Interesting… I expected an increase in cursed spirit activity, but not such a dramatic one. Were my calculations wrong?
A certain woman with stitches running across her forehead like a crude zipper stood in the dim light of an abandoned laboratory, her fingers dancing through the air as she manipulated the [Anti-Gravity System] cursed technique. Around her, beakers bubbled with fluids that should not exist, and papers covered in handwriting that shifted between centuries covered every available surface.
Kenjaku—currently wearing the face and body of Kaori Itadori—paused mid-gesture, her head tilting at an angle that no human neck should permit.
I guess Gojo Satoru must be stronger than I thought… No matter.
But even as she dismissed the thought, something gnawed at the back of her thousand-year-old consciousness. The numbers didn't add up. The Six Eyes had appeared before. The Limitless had manifested before. Never had either caused this kind of spike in cursed spirit activity—a 200% increase in special grade births, and climbing.
She turned back to her experiments, but her smile had tightened at the edges.
Because Kenjaku had been wondering. For months now, she had been tracking the anomaly—cursed spirit activity growing exponentially across Japan, defying every mathematical model she'd developed over ten centuries of observation. Her estimates had predicted 2-4 special grade curses being born every year across the country.
The actual frequency had climbed to 5-7 annually.
And it was still increasing.
Something had changed. Something she couldn't see, couldn't measure, couldn't account for. And for someone who had spent a millennium orchestrating the perfect chain of events, that was unacceptable.
---
On the other side of Tokyo, Toji Fushiguro had just finished a mission involving a corrupt sorcerer who'd been engaging in human trafficking.
He wiped the blood off his face with the back of his hand, smearing red across his cheek in a way that made him look less like a man and more like something that had crawled out of a much older story.
"Worthless scum."
He spit on the corpse beneath his feet—a wet, deliberate dismissal that said everything about what he thought of sorcerers who hid behind their techniques while preying on the weak.
Toji then looked up.
A grade 1 cursed spirit was hovering at the edge of the alley, its form little more than a suggestion of teeth and hunger, drawn by the death and the fear and the blood still warm on the pavement.
He sighed.
It was his third encounter with one today. Alone. His second mission of the day, and he was already growing exhausted by the sheer number of cursed spirits he'd had to wade through just to reach his actual target. The things were everywhere now—crawling out of the woodwork like cockroaches, multiplying faster than the sorcerers could cull them.
"Tsk."
His hand drifted to the Inverted Spear of Heaven at his hip, the cursed tool humming against his palm like it could feel his irritation.
"Just what the hell is happening around here…?"
For a moment—just a moment—his gaze drifted east, toward the Gojo clan compound. Toward the place where the Six Eyes had been born again, where that smug white-haired brat was probably being told he was the strongest while still in diapers.
Toji's lip curled.
Didn't matter. Cursed spirits, special grades, the entire rotten edifice of jujutsu society—none of it mattered. He'd already decided that years ago. The Zen'in clan had thrown him away like garbage, and he'd built himself into something sharper than any of them could ever comprehend.
Still.
Something was wrong with the world lately. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on.
He drove his fist through the cursed spirit's core before it could finish manifesting, watched it dissolve into nothing, and walked away without looking back.
---
Meanwhile, Gojo Satoru was bored.
He was always bored lately, but today the boredom had taken on a sharper edge—the kind that made him want to break things just to see if anything in this world was solid enough to resist him.
"Boring. Boring, boring, boring!"
He was sprawled on the floor of the training hall, his white hair fanning out around his head like a halo that had given up trying to look holy. Across from him stood his 'sparring partner'—a supposed prodigy a decade older than him, currently struggling to catch his breath after being thrown across the room for the seventh time in as many minutes.
Satoru tilted his head back, blindfolded eyes somehow still conveying an expression of profound disappointment.
"Hey! Can you tell me why you're so weak?"
