Toji Fushiguro had been away from the Zen'in clan for over a year.In that time, his life had been a cycle of cheap instant noodles, worse apartments, and occasional bursts of black-market bounty hunting whenever he needed quick cash.
The pattern was always the same — get paid, live a little too well for a few days, blow the rest gambling, then go broke again. Not that he minded.
The jujutsu world called his body Heavenly Restriction — trading all cursed energy for the human body's absolute peak. It meant no flashy spells, no incantations. Just speed, strength, reflexes, and a killer's instinct sharper than any blade. Perfect for tearing apart sorcerers and curse users who relied on their tricks.
This job? Just something he'd picked up at random after losing his last stack of winnings.According to Kong Shiyu — an information broker with too many teeth in his smile — the target was a curse user posing as a composer. His music carried hidden cursed energy, draining the life from anyone who listened and feeding it to the grotesque spirit he kept.
Easy money, Toji thought. Enough for a week or two of good food before he found his next mark.
He'd planted a small charge backstage as a distraction. The muffled boom was his signal.Toji slipped into a dusty utility room, pulling a cursed knife from where it had been hidden between a mop and a broom. The blade reeked from storage — sour and metallic. He wrinkled his nose.
"Perfect excuse to buy a new one after this," he muttered.
A faint shimmer of cursed energy drifted in the air — someone trying to lace the space with a lingering spell. Toji's eyes tracked the source lazily.
"I told you…"
In a flash, the knife swept out in a half-moon arc. The cursed energy evaporated on contact like frost meeting flame.
"…low-grade filth like that doesn't work on me."
A sudden, deafening blast of sound erupted down the corridor — a symphony turned weapon, crashing into bone and brain alike. Toji didn't even flinch. He tossed his knife. The cursed tool cut through the air, punching straight into the shadow where the curse user hid.
The man yelped, control slipping.
Toji was already moving, boot hooking under the knife's hilt as it rebounded, flipping it back into his grip before slashing downward. The curse user rolled aside, and the blade bit into the wall — which promptly exploded in a cloud of smoke and plaster.
Behind it loomed the curse spirit. Massive, bloated, its skin warped into the shapes of flutes, horns, and violins. Too many tiny eyes blinked in unison at Toji.
It roared, every instrument on its body shrieking in chaotic harmony.
"Quasi–special grade," Toji whistled, grinning. "Not bad."
The curse user puffed up, voice trembling with manic pride. "That's my muse! My masterpiece! You don't understand its beauty!"
Wrong thing to say.
Toji's grin faded, and in one smooth step, he cleaved off a chunk of the creature's "instruments." The spirit screamed.
"Your muse sounds like trash."
The beast thrashed wildly, smashing through walls, scattering terrified civilians from the next room. Toji didn't bother shielding them — not his problem. He waited for an opening—
—and then it came.
A lance tore through the air, faster than his eyes could fully track, skewering the curse spirit clean through and pinning it to the ground. The force cracked the floor and blew apart three more walls.
Toji blinked away the afterimage, eyes narrowing at the figure stepping through the rubble.
Tall. Slender. Amber eyes calm as still water. The man reached the lance and drew it free, its blade gleaming as he flicked away cursed blood. The spirit recoiled — not from pain, but from the sheer, crushing weight of the man's presence.
The civilians bolted. The curse user screamed at the newcomer.
Zhongli didn't even glance at him at first. "To feed such filth with human life…" His voice was quiet, but it rolled like distant thunder. "It is an insult to creation itself."
The curse user spat back about art. Toji only half-listened, watching the way Zhongli moved. No cursed energy — and yet every step carried force. Something ancient. Something heavy.
Then the curse surged again, symphony roaring. Toji moved to intercept—
—but a hand caught his arm. "Watch," said a voice from the rubble — Tiaoye Caiju.
Rock formed around Zhongli in visible layers, blocking the attack as if the music had struck a mountain. He advanced, spear flashing, and the curse spirit was torn apart in a single, final blow.
The curse user staggered, and Toji stepped forward, blocking Zhongli's path. "First come, first serve," he said casually. "You already took the spirit. The human's mine."
Zhongli's amber gaze held his for a moment — then he inclined his head and dismissed the spear into nothing. "Please."
Toji grinned. "Thanks."
The curse user's last thought was pain as Toji yanked his head back and removed it in one clean motion.
"If your head's gone," Toji said, wiping the blade on the corpse, "you don't get to talk tough."
---
The curse user was dead, yet none of those present made any move to leave.
