.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
September, 2014 – Tokyo
It was always the same.
People changed. Cities morphed. Years dragged themselves forward, but the way he saw the world through the layers of refracted cursed energy? Yeah, that didn't budge.
There they were, the old alumni of Tokyo Jujutsu High; the closest thing he had to a friend group or... what was left of one, anyway. They'd gathered in the same bar, tucked in a sleepy pocket of east Shinjuku, for drinks and bad food.
From the outside, it probably looked the closest approximation of "okay" that their generation could manage. From his point of view, Six Eyes on, sensitivity dialed to max, it was a distorted mess of wavelengths and suppressed grief.
Satoru Gojo sipped his juice—cranberry, because it matched his mood—and didn't react when every person in the room leaned away from him. Not obviously, not enough to call it fear. Just… a shift, subtle and automatic.
He noticed. That was the problem, he noticed everything, he had the Six Eyes, after all.
A millimeter of tension in Nanami's shoulders when their eyes met. How Shoko's fingers hesitated at her glass, then resumed as if nothing had happened. The small, involuntary twitch in Yu's smile whenever Satoru laughed just a little too loudly. And the cursed energy; that's what really betrayed them. The tremble in their cores, the small delay before their smiles reached their eyes.
They didn't mean to. He didn't blame them. When Suguru left—no, worse, when Suguru chose—no one was left to challenge him; that's what he missed the most, he supposed. Someone who didn't just see him, but looked straight through the tricks and the masks and told him he was being a goddamn idiot.
He didn't blame the others for pulling back; it was inevitable, it was just the cost of being him.
The strongest.
He had become something other than human in their eyes. Not quite untouchable—but certainly unrelatable. The one who didn't get asked how he was doing. Not because people didn't care. But because… what was the point? It was rude, it was pointless, too scary, too messy. That was part of the new normal. He wasn't allowed to not be fine; the idea itself made people uncomfortable.
The Satoru Gojo was supposed to be above all that. He was, in fact. He took another sip of his juice as if convincing himself.
Satoru didn't resent them, really.
Mostly.
…Okay, maybe a little.
"Well," he muttered to himself, "cheers to alienation." He pushed his sunglasses higher on his nose, muting the visual noise of cursed energy just a little. The laugh that tried to escape as he tilted his head back stayed somewhere behind his teeth, choking him from the inside.
Across from him, Shoko was arguing with Nanami about the price of pickled daikon.
Shoko had stopped smoking last spring; apparently, being the only medic in a society constantly hemorrhaging jujutsu sorcerers had finally made her rethink her lung capacity. Same sarcasm though; still the woman who could vivisect a curse and a moral dilemma in the same breath. She didn't flinch when he spoke, not visibly, at least.
But even she slipped. There it was, the barest flicker of cursed energy behind her temples, a twitch of concern veiled as side-eye; she thought he couldn't see it.
Nanami, on the other hand, was consistent in his complete and utter refusal to pretend. Back from retirement, the prodigal salaryman still wore his suit like it was battle armor, still talked as if every word were an invoice. Nanami's cursed energy was more exact, there was no joy in it, just math. He was a man made of hours and percentages, always watching the clock.
Satoru respected the hell out of him for the refusal to laugh at his jokes. He also wanted to throw his drink at him, just to get a reaction.
Then there was—
Haibara Yu. Still smiling like someone who hadn't nearly bled out in a cursed Red Ward.
Ridiculously sincere. Emotionally porous. The kind of guy who'd bleed for people who didn't deserve it and apologize just for being in their way.
By all accounts, Yu shouldn't be alive; everyone knew. The incident in 2007 should've been a one-way trip. Six months in a hospital bed, two emergency surgeries, Shoko working herself into the ground just to keep his lungs functioning. The official report? Redacted to hell and back. Even Satoru couldn't peel it open, and he had Six Eyes and zero respect for privacy.
Still, Yu had survived. And smiled. And called it luck.
Satoru watched him in silence.
Empathic Assonance. A cursed technique that didn't serve the user, but everyone around them. Very Haibara. Terrible solo sorcerer, brilliant team asset. He practically radiated connection. Thin, bright filaments of cursed energy looping around the people near him like threads on a loom: Shoko, Nanami, even the bartender who'd handed him a drink with a crooked smile.
They turned Yu into a living network of emotional tethers, pulsing gently, invisible to everyone but Satoru's Six Eyes.
It scared the shit out of him. Warmth like that? It got people killed. Got them left behind. Got you standing in front of the ruins of a friendship, wondering when exactly the fire started and why you hadn't put it out sooner.
Anyway, Haibara Yu, specifically, was why he was here.
Yu was the only confirmed sorcerer to come into direct contact with Scarlet Mist and live. Barely; they'd dragged him back from the edge anyway.
And Satoru… Satoru wanted out. Not out out, not freedom-from-jujutsu-society out—but he was tired of fixing other people's mistakes just so the next generation could be born broken all over again. He didn't want to be the strongest forever; he wanted to raise people who could surpass him. Kids who didn't have to grow up buried under blood and history.
He wanted to teach. Which meant the old bastards upstairs had to get in his way.
Seventeen petitions to join the faculty at Tokyo Jujutsu High. Seventeen rejections. Same line every time: You can teach, Gojo-sama, once Scarlet Mist has been eliminated.
Satoru slipped his hand inside his uniform's jacket and pulled out the dossier.
It was insultingly thin. Entire pages blacked out, whole reports gone missing. He knew a lie by omission when he saw one, and this lie had the fingerprints of the Jujutsu Society's higher-ups all over it. He flipped it open like he had dozens of times before, scanning lines he could already recite.
Scarlet Mist: the only known special-grade Vengeful Spirit classified as a national-level hazard. Unique behavior profile. Periodic. Cataclysmic. Surfaces every few decades, targets high-level jujutsu sorcerers—especially from the three great clans.