The older sorcerer's face twisted. Sweat dripped down his temples. His cursed energy flickered erratically—frustration, humiliation, the kind of anger that came from realizing you'd been surpassed by a child and would never catch up.
"White-haired freak…"
"It's not my fault I'm stronger than you."
"You little—!"
The sorcerer lunged.
Satoru didn't move. Didn't flinch. Just raised one finger and murmured, almost apologetically:
"[Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.]"
The pull was instantaneous—a point of gravitational collapse that yanked the older man off his feet and slammed him into the floor hard enough to crack the stone. He lay there, groaning, while Satoru watched with the detached curiosity of a child examining an insect that had stopped moving.
"Sigh…"
He sat up, crossing his legs, resting his chin on his hand.
"I wonder if anyone's gonna be my match someday."
The question hung in the air, unanswered. The training hall was silent except for the ragged breathing of the defeated sorcerer and the distant sound of rain beginning to fall outside.
For a moment, Satoru's expression flickered—something beneath the boredom, beneath the arrogance, beneath the absolute certainty that he was the strongest thing alive.
Something that looked almost like loneliness.
Then it was gone, replaced by a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Ah, well. I'm sure it'll happen eventually. Probably."
He stood up, brushed off his robes, and walked out of the training hall without looking back.
---
It had been 3 months since I'd gotten [Limitless], and I gotta say…
Sorcery was piss easy.
"[Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.]"
The dummy—made of very sturdy steel, reinforced with enough barriers to stop a tank shell—was pulled upward off its moorings, the metal screaming as it warped, and then torn to shreds in a cascade of twisted fragments that rained down around me like shrapnel.
My upper right and left arms did the hand signs. My lower mouth handled the incantation. My upper mouth stayed closed, because overkill was a thing and I wasn't trying to show off.
Much.
"Sukuna's body is an absolute cheat code, that's for sure."
I lowered my arms, watching the last scraps of metal clatter to the ground. The [Six Eyes] showed me every flaw in my technique—the wasted energy, the imperfect precision, the places where my control still slipped. Small things. Things that would vanish with practice.
"Not to mention this innate talent. Paired with the immortality that comes from taking Yuji's physical attributes…"
I flexed all four arms experimentally, feeling the cursed energy hum beneath my skin. At this point, old man Asahi had completely given up on teaching me. He'd transitioned into more of a caretaker role—someone who made sure I was eating properly and not collapsing on the ground screaming in agony again.
The month of torture for [Limitless] had been… educational.
I wouldn't be rushing to create another technique anytime soon.
Still, at the young age of 6-years-old—nearly 7 now—I was already considering venturing out to exorcise cursed spirits for experience. The compound was safe, comfortable, and increasingly boring. I'd mastered everything Asahi could teach me. The only way to grow stronger now was to test myself against real threats.
I was still worried about Kenjaku, of course. A thousand-year-old body-hopping schemer with a grudge against the current order wasn't something to take lightly. But given that he was probably off somewhere taking back-shots and manipulating bloodlines, I figured I had some time before I needed to worry about him.
"Hah… Is it gonna be this easy?"
I said it out loud, testing the thought.
Don't get me wrong—I definitely didn't want something to go wrong. But with how things were progressing, I'd probably qualify as a special grade sorcerer by the time I was 9. Maybe earlier, depending on how quickly I could master the rest of the Limitless techniques.
Red. Purple. Domain Expansion.
All of it was waiting for me, just out of reach, requiring nothing more than time and practice to claim.
Nevertheless, I needed to list down the things I'd already learned before venturing outside. A mental inventory, just to keep myself honest:
1. Cursed Energy Reinforcement (mastered)
2. Black Flash (at will—consistent enough to rely on)
3. Curtain (basic application, functional)
4. Simple Barrier (still refining, but solid)
5. Infinity (passive and active, fully integrated)
6. Blue (reliable, if not yet perfected)
This list didn't even mention my mastery of hand-to-hand combat. Apparently, being an MMA fighter in your past life gave you a significant advantage when you reincarnated. Who would've known, huh? The instincts were still there—the footwork, the timing, the ability to read an opponent's weight distribution from the way they breathed. My new body was different, stronger, faster, but the knowledge translated.
