A ruinous scar of absolute destruction—one that had utterly evaporated a mountain—remained.
At the epicenter of a massive crater where even the wind had ceased its breath, Utsugi knelt beside a blood-soaked Hideto. He tore at his own silken robes, desperate to bind the wounds and stem the sanguine flow.
"Kuh... Cough!"
Dark, clotted blood frothed from Hideto’s lips. Within the Special Grade's domain, his body had been transfixed by dozens of spectral blades; he had suffered damage far beyond the reach of natural recovery.
"Dammit...!"
Utsugi gritted his teeth until they groaned.
While his own Reverse Cursed Technique worked ceaselessly to knit his flesh and repair the damage sustained mere moments ago, he could not bestow that healing light upon Hideto.
Regenerating one's own vessel and outputting the positive energy of Reverse Cursed Technique into another required an entirely different echelon of precision.
No matter how flawlessly he governed his Cursed Energy with the Rikugan, Utsugi had never loathed his innate inability to output healing more than he did now.
"Endure it. If you die here, I’ll feed your ten-percent share to the dogs."
Utsugi pressed his gore-stained hands against Hideto’s wounds, but the lifeblood leaked hopelessly through his fingers. Hideto’s eyes had lost their focus, and his frame convulsed like a leaf in a gale.
"Bandages alone will not save him. He will bleed out where he lies."
A monolithic shadow fell over Utsugi’s back.
Before Utsugi could even turn, a small ceramic gourd cut through the air and thudded into the dirt at his feet.
"An elixir brewed by the Minamoto for the direst of straits. It should serve to tether the soul of a dying man to his throat for a while longer."
It was the ronin clad in coarse hemp: Minamoto no Yorimitsu.
The man rested a hand upon the tachi at his hip, looking down at Utsugi’s heterochromatic blue eyes with an air of clinical curiosity.
Utsugi snatched up the gourd, caught its scent, and without a moment's hesitation, pried Hideto’s jaw open to pour the draft down his gullet.
Miraculously, Hideto’s tremors subsided. A faint but rhythmic breath began to return to his lungs. At the very least, the immediate shadow of the Reaper had been forestalled.
Utsugi exhaled a ragged breath and slumped onto the ground.
"...Those eyes. You are of the Sugawara, bearing the Rikugan, are you not?" Yorimitsu asked, his voice toneless.
"I am," Utsugi replied, his guard as sharp as a bared blade.
The man before him was a monstrosity who had just erased tens of thousands of vengeful spirits—a Special Grade collective—down to their very atoms with a single Batto strike. If this man harbored ill intent, Utsugi knew he was powerless to resist him.
Yet, in Yorimitsu’s eyes, there was no malice—only a profound, hollow boredom.
"Be at ease. I have no desire to claim the head of a Sugawara scion. You appear to be nothing more than a fledgling cast out by that vaunted main house. I see no reason to vent my spleen on you."
Yorimitsu turned, gesturing toward the deeper reaches of the mountain with his chin.
"Follow. I have a place where that half-corpse can be laid to rest."
•
Yorimitsu led them to a cavernous grotto hidden behind a roaring waterfall, some distance from the crater.
The interior was a chaotic mess of beast bones and bundles of drying herbs, yet it offered sufficient refuge from the wind and rain. Utsugi laid Hideto upon a bed of dry straw and took his place before the hearth.
The rhythmic crackle of burning logs was the only sound that filled the cave.
Yorimitsu tilted a weathered sake bottle to quench his thirst before tossing it carelessly to Utsugi. Utsugi caught it but did not drink.
"Vigilant to the end. It is not poisoned," Yorimitsu remarked with a dry chuckle.
"Minamoto no Yorimitsu," Utsugi uttered the man’s name, his voice cold and echoing.
"Alias: The Hero of the Demon Slaying. Lord Raiko, former head of the Minamoto clan—the man who subjugated the most heinous Special Grade Vengeful Spirit of the era, 'Shuten-doji,' alongside his Four Heavenly Kings. He who was once worshipped as the savior of Mutsu and Kanto."
As a member of the Sugawara clan, the family perched at the apex of Heian-kyo, it was impossible for Utsugi not to know that name.
A man who was once a messiah to the common folk and a living legend to the bushi.
Yet now, he was a grand traitor, thoroughly purged from the annals of jujutsu history.
"The official chronicles read as follows," Utsugi continued, his Rikugan scanning Yorimitsu’s entire frame.
"Following the subjugation of Shuten-doji, the Minamoto clan, intoxicated by their own hubris, received an Imperial decree to exorcise the wicked curse user known as Ryomen Sukuna. However, the clan head, Minamoto no Yorimitsu, succumbed to the King of Curses' might and colluded with him. He fled like a coward, casting aside his comrades—the Four Heavenly Kings—to be used as decoys."
Despite the blunt provocation, Yorimitsu’s expression did not waver.
Only a deep, derisive sneer spread across his weathered features as he stared into the leaping flames of the bonfire.
"Official chronicles. Truly, they are disgusting and convenient scraps of paper. Lies scribbled by cowards who sip tea on tatami mats, hands trembling because they have never known the scent of iron on a battlefield."
