The school did not exist on any map.
That was the first thing Yutsumi noticed.
They stood at the edge of what appeared to be an ordinary junior high campus—three floors, clean windows, freshly painted gates, children's shoes neatly aligned by the entrance. Laughter drifted through the air, light and rhythmic, almost comforting.
Almost.
But Yutsumi's cursed energy refused to settle.
"This place is wrong," he said quietly.
Yuka immediately shifted closer, fingers brushing the back of his jacket as if anchoring him to reality. "Then you don't go inside."
Tsurugi sighed. "We're all going inside."
Maru tilted his head, studying the building with unsettling stillness. "The spatial consistency is unstable," he said. "This is not a traditional barrier."
Usami's voice crackled through the communicator. "Correct. This is a constructed reality. The student's name is Masaki. Or rather—was Masaki."
Yutsumi swallowed.
"Three years," Usami continued. "Same face. Same age. Different names. Every time the school system questions it, the records change. Families associated with the student eventually… disappear."
The gate creaked open by itself.
A bell rang.
Class was in session.
---
Inside, the air smelled like chalk and nostalgia.
Desks were arranged perfectly. Sunlight streamed through windows at the exact angle of late afternoon—even though it was barely noon outside. Students laughed, whispered, passed notes.
None of them had faces.
Not blank—unfinished.
Like mannequins painted halfway and forgotten.
Yutsumi's breath hitched.
Yuka felt it instantly and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. "Don't look at them," she murmured. "Look at me."
But his eyes drifted anyway.
At the front of the classroom sat a boy with black hair and dull eyes.
Masaki.
He looked ordinary.
That terrified Yutsumi more than anything else.
"Welcome back," Masaki said pleasantly. "You're late."
Tsurugi's cursed energy flared. "Drop the act."
Masaki blinked. "Act?"
The room warped.
Desks stretched unnaturally. The faceless students froze mid-motion. The chalkboard cracked, lines of cursed energy bleeding through like veins.
Maru stepped forward. "Masaki. You are maintaining this space unconsciously. Do you know why?"
Masaki's smile faltered.
"No," he said. "This is just how things are."
Yutsumi felt something pull at his chest.
Not a technique.
A memory.
He saw it suddenly—through Masaki's eyes.
Small hands digging into dirt. Fingernails torn and bleeding. The sound of rain hitting freshly turned earth.
A child burying his mother.
Yutsumi gasped.
The world lurched.
Yuka caught him instantly, arms tightening around him as if he were falling off a cliff. "Hey—hey, stay with me. Look at me."
Masaki stared at them now, eyes wide.
"You saw it," he whispered. "You weren't supposed to see it."
Tsurugi's voice was sharp. "Explain."
Masaki shook his head violently. "If I explain, it ends."
Maru's third eye pulsed beneath his skin.
"This space exists because Masaki rejected reality," Maru said softly. "His grief overwrote the world."
The classroom dissolved.
They stood now in a narrow, rain-soaked alley.
A woman's body lay crumpled against a wall.
Masaki—small, shaking—knelt beside her.
Yutsumi felt his cursed technique stir again.
Not copying.
Adapting.
His cursed energy shifted to stabilize the collapsing illusion—not to strengthen it, but to understand its structure.
He saw the truth.
Masaki wasn't controlling the space.
The space was protecting Masaki.
"If it ends," Masaki sobbed, clutching his head, "she dies again. I can't do it again."
Yuka's throat tightened painfully.
She took a step forward, ignoring Tsurugi's warning glance.
"You already did," she said gently. "And you're still here."
Masaki looked up at her, tears streaking his face. "Then why does it still hurt?"
Silence.
Yutsumi answered.
"Because you loved her," he said quietly. "And love doesn't disappear just because time moves forward."
Masaki stared at him.
"You're like me," Masaki whispered. "You don't want the world to take them."
Yuka flinched.
"No," she said too fast. "He's not."
Yutsumi looked at her, confused.
Masaki's cursed energy spiked.
The alley twisted violently, buildings stretching upward, gravity bending inward.
Masaki screamed.
"I just want it to stop!"
Tsurugi moved instantly, sword flashing, cursed energy slicing through the warped space—but the illusion regenerated faster than he could cut it.
Maru collapsed to one knee, third eye flickering.
Yutsumi stepped forward again.
Yuka grabbed him—hard.
"Don't," she begged. "Please."
He looked back at her.
"I won't disappear," he promised.
Then he reached out.
Not with cursed energy.
With understanding.
His technique completed its evolution.
Adaptive Perfect Copy — Emotional Synchronization.
Yutsumi didn't copy Masaki's power.
He adapted its purpose.
The false reality softened.
The rain slowed.
Masaki's breathing steadied.
"You don't need to keep her buried," Yutsumi said gently. "You already carry her."
Masaki collapsed into sobs.
The world unraveled.
When they returned to reality, they were standing in the abandoned shell of an old school building—dusty, cracked, long condemned.
Masaki lay unconscious on the floor, alive.
The families—freed.
Maru exhaled slowly. "You chose mercy."
Tsurugi sheathed his sword. "He chose risk."
Yuka didn't say anything.
She knelt beside Yutsumi and pulled him into a tight embrace, face buried in his shoulder.
"You scared me," she whispered.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She shook her head. "Don't ever be like him."
Yutsumi frowned. "Like Masaki?"
"No," she said softly. "Like Grandpa."
That night, as Masaki was transferred into care, Usami reviewed the footage.
His gaze paused on Yutsumi.
Adaptive behavior. Emotional resonance. Structural understanding.
A dangerous combination.
Far away, Cross watched the same footage.
"He adapts grief," Cross murmured. "Not power."
His jaw tightened.
"That makes him worse."