No missions today.

  Sōjun Minamoto continued with his daily training.

  Shiko Mishima was also practicing swordsmanship in her courtyard. Yesterday’s battle seemed to have had an effect—her technique had clearly improved.

  In just a few days since moving in, she’d already turned the once-orderly courtyard into a wreck of crushed pnts and mangled greenery.

  She didn’t seem to have many friends, rarely left the house, and spent every day either training her body or practicing with her sword.

  Was this what being a shut-in looked like?

  Sōjun Minamoto turned and headed to Training Field No. 5.

  He picked a quiet training room at random.

  Above him floated the Fly Head—he released it.

  The creature had changed dramatically. Its limbs and torso had already been assimited. Only the fly’s head remained, perched on its neck, barely resembling what it once was.

  A single strand of hair, its tip soaked in crimson, pierced the back of its skull. A blood-red sheen began to spread.

  That scarlet glow flowed across the head like liquid light, slowly sinking inward.

  The Fly Head’s facial features began to take on vague simirities to Sōjun Minamoto’s own.

  Almost done—just a few more days, and assimition would be complete.

  ...

  Sōjun Minamoto and Shiko Mishima only saw each other during missions. Outside of work, they didn’t interact at all.

  An unspoken understanding.

  After another day of rest, Sōjun Minamoto accepted a Grade 1 mission to exorcise a cursed spirit.

  Time to ramp up the intensity.

  Same meeting time, same pce. When Sōjun arrived, Shiko Mishima was already waiting in the car, looking excited and eager.

  The target location this time: a hospital.

  When they arrived, a security perimeter had already been established. The area had been evacuated, and bystanders cleared out, leaving the pce eerily quiet.

  As usual, Shiko Mishima cast the Curtain.

  Wearing her uniform, she was immediately recognized by the security team and passed through without issue.

  Sōjun wasn’t in uniform, but since he was with her, no one stopped him either.

  The two entered the Curtain.

  Inside, the entire hospital was shrouded in heavy pressure.

  At the eye of that storm sat an enormous humanoid cursed spirit.

  Its head was like a mass of rotting flesh, covered in festering boils and sores. Pus oozed onto the ground in thick drips. From the wounds, countless human faces of all shapes and sizes pressed outward in a frenzy—something held them back, binding them tightly. They writhed, muttering and screaming incoherently.

  Stumps of arms in varying lengths were embedded in its flesh, with all four limbs crudely pieced together from mangled parts. It reached aimlessly into the air as bck miasma coiled around it, distorting the space nearby.

  That was their target.

  The ground around it had been corroded into pitted craters, releasing a foul, blood-slick stench.

  The hospital was rge, and numerous low-grade cursed spirits wandered throughout, aimless and listless.

  It had become a cursed spirit pyground.

  Their eyes met.

  Sōjun Minamoto understood immediately—

  The assistant wanted to take on the boss, so the supposed “main force” would be handling the mobs.

  From above his head, the Fly Head unched. A strand of hair trailed from the back of its skull, stretching like it had no end.

  It dove into the swarm of low-grade curses, wings buzzing as it zipped through the crowd at breakneck speed.

  Its cws tore into cursed bodies, yanking out hunks of flesh with each strike.

  It shoved the meat into its fanged mouth, devouring ravenously. As if tasting something delicious, its movements became frenzied, cwing and feasting nonstop. Its stomach was a bottomless pit.

  When attacked, it would simply zip to the next target, restarting the cycle—grab, eat, repeat.

  This grotesque little thing was purging cursed spirits faster than they could react. They couldn’t nd a hit, couldn’t block it, and couldn’t escape.

  So annoying.

  Sōjun Minamoto ignored it, turning instead to watch Shiko Mishima.

  She had already unsheathed her bde and was sprinting up the side of the hospital’s outer wall. Reaching the roof, she unched into the air, leaping above the massive cursed spirit.

  Dozens of arms reached for her, only to be severed midair, raining bloody limbs from the sky.

  With the full force of her descent behind her, she plunged her bde into the top of the spirit’s head, driving it deep—only the hilt remained visible.

  The cursed spirit roared in agony, lifting its right hand to swat her down.

  But Shiko was faster. With a flick of her wrist, the bde trembled and sliced off half its skull. As she withdrew it, she gouged out a chunk of writhing human faces.

  Before the retaliatory blow nded, she had already leapt away, nding lightly behind it. She crouched low, bde at the ready, then lunged forward—her right foot smmed down, exploding into speed. The bde’s tip howled through the air and pierced the cursed spirit clean through, tearing open its torso as she passed through it, emerging from the other side and standing tall.