Chuuya floated forward, using his ability to control his own gravity. He landed lightly beside Zhongli, his sharp blue eyes locked on Toji Fushiguro, who stood across from them still holding a severed head.Tiaoye Caiju hadn't stepped forward, but his hand rested on the hilt of his blade, the faint tension in his stance showing he was ready to flank if necessary.
"Hey, don't look at me like I'm the villain here," Toji drawled, tossing both the knife and the head aside with casual ease. "I just killed a curse user who was harboring a curse spirit. That's worth a little gratitude, isn't it?"
Caiju chuckled, low and derisive. "Funny. From what I heard, you nearly got those people killed in the process. Who's to say you and Harada weren't working together?"
He said it with all the righteous weight of someone speaking the truth—though the irony was rich, given he himself was a Port Mafia enforcer.
Toji's eyebrow twitched. Patience was not his strong suit, and the only reason he hadn't already drawn steel was the fact Zhongli still had eyes on him. That calm, unreadable stare was like stone—dense, immovable, and not to be taken lightly.
Still, there were faster ways to shut someone up than a fight.
"Mr… Zhongli, right?" Toji said, feigning an easy grin. "You're just gonna stand there and let them treat an innocent guy like me this way?"
Zhongli's reply was immediate and utterly flat. "You are not innocent."
Toji's grin faltered. Zhongli rested a steady hand on Chuuya's shoulder, his voice calm but firm. "Still, there is no need for such hostility."
Chuuya, who trusted Zhongli's judgment more than anyone's, immediately stepped back. He shot Caiju a glare, the unspoken warning clear: stand down.
Caiju, catching the shift in Chuuya's presence, reluctantly slid his blade back into its sheath. "Fine. I'll do as Mr. Zhongli says… but you make it hard not to look like the bad guy."
Toji smirked faintly at the exchange, then scooped his weapons back up and secured them at his waist. "Mission's done. I'm out. Don't call me, I won't call you." He turned to leave, already picturing his bounty payout and a relaxing evening at the racetrack—
"Wait," Zhongli's voice cut through the air like a chime.
Toji stopped mid-step, irritation flickering in his eyes. "What now?"
"That horse you're planning to bet on won't win today."
"…What?"
Toji blinked, then frowned. His fingers brushed against the folded race program in his pocket. Inside, marked in pen, was the very horse he'd planned to put his winnings on—Godspeed, the favorite to win.
"How the hell do you know that?"
Zhongli crossed his arms. "I saw its preview earlier. The mane is smooth but dull, its gait steady yet sloppy. A sign of exhaustion—if not illness. At least three of the five labors weigh on it."
Toji stared at him blankly. "You sound like you've been betting your whole life."
"I know a little," Zhongli replied with a faint smile.
Toji stuffed the program back into his pocket. "Alright, I'll bite. What do you want? You didn't stop me just to give gambling advice."
"Correct," Zhongli said evenly. "Consider that information an advance payment. In return, I want you to tell me—how did you hear about Chuuya?"
Toji's posture stiffened before he forced it loose again under Zhongli's unblinking gaze. "…Guess I didn't cover my tracks as well as I thought. Let's just say the black market gets chatty when someone suddenly puts a three-million-yen price tag on a kid's head."
Chuuya froze, the number hitting him harder than he'd expected.
Caiju's eyes widened. "Three million? That's… not normal. Even with ability-user premiums, that's well above the limit."
"As expected," Zhongli murmured, "the Port Mafia did not honor the contract."
Toji ignored the politics. "I don't care about your contract, but if you want to protect the kid—or take a swing at the Mafia—I can help. Discount rates for new clients." He pulled a battered business card from his pocket and held it out.
Zhongli took the card without a word, then calmly refused.
Toji shrugged. "Your loss. Call me when you wise up." With a lazy wave, he left.
When he was gone, Caiju quickly held up his hands. "I didn't know anything about this."
"I know," Zhongli replied. "Go."
---
On the other side of Yokohama, Toji was already on the move. By nightfall, he'd slipped through a private channel out of the city and was back in Tokyo, bounty in hand. Without hesitation, he headed for the racetrack.
He bought his ticket for Godspeed—then, just before handing over the rest of his money, Zhongli's voice echoed in his head.
"…Fine. I'll hedge my bets." He split his funds, putting most on Godspeed and a small portion on Tornado.
The race began. Godspeed shot ahead instantly, holding first place all the way into the final stretch. Toji smirked—until the horse stumbled, threw its rider, and bolted off the track.
The crowd roared—some in victory, others in outrage. Toji just sat there, staring at his tickets. He'd won… but barely enough to cover the drinks.
"…Son of a—"