Waking up was slower this time. No panic. No bleeding. Just the dull ache of exhaustion hanging off his limbs like wet clothes. His eyes fluttered open to soft yellow light spilling in from a high, narrow window. The walls were stone but clean. His new bed was wider than the cot. There was a blanket. A shelf. A door that wasn't locked but was clearly watched.
Not a cell. Not exactly a hospital room either.
Something in between.
Xavier blinked and exhaled through his nose. His ribs still hurt, but the pain was more of a suggestion now—something his body remembered but no longer screamed about. The last thing he recalled was the blindfolded man with the smug attitude and the sharp intuition.
Gojo.
Just thinking the name sent a wave of cold understanding through his spine. He'd met him. Talked to him. Lied to him. And now he was here—on the grounds of Jujutsu High, a school from a fictional universe that was all too real now.
He sat up slowly, letting the room come into focus. It was empty except for a small table and a folded change of clothes. There was no medical equipment. No IV drip. Whatever healing had been done was either supernatural or rapid.
He stood gingerly, muscles stiff but working, and walked toward the window. Outside, he could see the training field. Distant figures moved across the stone courtyard. One threw a punch that released a ripple of energy across the earth. Another stood unmoving, shadows pulsing from their feet like ink bleeding into water.
Cursed energy. Techniques. This world was alive with it.
And then there was him.
He raised a hand, flexing his fingers. Nothing shimmered. No glow. No rush of golden heat like before. But he could feel it, buried beneath his skin like a second pulse—quiet, waiting. Whatever had come out of him in that forest hadn't disappeared.
It was still there.
He'd barely survived the last encounter. And he didn't even know what he was surviving with.
There was a knock at the door—soft but measured. A moment later, it opened.
Gojo stepped in, still blindfolded, still wearing that too-calm expression.
"Hey, sunshine. You look slightly less like roadkill."
Xavier didn't answer. He turned to face him fully, unsure of whether to thank him or brace for more questioning.
Gojo walked in and set something on the table—a bowl of warm rice, miso soup, and a small notebook. "Figured you might be hungry. And bored."
"What is this place?" Xavier finally asked.
"Temporary quarters," Gojo said, pulling up a chair. "We're still figuring out what to do with you. So, for now, you're on academic probation."
Xavier raised a brow. "Academic?"
"This is a school," Gojo said with a grin. "Sort of. We train jujutsu sorcerers. You're not technically one of us, but until the higher-ups make a decision, you're under observation. With me."
"Lucky me," Xavier muttered, sitting on the edge of the bed again.
Gojo's expression didn't change, but the tone in his voice dropped just slightly. "I stuck my neck out for you. Just so we're clear. They wanted to tie you down and poke holes until something made sense. I said you were worth watching."
"And what if I'm not?"
Gojo smiled faintly. "Then I was wrong. And people get twitchy when I make mistakes."
Xavier glanced at the notebook. "What's that for?"
"Start writing," Gojo said. "Dreams. Thoughts. How your body feels. Any strange reactions or memories. The more you understand this power, the better your chances of keeping it."
There was something in his voice—an edge of sincerity beneath the sarcasm. Xavier took the notebook.
"And what about you? You just gonna babysit me?"
"For now. I'll be in and out. But don't worry," Gojo said as he stood, "I'll know if anything weird happens."
He turned toward the door. "Oh, and one more thing. There's something growing. Not inside you—but near where you burned that spirit. We've got sensors watching it. Whatever it is, it's… changing."
Xavier didn't speak, but the hairs on his arms rose.
Gojo paused before leaving. "One month, Xavier. That's what I bought you. After that, if the higher-ups still think you're a threat, it won't be me knocking on your door."
The door clicked shut.
Xavier sat in silence, the notebook warm in his hands. His thoughts churned, slow and unsteady.
He had one month.
Beneath the earth where Xavier's fight had ended, something pulsed.
Not with malevolence, but with inevitability.
In the blackened crater left by the curse's destruction, ash had settled thick and undisturbed. The surrounding trees refused to grow near it. Animals didn't approach. Even curses gave the area a wide berth.
At the center of the site, a cocoon of shimmering white crystal had begun to form—no larger than a fist. It pulsed faintly with golden light, rhythm slow and steady, like a living heartbeat.
It had no name. No shape. Not yet.
But the energy that birthed it had come from a moment of pain, of protection, of sacred instinct unleashed against the unnatural. The reaction had been so violent, so pure, that something had been left behind.
A womb. Not of flesh or flower, but of sanctified energy drawn together into a waiting vessel.
It was not cursed.
It was not human.
It was blessed.
And in one month, it would open its eyes.