  She twirled her bde, flicking off the blood. Just as she began to lower her guard—

  A massive surge of cursed energy erupted behind her.

  The force was so intense it nearly froze the air. Severed limbs and shattered flesh reassembled under an unseen pull.

  The cursed spirit was regenerating.

  Troublesome.

  Shiko Mishima’s brows knit as she turned, now fully alert.

  Only now did the cursed spirit rise from the ground, casting a colossal shadow that engulfed her completely, making her look minuscule in comparison.

  She dashed forward, sshing at its legs—but her bde passed through like water, leaving no mark.

  It was resistant to bded weapons. She switched to striking with the ft of her bde—still sharp when imbued with cursed energy.

  But compared to the creature’s size, her bde was far too slender.

  The tide shifted—she was now on the back foot. Or perhaps... she had always been.

  She didn’t seem to have a technique.

  When her proud swordsmanship and martial prowess began to falter, her attacks lost their bite.

  Each blow was followed by the cursed spirit’s regeneration.

  The healing slowed.

  But so did her cursed energy. Her stamina drained even faster.

  Her swordpy remained elegant—but now it only highlighted how powerless she was.

  Still, Shiko Mishima didn’t stop. She kept swinging, again and again and again.

  When the sword was finally knocked from her grasp, she continued with fists and kicks. Even as the spirit’s counterattacks battered her body, she never retreated.

  If she couldn’t kill it, then she’d die trying.

  That message was written all over her face.

  What a stubborn woman.

  Sōjun Minamoto’s eyes stayed on her, his double pupils like deep wells under the moonlight, flickering with sharp light.

  He analyzed her combat—studying her limits.

  She was trying to break through via a brush with death, and he allowed it.

  But even after all that, she still failed.

  That alone was already impressive.

  Sōjun Minamoto slowly stepped forward.

  Just as things turned critical, he pced himself between her and the cursed spirit.

  The loop holding his hair loosened, and bck strands spilled freely behind him. One strand grew rapidly, then shed out—wrapping tightly around the cursed spirit’s torso, limbs, and neck.

  It froze on the spot.

  Its instincts screamed in panic—

  Don’t move, or you’ll die.

  Sōjun Minamoto twitched a finger.

  The strand tightened, biting into its flesh and staining itself crimson.

  He casually loosened his grip.

  Cng—

  The sound cut through the silence.

  It flowed through Shiko Mishima’s chest like a clear spring, calming her mind before echoing outward.

  The cursed spirit colpsed instantly. Its head and limbs were severed, its body sliced into dozens of neat pieces that y scattered across the floor. A few droplets of fresh blood clung to the hair before evaporating into a crimson mist.

  A thick cloud of curses billowed out as the pieces continued writhing, trying to reassemble.

  Sōjun Minamoto tilted his head slightly. The scent of blood stirred a hint of excitement in him. In his field of vision, the cursed spirit loomed ahead, while behind him stood Shiko Mishima.

  “You did well. Leave the rest to me.”

  All Shiko could see was his profile, and the faint upward curve at the corner of his lips.

  ...

  Hair wove into a net and shed repeatedly at the cursed spirit. Again and again, it was shredded into finer pieces, utterly helpless. With each movement, the net sliced through, reducing flesh into pulp and blood into sludge, mixing with the dirt until it became an unrecognizable mess, impossible to reassemble.

  The crimson mass began to fade into a lifeless gray.

  Shiko Mishima sank to her knees, using her bde to prop herself up, refusing to colpse.

  She gritted her teeth as she watched.

  She couldn’t gauge Sōjun Minamoto’s strength, but she had seen his staff ID. If she remembered right, it said Grade 2?

  She had compared herself to other sorcerers before and was confident she was at the peak of Grade 2.

  She took this mission to try pushing into Semi-Grade 1.

  She never expected the gap to be this wide.

  What the hell was this?

  Her gaze dropped, eyes hidden beneath shadows.

  ...

  Sōjun Minamoto waited a moment until the cursed spirit fully dissipated into bck mist—completely exorcised. By then, the Fly Head had also had its fill and returned zily to hover above.

  Nothing abnormal remained within his perception.

  He walked over to Shiko Mishima. She was still seated on the ground, her expression flickering between sulking and grimacing.

  Too easy to read. To put it nicely—she wore her heart on her sleeve. In reality, she just didn’t know how to hide her emotions. Everything showed pinly on her face.

  Sōjun sensed no hostility, so he didn’t overthink it. He reached down and helped her to her feet.

  She steadied herself with effort, gave a strained smile, and offered a thumbs-up. “You're strong.”