Last appearance: 2007. Next projected appearance, based on its usual cycle? Around 2037.
They knew he wouldn't wait that long; that was the point. They didn't want him in a classroom; they wanted him out in the field—between them and anything that might threaten their power, dangling the future in front of him like bait. You can build your better world only after you handle the one threat that's scheduled to never reappear in your lifetime.
...He should've killed them outright. Neatly, limbs in one pile, egos in another. But—
Then he looked at Shoko. At Nanami. At Yu. Thought of Megumi.
Who would follow him if he crossed that line?
No. Not like that.
Fine. He'd play their game. Find the damn thing, rip it out of the cracks where it was hiding, and shove it under the sun until it screams. Prove he could clean up their messes and still teach, and then he'd happily watch the old world burn.
Satoru almost laughed. Honestly, they could've put in a little more effort. He was Satoru Gojo. When something was invisible, imperceptible, impossible to find? That just made it fun.
But first, he needed a lead, so tonight, he was doing the only thing he could do.
Interrogate Haibara Yu. Again.
He put his juice down. Then, just to disrupt the rhythm of the table, he laughed too loudly on purpose. "Alright," he said, grinning, as he dropped the dossier onto the table with a thud that made Nanami's eye twitch. "Game time."
Three pairs of eyes turned toward him.
"Oh no," Shoko muttered. "Dangerous."
Satoru leaned forward, resting his chin on both hands like a kid confessing to a prank, and grinned. "Yuuuuu-kun," he drawled, too sweet to be anything but suspicious. "Remind me again—what do you remember about the night you almost died in 2007?"
Nanami set his glass down with a little too much control. "Gojo."
"Yes, yes, I know," Satoru cut him off, not even glancing over. "You're very protective, Nanamin. Adorable, really. But I'm working."
"You're interrogating him."
"Oh, please, I'm being gentle."
"You're never gentle."
That part was fair.
Satoru ignored him completely. "Come on now, I need specifics. Did it talk? Did it bleed? Did it do anything weird?"
Yu choked slightly on his lemon sour. His fingers curled around his glass like it might offer protection. Then Haibara Yu did what Haibara Yu always did: he smiled.
"Ahhh, um. I mean—I'd love to help, really. But my memories of that mission are... a bit off," he said, rubbing the back of his head, voice just a little too bright to be normal. "I remember the beginning of the mission. It was just supposed to be a routine exorcism, low-grade stuff; we were just supposed to assist Zenin's sorcerers. Then this weird kekkai activated, you know, the temperature dropping, the mist starting to rise, crimson and wet—"
"Red Ward. Scarlet Mist's signature kekkai forming. Good, go on," Satoru leaned in.
"Then I got separated from Nanami and... started coughing blood." Yu smiled apologetically, as if it were his fault for dying wrong. "A lot of it. Like, embarrassing amounts. Then—boom—" he touched his ribs unconsciously, "—hospital. Lungs full of holes, two blood transfusions, three weeks unconscious... Apparently, I flatlined twice?"
Satoru blinked. "...That's it?"
Yu shrugged helplessly. "I mean, yeah? It's mostly the... Mist. That—and blood. Mine."
"Color me disappointed," Satoru sighed, tossing himself backward into the booth like a Victorian widow overcome by disappointment. He was about to press further; he had at least eight more follow-up questions lined up, rapid fire, when Shoko cut in, dry as dust and just as tired.
"Oh, come on," she said, finally looking up from her drink, one elbow propped lazily on the table. "You've already harassed Haibara about this three times this month. Didn't they give you a dossier? You know, one of those official things that people like you ignore?"
Satoru leaned back, lazily folding his arms behind his head. "Oh, they gave me a dossier. A beautifully useless one, redacted to hell and back." He jerked his chin toward the table where the file sat. "Go ahead, read it. Tell me what's strange."
Shoko gave him a long look, then, with a sigh that practically echoed off the bar walls. "Exaggerating as always," she muttered, but she picked it up anyway.
Nanami's expression tensed immediately. "Ieiri—"
"Relax," she muttered, skimming quickly. "If the higher-ups didn't want it seen, they shouldn't have let him have it."
The others watched as her eyes skimmed page after page.
"Well." She blinked. "That is… an aggressive amount of 'REDACTED.' Who edited this, a toddler?"
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𝙲𝙻𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙵𝙸𝙴𝙳 𝙳𝙾𝚂𝚂𝙸𝙴𝚁: #𝟷𝟾𝟼𝟾-𝚅𝚂𝙿
𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚢𝚘 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙲𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚕 | 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝙼𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝙳𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗
═════════════════════
▌𝙵𝙸𝙻𝙴 𝙸𝙳
𝚄𝚙𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍: 𝙰𝚞𝚐𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝟷𝟾, 𝟸𝟶𝟷𝟺
𝙲𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚝
𝙳𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗: 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚂𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝
𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜: 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛-𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 (𝙲𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚢: 𝙴𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚒𝚌)
𝙾𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢: 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕-𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝙷𝚊𝚣𝚊𝚛𝚍
𝖢𝖴𝖱𝖱𝖤𝖭𝖳 𝖲𝖳𝖠𝖳𝖴𝖲: **𝖴𝖭𝖤𝖷𝖮𝖱𝖢𝖨𝖲𝖤𝖣 – 𝖢𝖮𝖭𝖲𝖨𝖣𝖤𝖱𝖤𝖣 𝖠𝖢𝖳𝖨𝖵𝖤**
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▌𝚂𝚄𝙱𝙹𝙴𝙲𝚃 𝙾𝚅𝙴𝚁𝚅𝙸𝙴𝚆
𝙽𝚊𝚖𝚎 (𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎): ███████ (𝚍. 𝟷𝟾𝟼𝟾) [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]
𝙰𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 (𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎): 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚒 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚝 𝙲𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗, 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚏𝚞-𝙰𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚕 (𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚍, 𝟷𝟾𝟼𝟿)
𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 (𝙳𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎): 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 (𝚄𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍)
𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 (𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜): 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚅𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕 𝚂𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝
𝙺𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝙰𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎: 𝙷𝚞𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚒𝚍 𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚎, 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚡. 𝟸𝟶–𝟸𝟸. 𝙱𝚛𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛, 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜. 𝙰𝚕𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚏.
