The next morning was routine—at least, on the surface.

Masachiro was already up, standing by the kitchen counter with his coffee in hand, eyes scanning over the mission report one last time. You sat at the table, strapping on the borrowed gear, the weight of it familiar but never comfortable. First Grades didn't need supervision, but you weren't just any sorcerer. You were Geto [Y/N]—a reminder of a legacy the higher-ups refused to forget.

It wasn't trust that kept Masachiro by your side. It was control.

"You sure you're ready for this one?" His voice broke through the silence, casual, but laced with something unreadable.

You finished fastening the straps, adjusting the blade at your side. "I wouldn't be here if I wasn't."

He exhaled through his nose, taking a sip of his coffee. "Fair enough."

The mission was nothing special—another haunting ground for curses, an abandoned boarding school on the outskirts of Kyoto. The usual story: bullying, suicides, despair seeping into the walls, feeding the creatures that thrived off it. A festering wound of negative energy.

A place that felt too much like you.

You shoved that thought aside as you stepped outside, the cool morning air brushing against your skin. Masachiro followed, adjusting the strap of his own weapon.

"Let's get this over with," you muttered.

Another mission. Another curse to absorb. Another step deeper into the path you never chose.

The abandoned boarding school loomed ahead, its walls stained with decay and history, a monument to suffering. A place like this, with its ghosts of the past, was a breeding ground for curses. It was no surprise a special-grade curse had taken root here.

Masachiro raised his hand, casting a veil over the area. The sky above them shifted, the world growing muted. Inside the barrier, the air thickened—heavy, charged, like the moment before a storm.

"Alright, kid," Masachiro muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Let's get started."

You stepped forward, inhaling deeply, before summoning a few of the curses you had absorbed. Shadows twisted around you as they emerged—grotesque, shifting forms that were no longer the creatures they once were. They were yours now. Your tools. Without hesitation, you sent them inside the building ahead, their warped bodies slithering through broken windows and doorways.

Meanwhile, you and Masachiro began your own sweep.

Something felt wrong.

Cursed energy lingered in the air—not in thick, singular waves, but everywhere, like tiny invisible strands woven into every crevice of this place. Even if it was fragmented, you could feel it.

Too much.

Masachiro was still talking when your senses screamed. You reacted on instinct, turning sharply and hurling your cursed weapon past him. The blade embedded itself into a lower-grade curse that had crept too close.

"Watch your back," you muttered.

Masachiro let out a low whistle, eyeing the now-splattered remains. "Damn kid. Guess I'm getting rusty."

But you weren't listening.

Your eyes lingered on the curse you had just slain. Something was off.

Lower-grade curses shouldn't have had that strong of a presence. They should have lunged the moment they saw you, driven by instinct and hunger. But these? They hesitated. Their energy didn't feel like their own.

It was as if something—someone—was controlling them.

You clenched your fists. Maybe you were thinking too much. Maybe the weight of your abilities—the burden of carrying so many curses within you—was starting to mess with your perception.

The deeper you went into the school, the more suffocating the air became. It was thick with cursed energy—not from one presence, but from many. Tendrils of malice clung to every surface, whispering through the decayed walls like unseen phantoms.

The special-grade curse had settled here long ago, absorbing every ounce of negative energy in its vicinity. It was ancient, a mass of writhing collected curses, and yet, it didn't attack outright.

It was watching.

Masachiro stayed close, tension rolling off him in waves. He could feel it too. Something was wrong.

Then, the air shifted.

The hallway darkened as a wave of cursed energy surged forward. The walls groaned, and then, as if they had always been there, curses appeared—low and mid-grade, but their energies felt amplified. They lurched toward you, no hesitation now.

You moved instinctively. With a sharp motion, you unleashed the curses you had absorbed, meeting the oncoming wave with your own. The hallway became a battlefield of gnashing teeth and twisting limbs. Masachiro fought beside you, his blade carving through the weaker ones with ease.

Yet something wasn't right.

These curses—they weren't fighting naturally. Their movements were erratic, like puppets being yanked by invisible strings. And then you saw it—their cursed energy was fluctuating.

The special-grade wasn't just controlling them. It was enhancing them.

And then it appeared.

A figure—no, a mass of curses, shifting and reforming constantly—stepped out from the darkness. Its body was an amalgamation of horrors, its voice a chorus of whispers and wails.

"You reek of stolen power."

Its presence was suffocating, but your eyes locked onto something embedded within its shifting form.

A Sukuna finger.

That was the mission. That was why you were here.

But the moment your eyes met its shapeless form, you knew—this wouldn't be an easy fight.

