It appeared in red on the projection screen inside the subterranean conference chamber, hovering beside Yutsumi's name like a curse that didn't need cursed energy to hurt.
Yuka felt it before she read it.
Her fingers tightened around the back of Yutsumi's chair as if someone might try to pull him away at any second. She didn't sit. She stood behind him—close enough that her shadow swallowed his.
Tsurugi noticed.
Usami noticed too.
No one commented on it.
"The term is provisional," said Elder Masayoshi, his voice echoing through the circular room. "It does not imply hostility."
"That's a lie," Yuka snapped instantly. "You don't tag children unless you're planning to aim at them."
A ripple of discomfort passed through the elders.
Yutsumi kept his eyes on the screen. He had already adapted to the pressure in the room—not by resisting it, but by letting it pass through him. That was the trick his technique had begun to teach him.
Perfect copying wasn't about taking.
It was about understanding why something worked.
"Explain it," Tsurugi said coldly. "In words that don't insult us."
Usami cleared his throat. "Yutsumi Okkotsu's cursed technique has been classified as an evolved derivative of Yuta Okkotsu's Copy."
Yutsumi felt a familiar weight settle in his chest at his grandfather's name.
"But unlike standard Copy," Usami continued, "his technique does not replicate techniques at their current state. It adapts them to optimal efficiency for his body, cursed energy flow, and—" he paused, choosing his next words carefully, "—the environment."
One elder leaned forward. "In other words, the boy doesn't copy techniques. He copies solutions."
Silence followed.
Yuka's cursed energy flared sharply.
"Don't," she warned. "Don't talk about him like he's a formula."
Masayoshi sighed. "That is precisely the problem, Yuka."
Yutsumi finally spoke.
"If I'm a problem," he said calmly, "then I want to know who created the equation."
Every eye turned to him.
Usami studied him closely. "You did. Unconsciously."
Yutsumi nodded. "Then I can also choose how to solve it."
That earned him a few surprised looks.
And one faint, dangerous smile from an elder in the back.
The meeting dissolved shortly after—not because consensus was reached, but because fear had outpaced discussion. That was how it always went.
Outside the chamber, the underground halls hummed with barrier seals and nervous sorcerers pretending not to stare.
Yuka grabbed Yutsumi's wrist the moment they were alone.
"You're not leaving my sight," she said flatly.
"I wasn't planning to," he replied.
"That wasn't a suggestion."
Tsurugi exhaled slowly. "Yuka—"
"No," she cut in. "They marked him. That means contingency plans. That means kill-switches."
Yutsumi looked up at her. "Sis."
She flinched.
Not because of the word.
Because of how softly he said it.
"I'm not scared," he continued. "I know you are. But I'm still here."
Yuka knelt in front of him abruptly, hands gripping his shoulders, eyes searching his face like she was afraid it might already be gone.
"You don't get it," she whispered. "You're fifteen. You're not allowed to be calm about this."
He smiled faintly. "You're not allowed to decide that."
Her expression cracked.
Tsurugi turned away, giving them privacy he pretended not to understand.
Far above them, inside a sealed Simurian council chamber carved from living stone, Cross watched Earth through a translucent projection.
"The boy has been designated," murmured Doura, his voice heavy. "That escalates matters."
Cross folded his arms. "It clarifies them."
"And Maru?" Dabura asked.
Cross's gaze darkened. "Still asleep. Still unaware of how much of this is his fault."
Dabura rumbled thoughtfully. "And the Mul?"
Cross didn't answer immediately.
Instead, he remembered the canal—the stones that weren't stones. The gift Doura had left behind, not knowing humanity would eventually stand on top of it.
"Mul reacts to intention," Cross said finally. "And Earth is saturated with intention."
Back in Kyoto, Yutsumi stood alone in a training chamber late that night.
Barriers locked. Surveillance minimal.
Yuka had argued against it for twenty straight minutes before Tsurugi had convinced her this was safer than letting Yutsumi spiral in his own head.
She waited outside anyway.
Inside, Yutsumi closed his eyes.
Adaptive Perfect Copy activated—not outward, but inward.
He replayed the moment Cross had worn Maru.
Not the power.
The structure.
How Cross had overlaid himself without damaging the host. How intent had shaped cursed energy like a glove instead of a weapon.
Yutsumi raised his hand.
Cursed energy flowed.
It didn't mimic Cross.
It answered the same problem differently.
The air warped—subtly. Not space. Not time.
Perspective.
For a brief moment, Yutsumi could feel himself from the outside. Like he was both the observer and the observed.
His breath hitched.
"So that's how you do it," he murmured.
The door slammed open.
Yuka stormed in, eyes blazing. "I told you not to—"
She stopped.
Because the chamber wasn't reacting violently.
It was… stable.
Yutsumi lowered his hand, energy dispersing naturally.
"I wasn't pushing," he said quickly. "I was listening."
Yuka crossed the distance in three steps and pulled him into a crushing hug.
He stiffened, then relaxed.
Her voice shook. "Don't ever scare me like that again."
"I didn't mean to."
"I don't care."
She pulled back just enough to look him dead in the eyes. "If this world decides you're a variable, then I'll be the constant that breaks it."
Yutsumi swallowed.
Outside the barrier, something stirred.
A familiar, warped presence pressed its face against reality like a child against glass.
Mahito giggled.
"Ohhh," he whispered. "He's learning choice."
The city of Kyoto slept uneasily.
And somewhere beneath Tokyo, cursed spirits gathered—drawn not to Sukuna, not to Gojo's legacy—
—but to a boy who could adapt to anything.