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▌𝙾𝚁𝙸𝙶𝙸𝙽 𝚁𝙴𝙿𝙾𝚁𝚃
█████, 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚒 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚕'𝚜 𝙵𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚝 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑-𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝚜𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚞𝚐𝚊𝚠𝚊 𝙱𝚊𝚔𝚞𝚏𝚞. 𝙵𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚒 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚍 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]. 𝚁𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚠𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚍𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳] 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]
𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚜 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]
█████ 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝟷𝟾𝟼𝟾 𝚘𝚏 𝚊𝚍𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚜. 𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝-𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚜𝚢𝚌𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚞𝚗𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳].
𝙿𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚓𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚢 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳].
[𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]. 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙰𝚞𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚖𝚒 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙲𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚜 "███████" 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 ███.
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▌𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚂𝙴𝙳 𝙼𝙰𝙽𝙸𝙵𝙴𝚂𝚃𝙰𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽
𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎𝚡, 𝚛𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛-𝚝𝚢𝚙𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝙴𝚍𝚘-𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 "𝚙𝚛𝚎-𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚒𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚕𝚊𝚛".
𝚂𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 ████████████ [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]. 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝙺𝚊𝚖𝚘 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜. 𝙸𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍.
𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚊𝚙𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍:
𝙲𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝙱𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝙳𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 – "𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜"
𝙲𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚐𝚢 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚜, 𝚜𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚒𝚝𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚎 𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚎𝚜, 𝚊 𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚞𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍
𝚂𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚜
𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑 𝚏𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛, 𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚙𝚝𝚢𝚜𝚒𝚜, 𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚜𝚎, 𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚃𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚢: 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝟿𝟼% 𝚘𝚏 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚜 (𝚗𝚘𝚗-𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛𝚜)𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚟𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚌𝚛𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎, 𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚘𝚕𝚒, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎-𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎 𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚌 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜.
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▌𝙼𝙰𝙹𝙾𝚁 𝙴𝚅𝙴𝙽𝚃𝚂 𝙻𝙾𝙶
(𝙿𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚜 𝚘𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝟺 𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚕𝚢𝚜𝚝𝚜 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚢𝚎𝚝 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍)
𝚂𝚞𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚊 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚘𝚛. 𝙸𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝟷𝟾𝟽𝟸–𝟸𝟶𝟶𝟽 𝚎𝚡𝚑𝚒𝚋𝚒𝚝 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎:
𝟷. 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚘𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚐𝚎- 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚢-𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚎𝚍 [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳] 𝚑𝚘𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍/𝚘𝚛 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚛 ███████████ [𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳].
𝟸. 𝙿𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝-𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎
𝟷𝟾𝟼𝟿 – 𝙺𝚢𝚘𝚝𝚘, 𝙼𝚒𝚋𝚞 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍: 𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚔 𝚗𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝙼𝚒𝚋𝚞 𝚃𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕 𝚋𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚉𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚜. 𝟹𝟶𝟶 𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝟸𝟾 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚍. 𝚄𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚜𝚞𝚐𝚐𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚋𝚢 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎.
𝟷𝟿𝟷𝟿 – 𝙴𝚍𝚘 (𝙼𝚘𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚢𝚘), 𝙱𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚢ō 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍: 𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍. 𝙴𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚑𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚉𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚗 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎. 𝚃𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚍𝚘𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎.
𝟷𝟿𝟻𝟽 – 𝙷ō𝚔ō-𝚓𝚒 𝚃𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚎: 𝙳𝚒𝚜𝚛𝚞𝚙𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙺𝚊𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎. 𝙸𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙺𝚊𝚖𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚒𝚎𝚜: 𝟸𝟹. 𝙷𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚠𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚊 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚛 𝙺𝚢𝚘𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚑.
𝙽𝚘𝚟 𝟷𝟿𝟾𝟿 – 𝙺𝚢𝚘𝚝𝚘, 𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝙲𝚕𝚊𝚗 𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 (𝙰𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚍): 𝙳𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚘𝚗 𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍. 𝙴𝚢𝚎𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜: ████████████ (𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚢, 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚍) 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚞𝚎 𝚋𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎.
𝙰𝚞𝚐 𝟸𝟶𝟶𝟽 – 𝙸𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚒 𝙴𝚡𝚎𝚌𝚞𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙶𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚜: 𝙼𝚒𝚜-𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝟸 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝚃𝚠𝚘 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍-𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚃𝚘𝚔𝚢𝚘 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝚃𝚎𝚌𝚑 (𝙺𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝙽𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚒; 𝚈𝚞 𝙷𝚊𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚊) 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚕𝚘𝚢𝚎𝚍. 𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚒𝚍-𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙱𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚒𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍. 𝚈𝚞 𝙷𝚊𝚒𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚡𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚢 𝚍𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚑𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚡𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢; 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝. 𝚂𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚞𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚎𝚡𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚎𝚍. [𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜: 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝]
𝙽𝚎𝚡𝚝 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎, 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚗 𝚒𝚝𝚜 𝚞𝚜𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚌𝚢𝚌𝚕𝚎 - 𝟸𝟶𝟹𝟽.
𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚂𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞.
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▌𝙲𝚄𝚁𝚁𝙴𝙽𝚃 𝙳𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴𝚂 - 𝙸𝚜𝚜𝚞𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝙰𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎-𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝚂𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝙾𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚆𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝙱𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜
𝚂𝚞𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝: █████ / "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚝" 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝙽𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕-𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝.
𝙳𝙾 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙴𝙽𝙶𝙰𝙶𝙴 𝚞𝚗𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝙶𝚘𝚓𝚘 𝚂𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚞.