It attacked without warning. A wave of curses rushed toward you, their energy heightened in an instant. Masachiro cursed, moving to intercept, but even as you fought back, the main body of the special-grade was still standing there, watching.

Studying you.

Mirroring you.

Then, as if bored of testing you, it struck.

A sudden surge of cursed energy erupted, and before you could react—Masachiro was hit.

It wasn't just a blow. It was a calculated attack, one that sent him crashing through the weakened floorboards. The impact was brutal—his body twisted, and then—he wasn't moving.

For a split second, you froze.

The air felt wrong.

Then you moved.

Desperation clawed at your throat as you called forth one of your strongest curses. You didn't hesitate, didn't second-guess.

"Take him. Break the veil. Get him out."

Your curse obeyed without question, slamming into the walls, shattering the barrier as it dragged Masachiro's unconscious body outside.

And now, you were alone.

Alone with something that wasn't just an enemy.

It was a mirror.

A reflection of what you could become.

It didn't speak again. It didn't need to.

It simply lunged.

The first strike came like a hurricane—unrelenting, suffocating. The air around you shook with the sheer weight of the special-grade's cursed energy. You barely dodged, your body moving on instinct, the aftershock of its attack cracking the tiled floor beneath your feet.

You swung your weapon—fast, precise—but the blade passed through empty space.

It was shifting.

The curse wasn't solid, wasn't confined to one form. It melted and reformed, its body twisting like liquid shadow, its many voices whispering in and out of existence.

You weren't fighting one enemy. You were fighting all of them.

Every curse it had ever absorbed. Every ounce of malice it had ever consumed.

And it wasn't tiring.

But you were.

Your breath came out in ragged gasps, your limbs heavy. The wounds you had already taken burned, your body aching with every movement. The curse didn't care. It kept attacking, kept pushing you back, kept wearing you down.

And worst of all—it was learning.

It was copying.

Each time you summoned a curse from your collection, it adjusted. It countered. It threw back attacks that mirrored your own, twisted them, made them stronger.

Your own technique was being turned against you.

And yet—you kept going.

Because stopping wasn't an option. Because Masachiro was outside, unconscious. Because this mission wasn't just about the Sukuna finger anymore.

It was about you.

About what you had become.

About proving that you weren't just a weapon, just a tool molded by the higher-ups.

But how do you fight something that is you?

Your grip tightened on your weapon. The curse lunged again, its form splitting, multiplying—more hands, more claws, more teeth.

This time, when you moved, you didn't just react.

You adapted.

Your body was screaming, your cursed energy flickering, but you refused to let it take another inch. You refused to lose.

The fight stretched on. An endless exchange of blows, of curses summoned and absorbed, of mirrored techniques and counterattacks.

But eventually—

Eventually, something had to break.

The world spun. The taste of iron filled your mouth.

You barely registered the moment your body hit the ground. The impact sent shockwaves through your bones, the force rattling your very core. Everything ached. Your limbs were heavy, unresponsive.

You couldn't move.

The curse loomed over you, shifting, its grotesque form rippling like a living nightmare. It had studied you, broken you down piece by piece. It had learned how to win.

Your own techniques had been used against you. Every strategy, every instinct—anticipated. Countered. Beaten.

This was how it ended, wasn't it?

Flat on your back. A mission you should have walked away from. A fight you should have lost long ago.

A perfect weapon. Shattered.

The veil was still intact. No backup. No Masachiro. He was gone, outside, where you sent him. Safe.

That's all that mattered.

At least, that's what you told yourself as the curse reared back, its next attack ready to end you.

And for the first time in years—

You felt small. Helpless. Like a child again.

Like the kid who never asked for this.

Like the kid who never wanted to be strong. Only to be protected.

But there was no one here to protect you now.

Your breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. The world blurred at the edges, shapes and colors bleeding into each other.

Your limbs wouldn't move. No matter how much you screamed at them to.

The curse loomed closer. Its form flickered, shifting like a nightmare taking shape. A grotesque, shifting mass of curses, bound together, feeding off the energy of this place—feeding off you.

Your vision pulsed. Dark spots creeping in.

Your body was screaming, burning, shutting down.

The cursed energy inside you churned, unstable. Your hands twitched, barely, but the strength to fight back was gone.

A sharp, sickening pain shot through your ribs as the curse struck again. Your body lurched, but there was no more strength left to even cry out.

Too slow. Too weak.

Too tired.

The sounds of battle faded, swallowed by the ringing in your ears. The weight of exhaustion dragged you down, deeper, deeper—

And then everything went black.

CHAPTER COMPLETED