The van departed Tokyo at five-thirty in the morning, cutting through pre-dawn darkness on empty highways.
Akira sat in the back with the others, equipment bag at his feet, watching the city give way to suburbs and then rural stretches. Nobody spoke much. Pre-mission silence, the kind that came from nervous energy and mental preparation.
Nanami drove, one hand on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift. He looked exactly as composed as always—like driving toward a potentially Special Grade curse was equivalent to commuting to an office job.
Maybe for him it was.
Akira checked his gear for the third time. Standard kit: cursed tools for close combat, talismans for basic barrier techniques, emergency medical supplies, communication device. Nothing special. He didn't need special—he had five curses worth of power already integrated into his system.
The thought should've been comforting. Instead, it made his stomach churn.
"Nervous?" Takanashi asked.
"Wouldn't you be?"
"I'm already dead. What's the worst that could happen?"
"You get absorbed by whatever's in that hospital. Dissolved into something even stronger."
"Hm. Fair point. Try not to die then."
"Working on it."
Yuji glanced over, noticed Akira's expression. "Talking to them?"
Akira nodded.
"What do they say?"
"Mostly unhelpful observations and existential commentary."
"Sounds about right." Yuji leaned back against the van wall. "Sukuna's been quiet lately. Which is somehow worse than when he's actively antagonistic."
"How do you deal with that? The uncertainty of what he's planning?"
"I don't. I just stay ready for anything and trust that I'll handle whatever comes." Yuji's expression was serious. "Same advice applies to you. Stay ready. Trust yourself."
Before Akira could respond, Nanami spoke from the driver's seat. "We're approaching the site. Final equipment check. Once we enter that building, assume hostile conditions throughout."
They pulled off the main road onto a narrow access path overgrown with weeds. The hospital loomed ahead—a five-story concrete structure that looked like it had been slowly dying for years. Windows broken or boarded up. Graffiti covering the ground floor. Vegetation creeping up the walls like the earth was trying to reclaim it.
The cursed energy was visible even from outside—a dark miasma clinging to the building like fog, pulsing with malevolent intent.
Nanami parked fifty meters out and killed the engine. "Visual confirmation of heavy cursed energy presence. Estimate multiple Grade Four and Grade Three manifestations throughout the structure, with the primary target in the basement."
He turned to face them, expression grave. "Rules of engagement: stick together, maintain formation, do not engage anything above your capability level. If you encounter the matured womb, retreat immediately and let me handle it. Clear?"
"Clear," they answered in unison.
"Kurozawa." Nanami's eyes fixed on Akira. "You're under direct observation. Any technique usage will be monitored. If I see anything irregular, I'm pulling you from the mission. Understood?"
"Understood, Nanami-san."
Nanami held his gaze for another moment, then nodded. "Deploy."
They exited the van into cold morning air that smelled like rot and rust. The hospital's cursed energy pressed down on them immediately—not aggressive yet, but present, aware, watching.
Megumi's Divine Dog manifested beside him, white fur stark against the dim light. It growled low, hackles raised.
"Multiple signatures inside," Megumi confirmed. "At least a dozen distinct presences. And something big in the basement—" He paused, frowning. "It's moving."
"The womb?" Nobara asked.
"Maybe. Or something else."
"Only one way to find out." Nanami drew his weapon—a blunt blade wrapped in cloth, cursed energy already flowing through it. "Formation. Move."
They advanced toward the hospital entrance.
The lobby was a disaster.
Tiles cracked and stained, ceiling partially collapsed, furniture overturned and rotting. Medical equipment scattered everywhere—wheelchairs, gurneys, IV stands—all corroded and broken. And everywhere, the evidence of cursed energy corruption: dark stains that moved when you weren't looking directly at them, shadows that fell wrong, the smell of something dying that had never been alive.
"Fan out," Nanami ordered quietly. "Clear each floor systematically. Kurozawa, you're with me. The rest of you work together."
Splitting the group. Smart tactically—covered more ground. But also isolating Akira under direct supervision.
Yuji caught Akira's eye and nodded fractionally. You've got this.
They split. Yuji, Megumi, and Nobara headed toward the eastern stairwell. Nanami and Akira took the western path toward the basement access.