𝙸𝚏 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍:
𝙳𝙾 𝙽𝙾𝚃 𝙱𝚁𝙴𝙰𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚄𝙽𝙵𝙸𝙻𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙰𝙸𝚁: 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚗 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝟷. 𝚄𝚜𝚎 𝙶𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚎-𝟷 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚛 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛-𝚜𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚒𝚍𝚜
𝙴𝚅𝙰𝙲𝚄𝙰𝚃𝙴 𝙲𝙸𝚅𝙸𝙻𝙸𝙰𝙽𝚂 𝙸𝙼𝙼𝙴𝙳𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙻𝚈: 𝙴𝚡𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕. 𝙸𝚗 𝚌𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚜, 𝚜𝚢𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗 < 𝟷𝟾𝟶 𝚜𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗 𝚁𝚎𝚍 𝚆𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚜
𝙱𝚄𝚁𝙽 𝙰𝙻𝙻 𝙲𝙾𝙽𝚃𝙰𝙼𝙸𝙽𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙼𝙰𝚃𝙴𝚁𝙸𝙰𝙻𝚂: 𝙲𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚋𝚓𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚒𝚗𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚞𝚎
𝙽𝙾𝚃𝙸𝙵𝚈 𝙷𝚀 𝚄𝙿𝙾𝙽 𝙰𝙽𝚈 𝚁𝙴𝙳 𝙼𝙸𝚂𝚃 𝙳𝙴𝚃𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝙾𝙽: 𝙴𝚟𝚎𝚗 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚋𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚛
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▌𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙲𝙸𝙰𝙻 𝙳𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 - 𝙺𝙽𝙾𝚆𝙽 𝙰𝚂𝚂𝙾𝙲𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳 𝙸𝙽𝙳𝙸𝚅𝙸𝙳𝚄𝙰𝙻: 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝
𝙿𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚒𝚌 𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚗. 𝙿𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚒𝚗𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚒𝚗 𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝙼𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚖𝚎𝚍.
𝙱𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚒𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚒𝚝𝚕𝚎 "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝", 𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚗-𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚗-𝚊𝚏𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎
𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚝𝚒-𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜[𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]
𝙿𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚘𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚗𝚘𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚜[𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]
𝙵𝚒𝚎𝚕𝚍 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚜 𝚒𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜[𝚁𝙴𝙳𝙰𝙲𝚃𝙴𝙳]
𝙲𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐: 𝙰𝚕𝚕 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚝𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚝 𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙰𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚍. 𝙳𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛-𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚌𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎.
[𝙲𝚁𝙾𝚂𝚂-𝙾𝚁𝙶 𝙳𝙸𝚁𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝟺𝟽𝙰 – 𝙸𝙽𝙸𝚃𝙸𝙰𝚃𝙴𝙳] 𝙲𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚒𝚏 𝚗𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚛𝚢.
═════════════════════
𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚢 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚙𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚎𝚡𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙹𝚞𝚓𝚞𝚝𝚜𝚞 𝙷𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙲𝚘𝚖𝚖𝚒𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚎. 𝙸𝚗𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚋𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚌𝚕𝚎 𝟼𝟼.
═════════════════════
Eventually, Shoko snapped the folder shut. "So what? Are you surprised they don't trust you? Honestly, I'm not."
Satoru leaned forward, the smirk reappearing. "Nah. It'd be weird if they did. You know what actually does surprise me?" He tapped the dossier with a single knuckle.
Tap.
"The Archivist."
That got their attention.
He spread his arms, as if announcing a ghost story. "In every single Scarlet Mist incident for the past century, every report, every secondhand account, every disaster site," he said, casually but pointed, "someone saw a figure. Always the same. Never registers, never contacts the Jujutsu Society, no clan affiliation, no cursed technique on record, no name. He just… shows up, observes, and disappears. Just—poof. Gone. Every damn time."
"Like they're tracking it," Shoko muttered, brow creased.
"Or guarding it," Nanami added darkly.
"He has to know something," Satoru said, voice low now, thoughtful. "And the higher-ups? There's a standing 'contain on sight' order tucked under six layers of bureaucratic bullshit, which means they think he's dangerous enough to panic over." He turned back toward Yu, all expectations now. "And you," he said, "You had contact in 2007, closest any of us has come. And you lived because this old cryptic man pulled you out of that mess. So. What did he look like, Yu?"
Yu's smile wavered. He scratched the back of his neck, visibly uncomfortable. "Uh, well... someone did save me. But... this is kind of embarrassing..."
"Try me," Satoru said, already bracing for some grand revelation.
"I, uh. Don't think it was an old cryptic man."
A beat. Satoru blinked. "Come again?"
"Well..." Yu hesitated, then held up a hand, palm flat, wobbed it around shoulder height. "She was, like… A girl? Kinda short? Like… yay tall?" He paused. "Didn't look much older than me, back then... Definitely not an old man."
A beat.
Satoru blinked. "...She?"
Nanami squinted. "A woman?"
Yu nodded, laughing nervously. "A pretty girl. And she had this... look."
"What kind of look?"
"Like I was… like I was the idiot, you know? Like, 'Wow, you're really just gonna bleed all over the place, huh?'" Yu laughed nervously and pointed at himself, cheeks tinged pink. "I, uh, got the impression I disappointed her."
The memory clearly stung more than he let on.
Satoru stared. Mind: blank. Not calculating, not analyzing. Just pure, honest-to-god buffering.
He'd spent the last two weeks imagining some long-robed, shadowy figure drifting through cursed history, always appearing when the Scarlet Mist struck. A cryptic old bastard, maybe older than modern jujutsu itself. Someone impossibly wise, who knew all the answers and spoke in riddles. Beard-forward. Definitely male. The kind of person you chased across ruins and begged for answers. A guide. A mentor. Someone like—
"—Like Gandalf," he muttered, dazed. "I was looking for Gandalf. And you're telling me the Archivist is a short girl with resting disappointment face?"
"She really looked disappointed in my almost dying," Yu confirmed helpfully, visibly trying to shrink into his collar under Satoru's stare.
Satoru opened his mouth, processing the collapse of an entire mental mythology. Closed it again.
"I told you to stop romanticizing everything," Shoko said without looking up, reaching for her drink.
Nanami cut in, brows drawn. "Can't you just ask the Gojo clan?" he offered, tone strained. "They were attacked directly, in the 1989 incident. There has to be a record."
