mind already racing ahead to the mission, calculating risks and probabilities.
A cursed womb approaching Special Grade. Surrounded by three capable second-years and supervised by a Grade One sorcerer.
If things went wrong, if the curse proved too powerful, if his teammates were in danger...
Would he resist the urge to absorb it? Could he?
Gojo's rules were clear: no absorption without approval. But Gojo wouldn't be there. The supervisor—whoever it was—wouldn't know what to look for.
Akira could hide it. Make it look like a standard exorcism. No one would know.
Except him. And the voices that would grow louder. And the corruption that would spread faster. And the friends who'd trusted him to be honest.
"Two years," he reminded himself. "You have two years. Make them count."
But how? By being cautious and weak, dying slowly while accomplishing nothing? Or by using every tool available, dying fast but doing maximum good?
The answer should've been obvious. Should've been easy.
It wasn't.
"Kurozawa?" Nobara was staring at him. "You zoned out. I asked if you had preferences on formation during the mission."
"Sorry. Just thinking." He forced focus back to the present. "Support position is fine. I'll adapt to whatever strategy you decide."
Megumi was watching him with those sharp eyes, seeing too much. But he didn't comment, just nodded and continued planning.
Dinner wound down. Students dispersed to evening activities—more training, study sessions, or rare moments of actual relaxation.
Akira excused himself and headed back to his room.
The dorm was quiet, most students still out. He collapsed on his bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling.
His phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: Training went well from what I observed. Don't think I wasn't watching. —Gojo
Of course he'd been watching. Probably from some impossible distance with those Six Eyes, monitoring every moment.
To Gojo: No incidents. Full control.
Gojo: This time. The upcoming mission will be harder. Cursed wombs are particularly tempting targets. Rich with unrealized potential.
To Gojo: I know.
Gojo: Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, you're making the same mistake every addict makes—thinking you can handle just one more hit.
The words stung because they were accurate.
To Gojo: What do you want me to say?
Gojo: Nothing. I want you to think. Really think about what you're becoming and whether that's what you actually want. Good night, Kurozawa.
Akira dropped the phone on his chest and closed his eyes.
The curses were stirring, excited about the upcoming mission, already planning, strategizing, whispering suggestions.
And in three days, he'd be in a room with exactly the kind of target they craved most.
This was going to be a test. Not of his strength but of his will.
He just hoped he'd pass.
"You won't," the fifth curse laughed. "You're already ours."
Akira didn't sleep that night.
He just listened to the voices and wondered which one was actually his own.