The hallways were narrow, oppressive. Every door they passed hung open, revealing rooms that had once been patient wards or examination spaces, now just empty shells filled with decay and cursed energy.
"Your cursed energy output is elevated," Nanami observed. Not accusing, just stating fact. "The absorbed curses are responding to the environment."
"Yes, sir. They're excited. Lots of negative energy here."
"Can you maintain control?"
"So far."
"'So far' isn't reassuring."
"It's honest."
Nanami made a sound that might've been approval or resignation. Hard to tell with him.
They reached the basement stairs—a concrete shaft descending into absolute darkness. The cursed energy emanating from below was thick enough to be tactile, pressing upward like heat from an oven.
Nanami paused at the top of the stairs. "Before we go down, I need to know: can I trust you?"
The question was blunt, unexpected.
Akira met his eyes. "I don't know. I want to say yes. But the curses influence my judgment. So maybe trust isn't the right word. Maybe... supervised cooperation?"
"At least you're honest." Nanami activated a talisman, creating a sphere of light that pushed back the darkness. "If you lose control down there, I will stop you. I won't hesitate. I won't give you chances. I'll just end the threat. Are we clear?"
"Crystal."
"Good. Stay behind me. Engage only on my command."
They descended.
The stairs seemed to go on forever, deeper than any basement should be. Akira counted steps—twenty, thirty, forty. The cursed energy grew stronger with each one, until it felt like walking through molasses.
His veins darkened involuntarily. The absorbed curses were waking up, drawn to the power below.
"Something old down here," Takanashi murmured. "Something that's been growing for a long time."
Finally, the stairs ended.
They emerged into a vast space—the morgue, but expanded somehow, stretched by cursed energy into something larger than physics should allow. The walls were lined with old refrigeration units, doors hanging open, empty. And in the center of the room—
The cursed womb.
It was massive, easily three meters in diameter, suspended in mid-air by tendrils of condensed cursed energy that connected to the floor, walls, and ceiling like a grotesque web. The membrane was translucent, pulsing with internal movement. Inside, something was taking shape—vaguely humanoid but wrong, too many limbs, proportions that defied anatomy.
And it was aware of them.
The womb's surface rippled. The shape inside pressed against the membrane, as if reaching toward them.
"Grade Two assessment was incorrect," Nanami said flatly. "This is Grade One minimum. Possibly Special Grade if it completes gestation."
"How long until—"
The membrane tore.
Fluid erupted outward, thick and black and reeking of death. The curse emerged in a cascade of placental matter—a nightmare given form.
It stood nearly three meters tall, hunched and skeletal, covered in slick black skin. Its face was a smooth oval with no features except a vertical mouth lined with human teeth. Four arms, each ending in blade-like fingers. And its cursed energy—
It was overwhelming. Suffocating. This wasn't Grade One.
This was Special Grade.
"Run!" Nanami's blade ignited with cursed energy. "Get back upstairs! Alert the others!"
Akira turned to flee—
The curse moved.
One moment it was across the room. The next, it was directly in front of him, one bladed hand already swinging toward his head.
Akira's body reacted on pure instinct.
He ducked under the strike, the blade passing centimeters from his skull, and rolled away. His own cursed energy exploded outward—not standard reinforcement but the amplified power of five absorbed curses.
His veins turned black instantly. His eyes flared violet. And for just a moment, Akira Kurozawa disappeared, replaced by something that moved like five people at once.
He deflected a second strike using aikido principles, redirected a third using military close-quarters combat, and countered with a vicious elbow to what might've been the curse's ribs.
The impact created a shockwave. The curse staggered.
Then it smiled with that vertical mouth and laughed—a sound like breaking glass and screaming children.
Nanami's blade struck the curse from behind, severed one arm clean off. Black ichor sprayed across the floor.
The curse didn't seem to notice.
It spun, impossibly fast, and struck Nanami with enough force to send him crashing into a refrigeration unit twenty meters away. Metal crumpled. Nanami didn't get up immediately.
Akira was alone.
The curse turned back to him, three arms remaining, that terrible smile stretching wider.
"Take it," the absorbed curses screamed in unison. "Kill it and take it! That much power—we'd be unstoppable!"
The temptation hit like a physical blow. This curse was Special Grade. Absorbing it would give him incredible power. Enough to protect anyone. Enough to matter.