"Oh, I did ask," Satoru muttered to himself, running a hand back through his white hair. "The dossier mentioned a witness, but no name, no statement. So I asked the Gojo clan's matriarch—" He paused, rubbing his jaw. "—She went pale. Pale like I just brought the Scarlet Mist into the hall. Told me to never bring it up again."
Shoko shrugged. "Sounds like a dead end. Guess you'll have to wait until 2037-or-something like a normal cursed plague-obsessed sociopath."
"No way in hell," Satoru snapped. "I am not letting a fog of tuberculosis delay my career for three decades. I need to find it now. " He turned back to Yu, holding to a last hope. "Focus, my guy. Anything else before your lungs decided to turn into cursed Swiss cheese?"
Yu squinted, lips pursed, expression strained with exaggerated effort. Then—
"Oh! She asked for a button."
The silence that followed was heavy.
"…What," Nanami said, deadpan.
Yu nodded earnestly. "Yeah. From my Tokyo Jujutsu High uniform. She asked for it, like, very seriously."
Satoru leaned forward slowly. "Why?"
"I… don't know?" Yu scratched his cheek. "She said something about missing it in her cursed collection? Or a collection of curses? Honestly, I was kind of delirious, might've been both, my ears were ringing at that point."
"And... the button?"
"When I woke up in the hospital, one was gone from my uniform."
More silence. Even the bartender stopped wiping glasses.
Shoko was the one to summarize it. "So let me get this straight. The Archivist, the mysterious, century-old rogue sorcerer the higher-ups fear almost as much as the Scarlet Mist, who shows up to every disaster site and then vanishes, the one with a capture order standing—saved your life, judged you harshly, and stole a button?"
Yu gave a thumbs-up. "If you find her, Gojo-senpai, tell her thanks from me."
Nanami let out a slow, quiet breath, pinching the bridge of his nose with the air of a man who wanted to unsubscribe from reality.
Satoru said nothing for a moment, then looked back at the file. Scarlet Mist was dangerous, sure. Deadly. Unpredictable. But if there was a constant in the Scarlet Mist mess, it wasn't the cursed spirit—it was her. The Archivist.
She knew something about Scarlet Mist; he was sure of it. And if she didn't want to be found—
Well. She was about to be very, very disappointed.
Because if Scarlet Mist wouldn't come to him, then Satoru Gojo was going to start by dragging her out of whatever cursed hole she was hiding in and get his answers for the sake of his still-non-existent future students.
"Alright," he muttered, half to himself, fingers tapping a rhythm on the folder. "You wanna play hard to get? Too bad."
A pause, the smallest lift of a smirk.
"I'll find you."
.·:·.✧ ✦ ✧.·:·.
21 October 2014 – Tokyo
Well. This was unexpected.
Satoru did not believe in luck, but even he had to admit it was starting to feel as if the universe were finally throwing him a bone. Unfortunately, it was also throwing seventy-seven Tokyo police officers and ten government clerks face-first into the pavement.
Small trade-off, right?
He slid his sunglasses up onto his head, the faint click of plastic snapping into place sounding oddly loud in the stillness. Six Eyes kicked into full clarity, and immediately the world, as always, exploded into layers: cursed energy webs, subtle fractures, and the last breaths of a cursed technique still clinging to concrete and flesh.
Of course, the color was scarlet.
The Tokyo Metropolitan Police HQ was intact, structurally speaking. That was about the only thing that hadn't been turned inside-out; the barriers were up, manned by overworked assistants shooing away nosy reporters and civilians.
The Red Ward had lasted nine minutes. That was all, nine. Nine minutes to kill eighty-seven people, to dissolve lungs and tear alveoli apart like wet paper and then—vanish.
Scarlet Mist always vanished.
Didn't even wait for me to show. Rude.
And among the unlucky? One very dead Zenin clan elder, a big piece of jujutsu bureaucracy who'd been dispatched as liaison between the Jujutsu Society and the regular government.
Wrong place, wrong time, wrong bloodline.
Satoru crouched beside the body and flicked the edge of the tarp back one last time; the man's face was barely recognizable, chest caved in, and lungs liquefied. "Damn," he said aloud, tone light, disrespectful. "Talk about bad luck." Then, standing again with too much bounce in his step, he flashed a smile to no one. "But hey—lucky me."
Decades intervals, they said? Bullshit.
Scarlet Mist had actually reappeared. In 2014. A neat twenty-three years ahead of schedule.
And now, after chasing rumors, reports, censored names, and cowardly higher-ups, he wasn't just reading about it; he was here, now, observing it with his own Six Eyes. Ground zero. A Scarlet Mist event. And unlike the others, he wasn't going to waste it.
He strolled past the corpse with the casual grace of someone who'd long stopped being shocked by them, crossing to the main road in front of the building. The bodies were denser here, caught mid-run, some sprawled with mouths open as if still coughing up blood.
Satoru wasn't paying attention to them.
There. A point of convergence.
A spot in the middle of the street where the cursed energy didn't diffuse, but instead clung. He followed it, pausing where the cursed energy condensed. A crater. His Six Eyes sharpened; yes, residue pooled there in tight concentric layers, like a spear had been planted and rippled outward.
A cursed object?
Satoru squatted beside the crater, fingers hovering above the surface, muttering under his breath. "Temporary," he murmured. "But layered. Secondary field nested in the first. The kekkai, the structure—this—that's the doing of a cursed artifact, a powerful one, used to seal the area and infuse the Red Ward with the lethal mist."
The mist—the tuberculosis curse—was just a symptom. Something or someone had amplified the curse with a high-grade cursed object and placed it precisely to bloom right inside the sealed area of the Red Ward.
Seven years since the last appearance. That was nothing. Whatever Scarlet Mist was, it was speeding up, getting bold, or worse, getting help.
"That's not supposed to happen."
"That's not supposed to happen."
He muttered in perfect unison with another voice behind him, like an echo with attitude.
