Five months is a strange amount of time. It's long enough to build a habit, but short enough that the novelty of being a ten-year-old with the eyes of a god hasn't quite worn off.
My life in Sendai had settled into a rhythm of calculated obsession. To the outside world, I was the "Miracle Orphan"—a silver-haired prodigy who lived alone in a luxury penthouse, a boy whose academic scores were so high the teachers didn't even know how to grade him anymore. To the real world—the world of shadows and CE—I was a bio-weapon in development.
School was a means to an end. While my classmates were struggling with basic fractions and the Kanji for "bridge," I was sitting in the back of the room with a stack of university-level textbooks on metallurgy, fluid dynamics, and organic chemistry.
"Akitoshi-kun?"
I blinked, pulling my gaze away from a diagram of the molecular structure of nickel-chromium superalloys. My teacher, Mr. Tanaka, was standing over me, looking caught between admiration and genuine concern.
"Yes, Mr. Tanaka?" I asked, my voice flat. I hadn't turned on the Six Eyes yet today. The fluorescent lights were annoying enough without seeing the flickering electrons behind them.
"The class is discussing the basics of the circulatory system," Tanaka said, gesturing to the chalkboard. "But I see you're reading... Advanced Hematology? Is everything alright at home? I know you're interested in science, but this is a bit... morbid for a ten-year-old."
I leaned back, giving him a small, weary smile. "Knowledge isn't morbid, sensei. It's practical. If you understand how the heart regulates pressure, you understand the most efficient pump in nature. If you understand the viscosity of blood at different temperatures, you understand how to survive."
Tanaka blinked. "Survive? It's a science quiz next week, not a wilderness survival course."
"To me, they're the same thing," I muttered, turning the page to a section on the clotting factors of fibrinogen.
A girl in the row next to me, Miho—a talkative kid who seemed determined to break through my "brooding loner" exterior—leaned over. "You're so weird, Akitoshi. Why do you need to know about nickel-chromium whatever? Are you gonna build a robot?"
"Something like that," I replied, my eyes scanning the room. Even without the Six Eyes active, I could feel the "weight" of people. Cursed Energy was everywhere, even in these kids. It was a faint, greasy film of anxiety about lunch or a math test. "I just prefer materials that don't break when you hit things with them."
"You talk like an old man," she giggled.
"I've had a very long sixteen years," I whispered under my breath.
The Grind
When the bell rang, my real day began. My "trust fund" wasn't just for rent; I used it to hire the best private instructors money could buy—and then I fired them when I'd sucked them dry of knowledge.
First was the martial arts dojo. A grizzled veteran of Kyokushin Karate and Krav Maga.
"Again!" the instructor shouted, swinging a padded wooden staff at my ribs.
I didn't use my techniques. Not yet. I moved my ten-year-old body with a grace that shouldn't have been possible. I parried the blow, redirected the momentum, and drove a palm strike into his solar plexus. He wheezed, stumbling back.
"Your reaction time is... inhuman," he gasped, rubbing his chest. "It's like you know where I'm moving before I do."
'I do,' I thought. Even with the Six Eyes off, my brain processed visual data at a rate that made his movements look like they were happening in slow-motion film. "It's just physics, Sensei. Balance, weight distribution, and the angle of your shoulders."
After martial arts came the weapon specialist—an old man who smelled like oil and whetstones. He taught me the weight of a blade, the geometry of a cut, and how to maintain a weapon.
"A sword is an extension of your soul," he told me.
"No," I corrected him, examining a 1060 carbon steel katana. "A sword is a tool used to concentrate force into a microscopic surface area to overcome the structural integrity of a target. The 'soul' part is just marketing."
The old man just sighed. "You're a joyless child, Akitoshi."
Finally, the most important part of my day: The Lab.
In the basement of my apartment complex, which I'd "persuaded" the building manager to let me use for 'independent study,' I practiced Construction.
My first month was a disaster. I tried to create a steel rod and nearly blacked out. Even with my Death Painting reserves, the energy-to-matter conversion was like trying to fill a swimming pool with a thimble. But then, I started applying the Six Eyes.
I realized that Mai Zenin's failure wasn't a lack of energy; it was a lack of vision. She tried to manifest "steel" as a concept. I started manifesting it as a molecular lattice.
I sat on the cold floor, the Six Eyes finally flaring to life. The world turned into a crystalline dream. I could see the individual molecules of oxygen in the air. I reached into my Cursed Energy—that thick, dark well of power—and began to pull.
'Inconel 718,' I thought. 'Nickel, Chromium, Niobium, Molybdenum. Face-centered cubic crystal structure.'
I didn't just "wish" it into existence. I built it. One atom at a time, guided by the Six Eyes' absolute precision.
A liquid shimmer formed in the air, a swirling vortex of black and silver. My CE output spiked, but the Six Eyes smoothed the flow, ensuring not a single erg of energy was wasted.
Clang.
A katana blade, jet-black and shimmering with an iridescent oil-slick sheen, fell onto the concrete. It was made of Inconel—a superalloy designed for jet engines. It was heat-resistant, corrosion-resistant, and incredibly dense.
I picked it up. It was perfect. Because I understood the chemistry, the energy cost had dropped by 70%.
"Now," I whispered, my eyes glowing in the dark. "The blood."
I focused on my own veins. Being a Death Painting meant my blood wasn't just liquid; it was Cursed Energy in a physical state. I didn't need to cut myself to use it. I could simply... push it through my pores.