Four arms just meant I had more angles to attack from.
I rolled my shoulders, feeling the familiar ache of a good training session, and decided it was time.
Anyhow, I should at least say my goodbyes to Asahi.
---
The old man's office smelled the same as it always did—the familiar scent of a Spanish latte wafting through the air, mixing with old paper and the faint hint of incense that clung to everything in the Gojo compound. The room was clean and tidy, a bookshelf near his desk stuffed with sorcery tomes that ranged from ancient scrolls to modern textbooks.
Asahi raised his head as I stepped inside, his eyes scanning my face with the practiced efficiency of someone who had spent years reading my expressions.
"What is it, Atsuya?"
"I… wanna go outside, Master."
I'd rehearsed this conversation a dozen times in my head. Expected arguments. Counter-arguments. Prepared explanations about how I was ready, how I needed real experience, how I couldn't grow stronger by staying in a cage no matter how gilded.
But Asahi just looked at me for a long moment, then nodded.
"…I see."
He stood up, and there was something in his movement—a heaviness, a resignation—that told me he'd been expecting this too. He approached me slowly, his footsteps soft on the wooden floor, and stopped just close enough to put his hand on my shoulder.
His grip was warm. Steady. The same hand that had pulled me out of a slum, that had fed me when I couldn't feed myself, that had held mine through a month of agony while I screamed myself hoarse.
"You're always welcome here, okay?" His voice was quiet, almost rough. "If things get too harsh out there… don't hesitate to come back."
"I know." I met his eyes—all four of mine meeting his two—and felt something tighten in my chest. "Thank you. For everything."
Asahi ruffled my hair and chuckled, the sound warm and wet at the edges, as if I'd said something ridiculous.
"You say that like it's our final moment together." He shook his head, his hand falling away from my shoulder. "Don't worry. Even though you're stronger than me now, this old man won't die easily!"
He paused then, his expression softening into something I hadn't seen before—something that looked almost like pride.
"Be safe out there, kid."
"Be safe."
---
The car that led me out of the Gojo compound was the same one that had brought me here nearly three years ago. The same silk cushions. The same wood paneling. The same quiet efficiency as the driver navigated through the compound's gates, past the barriers that had hidden me from the rest of the clan, out into a Tokyo I hadn't seen since I was four years old.
I watched the walls recede behind me, taking one final look at the place I'd called home.
What would happen once I became the strongest? The question drifted through my mind, unbidden.
Would I be transported back to that endless void? What about the people in this realm? Asahi? Anyone else I might come to care about?
Is this realm… even real?
I shook my head, cutting off the thought before it could spiral. Didn't matter. Real or not, these people were real to me. This world was real to me. And I had a job to do.
The carriage dropped me at a modest hotel in Tokyo—nothing fancy, but clean enough and cheap enough that the pocket money Asahi had given me would last for a while.
I stood in the doorway of my small room, looking out at a city I barely recognized, and felt the weight of everything I was carrying settle onto my shoulders.
The [Six Eyes] showed me the cursed energy flowing through the streets—the spirits clustering in the shadows, the sorcerers moving between buildings, the constant, thrumming pressure of a world balanced on the edge of chaos.
Money, I thought, closing the door behind me. I need money. Desperately.
The pocket money wouldn't last forever. And unlike my past life, I couldn't exactly get a part-time job. Not with four arms, four eyes, and two mouths.
I'd figure something out.
I always did.
But for now—for tonight—I let myself collapse onto the bed, stared at the ceiling, and allowed myself one small, private moment of uncertainty.
Mom. Dad. Kenshin.
I'm coming back.
I just need to be a little stronger first.