Satoru froze. That voice. Female, vaguely annoyed, and definitely not one of his staff. A civilian? How did she get past the perimeter? Ijichi's ass was so fired.
He straightened slowly, deliberately, like one might when spotting a stray cat you didn't want to startle. And... there she was. At the edge of a service tunnel, half in shadow, with one hand to her chin, muttering as if to herself and posture unconsciously mirroring his own—
A young woman.
Black eyes narrowed, lips moving just barely as she muttered her own running analysis, a sliver of cursed energy still drifting off her. Not tall. Maybe twenty, give or take. Hair black and up in a high ponytail, dressed like she was out to buy milk: plain red tracksuit, scuffed sneakers. And tucked casually under one arm: a grocery bag.
A grocery bag.
Satoru stared; he knew field theory rambling when he heard it, but she looked... unimpressed. Deeply, cosmically unimpressed. Oh, he thought, heart skipping for the first time in hours. Bingo. There you are, Gandalf.
Before he could sharpen his focus, before he could analyze her energy fully with his Six Eyes, she clicked her tongue, disappointed at the world, apparently, and turned on her heel, slipping back right into the tunnel.
Gone. Just like the dossier said, classic Archivist move.
"Oh no, sweetheart," Satoru rolled his neck once, casually, then smirked. "You don't get to do the vanishing act on me."
He spared a glance for the assistant currently supervising the cleanup; poor Ijichi was already trying to explain to three reporters why blood loss wasn't technically contagious. "Eh. They'll live," he muttered, and without another word, ghosted toward the mouth of the tunnel.
Quiet. Slow. Hands in his pockets. Letting her have a bit of distance to avoid detection and following the thread of her cursed energy.
Strange stuff, her cursed energy. Calm, gentle, stable in a way most jujutsu users never achieved. It felt like watching a 90-year-old retired sorcerer. Old and familiar. Familiar in a way that was uncomfortable. It rolled off her in waves that reminded him of—
He frowned; where had he felt that before?
...Megumi?
No, that wasn't right. The cursed signature was similar, almost exact, sure; tense in the middle, soft at the edges, but more like, if Megumi had a really terrifying, battle-hardened grandma.
And... He squinted at a wooden comb painted with red camellias tucked in her hair.
Is it cursed? Oh. It is.
"Really?" Satoru muttered to himself, half-laughing as he trailed her down the corridor.
She kept moving, completely unaware she was being tailed, still muttering. "Same compression pattern… deployment radius bigger than 2007…"
Satoru narrowed his eyes and kept following. Let her get a little further, let her feel safe. She turned another corner, calm and steady as ever, perfectly at ease in her peaceful strolling. As if she were just a curious wanderer.
He was, frankly, beginning to feel like a creepy stalker.
Not quite the thrilling rooftop pursuit he had imagined. It felt more like... Like stalking a very judgmental raccoon through a Tokyo alley at midnight.
He sighed half-exasperated with himself, already composing the apology he wouldn't say when she caught him, but when he rounded the corner—She was gone. Gone. Gone-gone. The air snapped clean as she'd never been there. Satoru stood still. She'd seen him. She must've, no other way she'd disappear that fast.
...Or maybe she hadn't, maybe she was just good. Really good.
Quickly, he looked left, right, tilted his head; the Six Eyes lit up every residual trace in full chromatic detail. And, oh, there—at the far end of the alley. A subtle shift, the tail end of her cursed energy curling into shadow, tucked into a narrow breach between buildings.
"...Oh? Ten Shadows?" he mused, grin curling up again.
Interesting. Looks like my Archivist's a little Zenin on the run.
The Six Eyes kept her cursed energy neatly mapped in his head through backstreets and rooftops and half a dozen wrong turns, until he landed here: Asakusa, historical heart of Tokyo. Narrow alleys, cobbled paths, wooden beams that groaned like they remembered earthquakes.
He'd give her this much: she was committed, but he didn't lose her. Not even for a second.
And now, in front of him: an aging two-story structure tucked between a temple and a defunct noodle shop.
Lantern light flickered behind rice-paper windows. The cursed energy practically wept from the walls. But it was the sign in faded brushstroke letters dangling slightly askew over the door that made his brain stutter.
The Archivist's Curio Shop.
He blinked. Once. Twice. Then: "…Seriously?" He threw his head back and laughed. "We've been chasing your cryptic ass through a hundred years, and this is where you live? You named a shop after yourself?"
Satoru pulled out his phone, snapped a photo of the sign, and uploaded it to Google. Nothing beats ancient jujutsu secrecy like public registry and commercial metadata.
Edo-period relics | Private consultations by appointment only | We don't sell on Sundays. Established: 1958.
He scrolled further. Two reviews:
★★☆☆☆ "Scary owner. Seemed to know I was lying about my family heirloom."
★★★★☆ "Asked about an old katana, left with a history lesson and a sense of dread."
Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
He approached the door, smiling with expectations. It looked fragile; that should've been the first clue. The second was the faint glow of a security-cursed talisman along the frame. The third? When he pushed, something gave way with a crack and the quiet finality of old things surrendering to force.
The entire door creaked open like it was made of paper.
"Oh."
That probably wasn't supposed to happen, but to be fair, it had been very fragile.
Inside, a bell chimed, mockingly delicate. Something brittle shattered underfoot. He stepped in, unbothered, no regrets for the broken door.
The shop was… Chaos.
A sensory overload. Dust-heavy air, shelves packed with Edo ceramics, rusted swords, wooden boxes, netsuke, and a frankly disturbing number of religious charms. There, near the wall, a stack of katana was bundled in twine. A kabuto helmet crowned with a golden crescent moon. A mirror that refused to show his reflection.
His Six Eyes practically screamed from the residual cursed energy; every single item—every one—was cursed. It was a museum of dysfunction, a shrine to bad decisions and things that never should've survived past the Meiji Restoration.