Yorimitsu poked the logs with a stick, sending a shower of sparks into the dark air.
"A coward. Yes, I lost my brothers and survived alone; I will not deny that title. But collusion? Fleeing?"
His voice dropped an octave, and the air within the cave grew heavy with pressure. Even though he had poured everything into his recent strike, the inherent spirit etched into his very bones could not be concealed.
"Utsugi, was it? How do you perceive the politics of Heian-kyo?"
Utsugi frowned at the unexpected question. "A den of insects lusting for blood and power."
"Precisely. And what those insects fear most is an overwhelming 'martial might' that they cannot govern."
Yorimitsu smiled bitterly.
"Our Minamoto clan has been a line of warriors for generations. We were not Onmyoji bound by bloodlines and court intrigue like the Sugawara or Fujiwara. We were 'Gishin'—warrior-gods who evolved our jujutsu while clashing blades on the blood-soaked frontlines. When I slew Shuten-doji and garnered the adoration of the people, the old fossils of the upper echelon were paralyzed with terror—terror that this blade might one day turn toward their own throats."
A power capable of compressing Cursed Energy to near-infinite density and liberating it in a single strike of irregular destructive force. Furthermore, his retainers, the Four Heavenly Kings, were the era's finest Special Grade combatants. Their collective power had grown bloated enough to threaten the Imperial Court itself.
"Thus, they conspired to destroy us."
Cold fury seeped into Yorimitsu’s voice.
"The decree to subjugate Sukuna. It was no mission to capture a criminal threatening the Empire. It was a legalized 'death sentence,' casting us as fodder before a monster in a swamp."
Sukuna.
As those three syllables echoed through the grotto, the fire flickered and shivered.
Since the King of Curses' emergence, not a single sorcerer sent to claim his head had returned. In Heian-kyo, he was an imaginary demon with four arms and four eyes—a name that was forbidden even to utter.
"Nine years ago."
Yorimitsu closed his eyes, dragging forth the horrific memories of that day.
"Bound by duty, we entered the deep mountains of Hida where Sukuna was said to reside. Myself and my retainers—the Shitenno. We were arrogant. We believed that if we could decapitate Shuten-doji, a mere curse user would be easily quelled."
Yorimitsu’s fists clenched, thick veins throbbing against his skin.
"But we were wrong. The moment we stepped onto the mountainside, we knew. What we faced was no mere sorcerer, nor even a Cursed Spirit."
"...Then what was it?"
"It was 'Calamity' given form."
Yorimitsu’s eyes snapped open.
"Four arms, two eyes, two mouths. Setting aside that grotesque visages, the density of Cursed Energy he radiated was of a different order entirely than that Special Grade swarm you fought today. He was an overwhelming incarnation of death that defied the very laws of this world."
Utsugi’s Rikugan read Yorimitsu’s face. There was no lie.
The strongest warrior of a bygone generation still harbored bone-deep despair and a venomous intent to kill at the mere mention of that name.
"It was no battle. It was a unilateral slaughter."
Yorimitsu’s voice cracked with devastation.
"The Shitenno... my pride and joy... Usui was shredded into a lattice of meat by a single cleave. Watanabe was reduced to ash by a flicker of flame, his very bones obliterated. Sakata and Urabe staked their lives on their Domain Expansions, but the creature simply laughed. With a flick of his finger, he tore their barriers to shreds—using nothing but invisible slashes."
"While my men were being torn limb from limb, I prepared my final strike."
Yorimitsu stroked the hilt at his side.
"My 'Sekisou Juhou'—the Layered Cursed Technique. A Batto strike containing the compressed energy of a full year, during which I had never once drawn my blade. While my retainers threw their lives away to buy me seconds, I drew from his blind spot and unleashed everything. It was a strike with four times the power of the one that just erased the Ou Mountains' swarm."
Utsugi swallowed hard. Four times that level of destruction? Such a force could turn an entire mountain range into a plain.
"It struck. My blade pierced his chest perfectly."
A self-mocking smile spread across Yorimitsu’s face.
"But the monster did not die."
"What?" Utsugi’s eyes widened.
"The moment my steel transfixed his heart, he was laughing. Even as he coughed blood, he looked down at his wound as if it were a curious novelty. Then, with two of his four arms, he gripped my blade, and with the remaining two, he drove a series of slashes into my abdomen."
Yorimitsu violently pulled open his hemp tunic.
From his belly to his shoulder, three massive, jagged scars—resembling the tracks of a Great Beast's claws—were revealed in the firelight.
"I did not survive because I was strong, nor because I fled. I survived only because I became 'tedious' to him. Once his toy broke, he lost interest and walked away. I had to crawl through the mud like a vermin, leaving the corpses of my men behind, clutching my spilled entrails as I fled."
Silence reigned. Only the popping of the embers filled the space.
Though nine years had passed, the tears of blood within Yorimitsu’s heart had never dried.
"When I finally returned to Heian-kyo, barely tethered to life, a different hell awaited me."
Yorimitsu pulled his collar closed and continued dryly.