Enough to lose himself completely.
The curse attacked again.
Akira fought desperately, drawing on every technique the absorbed curses offered. He was faster than he should be, stronger, more skilled. But it wasn't enough. The Special Grade was on an entirely different level.
A blade-hand caught him across the ribs. Pain exploded through his chest. Blood soaked his shirt.
Another strike, this one to his shoulder. He felt something crack.
The curse grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground.
"Do it!" Takanashi screamed. "Absorb it or die! Those are your choices!"
Akira's vision was tunneling. His lungs burned. The curse's grip was crushing his windpipe.
He could absorb it. Right now. Just make contact, let the power flow in. It would hurt—God, it would hurt—but he'd survive. He'd be strong enough to win.
And he'd lose himself in the process.
Gojo's rules: No absorption without approval.
Yuji's words: Be honest about why you're doing it.
His own desperate promise to himself: Stay human. Stay in control.
Akira made his choice.
He didn't absorb.
Instead, he channeled every bit of cursed energy he had—not into absorption but into pure reinforcement—and drove his fist into the curse's featureless face with everything he had left.
The curse's grip loosened just enough.
Akira tore free, hit the ground, rolled—
And Nanami was there.
His blade carved through the curse's torso in a perfect horizontal arc, bisecting it at the waist. "Overtime: Collapse."
The cursed technique activated. The curse's body imploded, folding in on itself as Nanami's ratio technique found its weakness and exploited it.
The Special Grade curse dissolved into black smoke and fading screams.
Gone.
Akira collapsed, gasping, bleeding, alive.
Nanami stood over him, blade still ready, eyes assessing. "You didn't absorb it."
"No, sir."
"You could have. It would've saved you."
"Maybe. Or it would've killed me. Just differently."
Nanami studied him for a long moment. Then he extended a hand.
Akira took it and let himself be pulled upright. His ribs screamed. His shoulder was definitely dislocated. But he was still human.
Still himself.
"Good choice," Nanami said quietly. Then louder: "We need medical attention. Can you walk?"
"I can manage."
They made their way back toward the stairs. Behind them, the morgue was already beginning to collapse—without the cursed womb's energy to sustain it, the expanded space was returning to normal dimensions.
Halfway up the stairs, they met the others running down. Yuji took one look at Akira's condition and went pale.
"What happened?"
"Special Grade manifestation," Nanami reported. "Neutralized. Kurozawa performed adequately under pressure."
"Adequately?" Nobara stared at Akira's blood-soaked shirt. "He looks like he got hit by a truck!"
"I said adequately, not unscathed. Ieiri can handle his injuries." Nanami continued up the stairs. "Mission complete. We're done here."
They emerged into morning light that felt too bright, too clean. The hospital's cursed energy had already begun dissipating without the womb to feed it.
Akira sat on the van's bumper while Megumi performed basic first aid—nothing major, just stabilization until they got back to campus. His shoulder throbbed. His ribs ached. His throat was bruised.
But his veins were fading back to their dormant state. His eyes were brown again. And the voices in his head were quiet, almost disappointed.
"You could've had that power," Takanashi said eventually.
"I know."
"And you chose not to take it."
"Yes."
"Why?"
Akira thought about it. About choice and corruption and what it meant to be human. About friends who trusted him and teachers who watched and a future that was already terminal but didn't have to be monstrous.
"Because I'd rather die as myself than live as something else."
"Even if 'yourself' is weak?"
"Especially then."
Takanashi was quiet for a long time. Then: "Interesting choice."
Yuji sat down beside Akira, careful not to jostle his injuries. "You okay?"
"Define okay."
"Fair." Yuji was quiet for a moment. "For what it's worth, I'm proud of you. That was the hardest choice, and you made it anyway."
"Didn't feel hard. Felt obvious."
"Then you're stronger than you think."
Maybe. Or maybe he'd just gotten lucky. Hard to tell the difference sometimes.
They loaded into the van and headed back to Tokyo. Akira watched the hospital shrink in the side mirror, then disappear entirely as they rounded a curve.
One mission down. One temptation resisted.
And two years minus one day remaining.
He closed his eyes and let exhaustion take him.
For now, that was enough.