Whoever lived here had been collecting cursed artifacts for a very long time. A compulsive kind of collecting. He'd seen this before.
It was like a Zenin clan yard sale.
"...Zenin huh?" Satoru muttered. "Always so aggressive and dramatic."
He turned, letting his Six Eyes adjust just in time to lock with a pair of storm-grey eyes staring at him, narrowed.
Across the room, a tall man stood behind a cluttered low table, black hair tied back with military precision, face taut with something between stoicism and homicide, crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled just so. Gloves, of course, and a long nodachi strapped at his hip.
In his hands, a delicate black-lacquered sake set; it was cursed.
The man looked at Satoru like someone watching an unexpected, unwelcome disaster. His pupils shrank a fraction; immediate dislike.
Ah. Right. I broke the front door. Satoru offered his brightest, most shit-eating grin and waved. "Yo?"
Just like that, the sake cups fell from the man's grip. They didn't just break; they detonated in a tiny shockwave of cursed energy that rattled the walls.
The man growled under his breath, staring down at the mess with the haunted look of someone who knew how expensive those were, and immediately dropped to the floor to sweep up shards. "Fucking white-haired punks…" he muttered in perfect, deadly calm.
"You know, I don't think you were supposed to break those," Satoru offered helpfully.
The man looked up, deadpan. "And you weren't supposed to break the door. There was a talisman."
Fair.
Satoru just grinned wider. The man looked just a bit older than him, but his cursed energy was bright and sparkling like a magical girl mid-transformation, too dramatic for someone pretending to be just a shop clerk. Moderate output. Mid-grade sorcerer, he guessed—Nanami level, if he squinted.
Refined, but not her. Not the Archivist he'd chased for kilometers.
He wandered forward, ignoring the man's outstretched hand of warning.
His gaze drifted to a dusty glass case. Inside: a series of buttons. Not just any buttons. One, unmistakably, was a standard-issue Tokyo Jujutsu High button, exact match to the one Yu had described. Next to it, a rustier sibling, unmistakably Showa era. And besides that, one that looked like it predated electricity.
He laughed, delighted. Oh, Archivist. This is an adorable cursed collection.
"Don't move," the man snapped. "The shop's closed. You're trespassing."
Satoru turned back to the man, entirely too pleased with himself. "So?" he asked. "Where is she?"
The man paused mid-squat as he still tried to gather the broken ceramic. Froze.
"The Archivist," Satoru clarified smoothly. "Young woman. Not very tall. Big attitude. Last seen muttering to herself at a cursed crime scene."
After clearly running through dozens of scenarios in his mind, the man slowly looked up, stood straight, dusted off his gloves, and took one off. He extended a hand with the enthusiasm of someone being forced to compliment their worst enemy.
"I am the Archivist," he said, smiling as if it hurt.
Satoru stared at the outstretched hand. Then back at his face. "...No, you're not."
"Hisanobu Kashimo," the man didn't blink. "The Archivist."
Satoru cocked his head. "Listen, 'Nobu. The Archivist's a woman. I know that much."
A vein twitched near Hisanobu's temple at the nickname. A pause. Then, a noise that might have been a laugh that sounded like a dying engine. "I get mistaken for a woman all the time. Something about my... aura."
Satoru nodded solemnly. "You mean the Sailor Moon pin on your collar?"
That definitely hit a nerve. Satoru's Six Eyes caught the smallest flicker of cursed energy as Hisanobu visibly restrained himself from slamming his own face into the floor. And behind the desk, just barely visible, stairs.
Downward. Subtle, but the trail he'd followed all night dripped down those steps.
Got you.
"Charmed, 'Nobu," Satoru said, brushing past the tall, scowling fake-archivist with the same level of concern he might give a light breeze. "But I think I'll go say hi to the real Archivist, I have a special-grade Vengeful Spirit to track."
Hisanobu tensed, barked, "Stop right there—!"
Satoru didn't stop. Not even when he felt a hand reach for his shoulder, which, of course, failed to connect. Infinity. The hand froze inches from his jacket, blocked by the absolute barrier of infinite space between them.
"Ah-ah," he quipped over his shoulder, "no touching. Try again in twenty years or so."
He vaulted the counter with lazy grace, hands in his pockets, neck craned toward the stairwell, and sure enough, his grin spread the second his Six Eyes registered what was below. Now that was cursed energy. Not the noisy, low-grade static of the trinkets upstairs. That stuff barely qualified as a curse, more like antiques with an attitude. But this?
The good stuff. A real cursed collector's basement.
Satoru took the stairs two at a time, not even trying to be stealthy. Why should he? He was on the case. Spiritually, this was his house now. Behind him, Hisanobu followed with the reluctant determination of someone already writing an internal apology letter to every ancestor on record.
A faded curtain hung at the base of the steps, drenched with residual energy and a subtle heat. A barrier, obviously. Probably cursed. Probably priceless. It looked like it had been there for centuries, and sure enough, as he reached out and pulled it aside—
The cloth burst into violet flame the second he touched it.
It didn't touch him, of course. Infinity breathed outward with a hum, letting the fire curl away, but it was definitely on fire.
"Of course it's cursed," he muttered.
"That," hissed Hisanobu behind him, tense as a drawn bowstring, "was the Purifying Mantle of Emperor Jinmu. That thing was older than half the clans in this country! You just activated a relic-class barrier—!"
"Sorry," Satoru said, entirely not sorry, as he stepped through the last of the embers. "How could I have known it would catch fire?"
And then he was in the room.
The basement wasn't big, but it felt huge. Like it didn't obey regular spatial rules. Cursed energy rolled through it in nested waves. Dozens of artifacts, weapons, and tools, most of them lethal, all of them illegal, were crammed onto old wooden racks and low shelves.
It was a goddamn arsenal hidden in plain sight beneath a dusty shop in Asakusa.