I held out my hand. A dark crimson mist began to seep from my palm, coalescing into a spinning orb.
"Blood Cage," I commanded.
The blood surged forward, expanding into a jagged, interlocking web of crimson wires. It hit a practice dummy, wrapping around it instantly. Then, with a flick of my will, I hardened it. The blood crystallized, turning into something harder than iron, crushing the dummy's wooden frame with a sickening crack.
"Not bad," I muttered, wiping a stray drop of red from my hand. "A bit flashy, but effective for capture."
I had mastered Piercing Blood weeks ago—it was just a matter of pressure and narrowing the exit point—but Blood Cage was my own invention. A way to neutralize a target without killing them instantly. After all, I needed my Cursed Spirits alive to "eat" them.
The Night of the Hunt
Five months of training came down to tonight.
I stood on the roof of a derelict hospital on the outskirts of Sendai. I was dressed in a sleek, reinforced black hoodie and tactical pants I'd modified with CE-conductive fibers. The Inconel katana was strapped to my waist, its black hilt wrapped in ray-skin.
I closed my eyes for a moment, then snapped them open.
"Six Eyes: Full Output."
The world screamed into existence. I could see the ley lines of the city, the heavy clusters of negative emotion pooling in the old hospital below. It felt like looking at a thermal map, but the "heat" was malice.
"Found you," I said, a predatory smirk tugging at my lips.
I didn't take the stairs. I stepped off the ledge.
Mid-air, I tapped into Projection Sorcery.
The world froze into 24 frames. I mapped my trajectory in a jagged, 24-step path down the side of the building. To an observer, I would have looked like a glitch in a video game—one moment I was at the top, the next I was a blur of motion, landing silently on the cracked pavement of the courtyard.
Gurgle... screee...
They came out of the shadows. Grade 4s. They looked like oversized maggots with human teeth, or spindly shadows with too many eyes. Weak. Pathetic. But in a group, they were a nuisance.
About twelve of them swarmed from the basement entrance, sensing my fresh, potent Cursed Energy.
"Lunchtime," I said.
I didn't even draw the sword yet. I held out my fingers in a piercing gesture.
"Piercing Blood."
A bolt of crimson light, moving at the speed of sound, tore through the air. It punched through the first three Grade 4s, exploding their "heads" in a shower of purple ichor.
I didn't stop. I activated Projection Sorcery again.
1, 2, 3... 24.
I moved. To the curses, I simply vanished. I reappeared in the center of their swarm. I grabbed one by the "neck," my hand reinforced with CE. It felt like grabbing a wet sponge.
Crunch.
I threw it aside and drew the black katana. The Inconel blade hummed as I coated it in a thin layer of CE.
A Grade 3 curse—a bloated, multi-armed thing that looked like a discarded doll—dropped from the ceiling. It shrieked, its many hands reaching for my throat.
"Too slow," I drawled.
I used the "freeze" mechanic of Projection Sorcery. I touched the air in front of the Grade 3, defining a frame. The curse hit the invisible boundary and froze solid, a shimmering 2D pane of glass for one second.
In that second, I swung.
The Inconel blade sliced through its torso like a hot wire through wax. It didn't just cut; the density of the alloy combined with my CE reinforcement shattered the curse's structural integrity.
"Blood Cage."
I threw a handful of blood at a cluster of five Grade 4s that were trying to jump me from behind. The blood expanded into a net, snapping shut and pinning them to the wall. They struggled, their tiny limbs flailing against the hardened crimson lattice.
I walked over to the dying Grade 3. It was dissolving, but not fast enough.
I reached out my hand. A dark, swirling vacuum manifested in my palm—the core of Cursed Spirit Manipulation.
"Come," I commanded.
The Grade 3 didn't have a choice. Its entire essence was compressed, twisted, and forced into a small, black orb the size of a marble.
I looked at the orb. This was the part the manga always described as the worst.
I popped it into my mouth.
Ugh.
It tasted like a rag used to wipe up vomit and old grease, mixed with the metallic tang of a penny. My stomach lurched, but I forced it down.
Gulp.
I felt the connection click. The Grade 3 was mine.
I spent the next hour clearing the hospital. It was a rhythmic, almost meditative slaughter.
Move. Freeze. Cut. Absorb.
The Grade 4s were barely worth the effort of swallowing, but numbers mattered. I captured twelve Grade 4s and seven Grade 3s in total. By the time the moon was high in the sky, the hospital felt "clean"—or as clean as a cursed site could be.
I stood in the center of the lobby, my black hoodie unstained thanks to the way I manipulated the blood away from my clothes. I wasn't even breathing hard.
"That was... remarkably easy," I said, looking at my hands.
The Being wasn't kidding. The combination of the Six Eyes and these techniques was a cheat code. I was ten years old, and I could already wipe out a small army of low-level curses without breaking a sweat.
But I knew this was just the beginning. Grade 3s and 4s were the white noise of the Jujutsu world. Somewhere out there, there were Grade 1s, Special Grades, and things that defied the very laws of nature.
I turned off the Six Eyes, the sudden "dimming" of the world bringing a familiar, dull ache to my temples. I sheathed the black katana.
"Twelve drones, seven soldiers," I calculated, walking out into the Sendai night. "Not a bad haul for a Tuesday."
I needed more knowledge. I needed more materials. And eventually, I needed to find someone who could actually make me bleed.
But for now? I had a chemistry test on Monday, and I still hadn't finished my notes on the thermal conductivity of tungsten.
Priorities.