Chapter 2
"Two years have passed."
Ryuichi flexed his wrist, his gaze drifting with a distant, absent look.
He wasn't born into this world—he was a traveler, a transmigrator who had awakened in the universe of Jujutsu Kaisen. Fate had tied him to the Zenin clan, one of the prestigious Big Three sorcerer families in Japan.
His true name was Zenin Ryuichi, yet that name carried him no favor. Born without a trace of cursed energy, he became little more than a rat scurrying in the shadows of the family's pride. Scorn followed him at every step, and eventually, under the excuse of "training experience," the clan expelled him from their home.
It was only then—cast out and abandoned—that his long-delayed system finally awakened.
That system granted him access to the Eight Secret Arts, legendary techniques from another dimension—arts said to represent the pinnacle of mastery.
But there was a catch. He could only unlock them one at a time. Each technique had to be brought to full mastery—100% proficiency—before the next would awaken.
Even with such a golden finger, progress was slow. It had taken Ryuichi two years just to master the Divine Armament: Hundred Refinements, and only recently had he managed to unlock the Six Immortal Thieves Treasury.
With Divine Armament: Hundred Refinements, he could instantly forge cursed tools of exceptional quality. Against such power, a mere Grade 4 Cursed Spirit was laughably weak. In truth, even his Six Immortal Thieves Treasury had trouble finding worthy prey to devour, let alone cursed tools worth refining.
Clang~
A sound like wind chimes rang softly in his ear. Hanging from his neck was a small silver cross pendant—no ordinary ornament. At this moment, it pulsed faintly with pale-blue light, each shimmer releasing a delicate chime.
Ryuichi pulled himself out of his thoughts and gave a quiet snap of his fingers.
Pop!
From nothing, a rocking chair appeared behind him. Its wooden frame was carved with elegant wisteria patterns, regal and refined. Sitting back lazily, Ryuichi rocked gently, his silver eyes fixed on a shadowed corner of the abandoned construction site.
The air seemed to thicken, as though an iceberg had suddenly appeared in the summer heat.
Finally, movement.
At the construction site's gate, two tall men stepped forward. They wore black suits and dark sunglasses—enforcers of the clan. The leader radiated a potent cursed aura, a cut above the average sorcerer.
Spotting Ryuichi reclining in his chair, the older of the two approached first, his footsteps sharp against the broken ground.
"Master Ryuichi," the man said in a stiff, formal tone. "You've been away long enough. It's time you returned home."
Though phrased as a request, his voice left no room for negotiation. His demeanor made it clear: he fully expected Ryuichi to obey without question.
But Ryuichi didn't even bother looking at him. Still rocking back and forth, he gazed up at the moonlight breaking through the clouds, lips curling into a faint, mocking smile.
"Zenin Ryuichi! Don't push your luck!" the man barked, veins bulging on his forehead. Everyone knew this boy was a useless failure, born without cursed energy. He should have amounted to nothing.
Yet somehow, through some freak chance, Ryuichi had stumbled upon strange techniques—strange enough to alarm even the Zenin elders. They had personally commanded these men to drag him back.
But seeing the "family outcast" now, lounging in arrogance, ignoring his words—the man could hardly contain his fury. Still, remembering the orders, he forced his temper down.
"The Zenin estate?" Ryuichi finally spoke, his eyes half-lidded in disinterest. "I'm not interested."
His hand waved lazily, as if brushing away a bothersome fly.
"You bastard!" the man roared. "Do you even realize what you're saying? Countless sorcerers would kill for a chance to set foot in the Zenin household!"
His eyes burned with disbelief. He had assumed Ryuichi would leap at the chance to return once summoned. After all, the Zenin clan was a cornerstone of the Jujutsu world, overflowing with resources and influence.
But instead, this so-called "failure" was looking at him as though the family's offer was beneath him.
"You really think you're something special just because you learned a few tricks?" the man spat. Rage boiling over, he thrust out his left hand.
Dark-purple cursed energy erupted across his arm, flooding the space around them with malevolent force.
"Shockwave!"
The air turned violet as his cursed strike thundered forward, the raw power shaking the night itself.
He was a Grade 2 sorcerer, and he had absolute confidence that this single blow would be enough to crush a brat who barely scratched the surface of Grade 3.
Or so he believed.
But the very next moment—
A flash of silver-white light tore across the night sky, sharp as a blade, vanishing in an instant.