Satoru inhaled slowly. This wasn't a storage vault; this was an obsession. The kind of place you only built if you'd been alive long enough to see empires rise and fall and kept souvenirs from each. Illegal, unregistered, definitely unaccounted—or worse, probably one crime away from a death sentence.
God, it felt good to be somewhere unregulated.
The higher-ups would lose their powdered wigs if they saw this. They'd confiscate everything, wipe it clean, and rebrand it as "Clan Property." Claim it for the "good of the jujutsu order."
They'd turn this beautiful chaos into bureaucracy; he hated bureaucracy.
Still grinning, still marveling, he almost missed the voice.
"Nobu, did you touch the Jinmu Mantle again without gloves?"
The voice floated out of the center of the room. Satoru froze, just slightly. That voice. The same one from the Scarlet Mist crime scene. The one he'd chased across half the city, calm, unimpressed, vaguely maternal in the most terrifying sense of the word.
Beside him, Hisanobu stiffened and flinched like a soldier being court-martialed for doing something very stupid. Then, with a kind of grim dignity, he stepped past Satoru like Infinity hadn't just denied him moments ago, and gave a small bow of his head.
"My apologies, Ojousama," he said with monk-like calm. "The error was mine."
Satoru blinked. Ojousama? Really? Is this an antiquarian cult? Is he the butler? But he didn't get a chance to snark. Because then—
"Never mind. The mantle will regenerate like it always does," said the voice, tone flipping to cheerful, "But look at this newcomer," she cooed, almost delighted.
He looked up and there she was.
The Archivist.
Same black ponytail. Same deadpan scowl that somehow screamed 'you've disappointed me personally.' Same cursed signature—stable, quiet, familiar. So familiar it silenced everything else.
His Six Eyes, without conscious effort, filtered out the artifacts' noise. Fixed entirely on her. For a split second, it felt like peace.
She stood by a desk cluttered with open scrolls, old paper, and a small mountain of cursed trash piled around her like a nest. Short, yes. But sharp. Black eye focused on a weathered manuscript with the sort of reverence normally reserved for national treasures or nuclear launch codes. Now that he could take a good look at her... Same coiled stillness, same sharp eyes, same prideful attitude. She really did remind him of Megumi on his bad days and even more dangerously reminded him of the only man who had ever come close to killing him.
There was a smile on her lips, soft, almost dreamy, private. Something about it didn't match the sharpness of her presence, but it suited her somehow.
Well, Yu hadn't been lying. Pretty in the kind of way that felt like trouble. Nothing like Gandalf.
Her cursed energy, though quiet, reached toward him like something recognizing a shape it hadn't seen in a long time, like it was brushing up against something it used to know.
Satoru felt it echo down to his ribs. His fingers twitched in what felt like déjà vu. Some part of him thought yes, of course it's you, even as every memory he had told him no, I've never seen her before in my life.
He blamed the Six Eyes. Probably a brain thing. Residual emotion. Phantom nostalgia.
That, or she had a basement full of cursed stuff and enough cursed energy to punch through a shrine, and fine, he'd admit it, it was kind of hot.
But it had been years since something made his brain light up like this. That was probably all it was.
He blinked. Took a breath. Tried to play it cool.
So, that's the Archivist.
Then—
Then the smile changed; it curved upward, too much. That was not a normal smile. That was a "hoarder dragon just found a new gem" smile.
"This," she said without looking up, "is a first transcription of Musashi Miyamoto's Dōkkōdō. Handwritten and absolutely authentic!"
Hisanobu inhaled—probably to intervene, to stop the madness—but she rolled right over him.
Satoru blinked.
…Was she about to monologue? Yes. Yes, she was.
"Do you know how I know? I can prove it," she went on, tone rising into the practiced joy of a one-woman historical lecture. "Look. There's an error," She opened the manuscript with reverence. Her fingers moved over the page as if it might bite.
Satoru found himself staring as she was absolutely radiant and delighted by a centuries-old scribal mistake.
"Right here, in the mora count. It was corrected in later versions, or the forgeries, but here—here it's untouched," she said, breathlessly. "A beginner's mistake. But that brat always had that flaw in his compositions, even in his poems. Sloppy. He always rushed his third lines—"
Then she looked up, smile still bright, eyes landing square on—
Him.
Her smile froze mid-sentence, eyes locked on his—black to blue smashing together like glass, and everything stopped except for the faint crackle of the Purifying Mantle still burning behind them.
The room dropped ten degrees, as if her energy had folded in on itself; she stared at him as if he'd walked in wearing the wrong face.
Something shifted in her face. That open delight shattered; not faded, shattered. Her hand rose, fingers brushing the cursed wooden comb pinned in her hair. Her mouth twitched like she was about to smile, but restrained herself.
Then, in rapid fire: melancholy, fear, grief, shock, then a flicker of heartbreak so raw it hit Satoru like a brick to the ribs. What did I do? he thought, weirdly sorry for once. Satoru opened his mouth, half-lifted a hand as if to say I didn't mean to burn your curtain? He didn't know what he was apologizing for, but he felt like he should.
Before he had the chance, her face hardened. Angry. Really angry.
The kind of angry that said: You died on me four hundred years ago, and I still haven't forgiven you.
…Which—okay. Weirdly specific. Maybe he was just reading too much into it again.
She closed the manuscript. Placed it gently on the desk. Exhaled slowly, like she was composing herself. And when she looked at him again, gone was the warmth, gone was the manic glee of a girl showing off a cursed antique. What remained was cold, steady, and deeply pissed off.
A Zenin glare, he thought, privately impressed.
Satoru smirked and recovered fast. "The Archivist, I presume?"
The silence was deadly. Next to him, Hisanobu looked like he wanted to crawl into the floorboards.
Satoru took one step forward, smile crooked. "Found you," he said, light as a breeze, even as he had the feeling he'd been found.
The Archivist hesitated, black eyes narrowing. Then, too softly, "You found me."