"The fossils of the Sugawara and Fujiwara were horrified that I had returned alive. Thus, they framed me with a horrific lie—that I had colluded with Ryomen Sukuna, sold out my men, and fled."
Utsugi’s pupils trembled slightly. A political purge. A script as flawless as it was cruel.
"They gave me a choice: surrender my position as clan head and accept exile, or see the entire Minamoto clan put to the sword."
Yorimitsu ground his teeth.
"To save my kinsmen, I accepted the infamy. On the night of my exile, however, I took one thing from the clan's treasury: a 'Special Grade Cursed Tool.' Since that day, the hero Minamoto no Yorimitsu has been dead. All that remains is an old ronin scouring the gutters, sharpening his vengeance."
Yorimitsu set the empty bottle down with a hollow thud.
He gestured with his chin toward a long, cloth-wrapped object leaning in a dark corner of the grotto.
"This blade at my hip, the one that just carved through that Special Grade, is but the residue of three months' compression while living as a fugitive."
A brilliant, frenzied light flickered in Yorimitsu’s eyes.
"But that Special Grade Cursed Tool in the corner... within it is compressed 'nine years' of curses and energy—unleashed not once since the day the Shitenno died. It is a mass of pure obsession, forged solely to take the head of a single man."
Utsugi’s Rikugan drifted toward the wrapped tool.
In that instant, a chill raced down his spine. Even though the blade was sheathed and wrapped, the very space around the scabbard was warped and viscous, buckling under the sheer mass of the Cursed Energy within. He could not even conceive of what would happen if that nine-year silence were ever broken.
"And the day to draw that blade draws near," Yorimitsu whispered, staring out into the pitch-black night beyond the cave.
"The winds bring rumors from the informants. Sukuna, who remained secluded in the mountains, has begun to move. His destination: none other than the capital, Heian-kyo."
"...!"
Utsugi’s brow furrowed. The calamity was approaching the heart of the world.
"The fossils of the upper echelon must be in a panic. They will deploy the Sun, Moon, and Stars Squad, their executioner units, and every card the Fujiwara and Sugawara possess... but they will never stop him."
Yorimitsu stood. His towering frame eclipsed the hearth's light, casting a long shadow across the grotto.
"Therefore, I shall return to Heian-kyo."
His voice was heavy with murderous intent.
"I bear a grudge against the elders who discarded me and persecuted my clan, but I did not sharpen this blade for nine years to strike at such trash. I shall watch as they are shredded like insects by Sukuna... and in that blind spot, in that moment of Sukuna's arrogance, I will sever the monster’s throat with nine years of suppression. Only then will my brothers' souls find peace."
It was the desperate, wretched declaration of a man who had become a demon of vengeance solely for Sukuna's head.
"Now, it is your turn. Jujutsu sorcerer of the Sugawara."
Yorimitsu looked down at Utsugi.
"You were born with the Rikugan yet were thrown into this frontier hellscape alone without support. Seeing the state you were in, it seems your journey here was less a subjugation and more an 'execution.'"
Utsugi stared into the burning bonfire.
The crimson sky raining tens of thousands of blades—the one who had thrust him into the center of that hell was not the Special Grade spirit, but the arrogant Sugawara elders sipping tea on their tatami mats.
"...Because I, too, am a martial force they cannot control," Utsugi muttered coldly. The blue light of his Rikugan flickered with a chilling intensity.
"What will you do? If you return to the main house now, they will only throw you into another hell for the crime of surviving. Fleeing far away before Heian-kyo becomes a sea of blood would not be an unwise choice."
Utsugi did not answer immediately.
He checked the breathing of the unconscious Hideto and then rose slowly to his feet. The empty scabbard of his shattered tachi swayed lonely at his hip.
Vengeance, is it?
Utsugi let out a brief, internal laugh. The elders who envied him and drove him to his death... he felt no real fury toward them.
Those born with overwhelming talent inevitably draw the fear and jealousy of the mediocre. Just as a hawk soaring through the heavens does not seek revenge against the insects crawling in the dirt, the loneliness and rejection he bore were simply the laws of nature to him.
"Running is not to my taste. However," Utsugi’s voice contained not a single trace of emotion.
"I have no intention of drawing my blade for the sake of cutting down trembling old men in their tea rooms. Whether it be the Sugawara or the Fujiwara, I care nothing for their petty games of power."
Yorimitsu’s eyebrows shot up in interest. "No desire for revenge? You are a prideful one. Then why return to Heian-kyo, the place where Sukuna descends?"
Utsugi turned his gaze toward the northern sky, where the blood-colored clouds were finally beginning to dissipate.
"Because I am a jujutsu sorcerer."
A plain, dry answer. Yet the pride and spirit beneath it were as heavy and cold as Yorimitsu’s nine years of hatred.
"If a calamity is rending the people apart, I, as a sorcerer, shall take its head. Even if that calamity is the Ryomen Sukuna who turned you into a half-corpse."
Utsugi’s blue Rikugan flashed in the darkness.
"With these eyes, I will distort and shatter every law that monster claims as his own."
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