  Sōjun returned the gesture. “You too.”

  Her mood bounced back quickly.

  They grew a little more familiar with each other.

  After she recovered slightly, she dismissed the Curtain. The two cleaned up and returned to the car.

  “The mission went well. How about a little celebration?” Shiko Mishima suggested with a grin. “Also, cheers to a smooth partnership.”

  “Your injuries?” Sōjun gave her a sideways gnce. She was still covered in blood, her left arm hung limp, and she could barely stand.

  “Just a scratch. I’ll be fine after some rest.” Her tone had shed the earlier professionalism—completely nonchant now.

  Sōjun could only nod and agree.

  He took the wheel on the way back. Unlicensed. Pying the role of some rando.

  Honestly, he looked more like the support now.

  What a reversal.

  ...

  That evening, Shiko Mishima arrived at Sōjun’s pce.

  She had changed into loungewear and left her tachi behind, giving off a softer, more id-back vibe.

  Her injuries seemed mostly healed.

  Sōjun couldn’t help but marvel—Jujutsu Sorcerers really were built different. With a good healer, they could be half-dead one minute and bouncing around the next.

  In a good mood, Shiko gave a brief greeting and pulled him out the door.

  She was treating tonight.

  On the way, she chatted about food and recommended restaurants, a stark contrast to her work persona.

  Before long, they arrived at a tucked-away izakaya. The location was a bit off the beaten path, but the pce was bustling. Shiko clearly came here often.

  ...

  Why did I agree to come drinking?

  Sōjun immediately regretted it. He hadn’t expected her to be a lightweight.

  She ordered a bunch of bottles the moment they sat down, and after just a few sips, she was already tipsy.

  Worse, she loved to drink.

  And had awful alcohol tolerance.

  Slurring nonsense, tongue half out.

  The surrounding stares made Sōjun’s skin crawl.

  “You saved me, yeah, but I hate that smile of yours,” she suddenly slurred. “Saying stuff like ‘Leave the rest to me.’ You think that’s gonna move me? I hate that kind of smile!”

  Still not done, she slid over to sit beside him, one arm over his shoulder, the other gripping a bottle.

  Gulp gulp gulp—

  She downed several mouthfuls, then sighed contentedly and smmed the bottle on the table.

  Thud!

  At that moment, Sōjun could feel eyes multiplying around them.

  He sipped his tea awkwardly.

  But Shiko wasn’t finished. She nudged him with an elbow, talking a mile a minute.

  “You were great during the exorcism—so cocky, full of yourself, didn’t give a damn. I liked that. But off-duty? Way too calm. I’m four years older, yet you act more like my big brother. Seriously, what's your deal? You’ve got zero teenage energy.”

  She smacked him on the back.

  “You don’t act like a kid at all.”

  “And then—hahahaha—”

  She burst into uncontrolble ughter, remembering something.

  “Hahaha, you’re fifteen and already this old-man-like? Hahahaha!”

  She pointed at him, giggling.

  That’s just dramatic.

  If you took 40, added 15, and divided it by two—he now had the physical capacity of an 18-year-old, but the face and mentality of someone 27.

  The fusion was complete.

  Some people looked 27 at fifteen, and still looked 27 at forty.

  Ever heard of age-freezing?

  At some point, Shiko had wandered back to her seat across from him.

  Sōjun rexed too.

  Before coming to Jujutsu High, in fifteen years, he’d only known three people—his parents and Masamichi Yaga.

  Even counting babysitters, coaches, and tutors, the total number of people he’d interacted with could be counted on both hands.

  He used to be a complete shut-in.

  This kind of scene? Totally unfamiliar.

  Around them, other patrons ughed and chatted. Maybe they were with friends, maybe family, maybe just coworkers blowing off steam after a long day.

  In any case, the atmosphere had become lively.

  Sōjun sipped tea and picked at the food. He let her drunken ramblings roll off him like background noise. Just something to ugh at.

  It actually made the food taste better.

  He was in a good mood and didn’t stop her from continuing.

  But then she started crying.

  “I worked so damn hard, and I still have to watch people like you leave me in the dust. It’s not fair! Why is getting stronger so easy for some of you? It’s like drinking water, eating food! I finally cw my way to your level, and I still can’t beat you! Take my eyes off you for a second and bam—you’re already miles ahead again. It sucks! You’re one of those geniuses, right? Go die already! You’ll never understand how I feel! No one understands! It hurts so much—Mommyyyy—uuuuuuaaaaahhh!”

  Her wailing turned into a bizarre cry.

  Sōjun ducked his head, one hand covering his face to block out the stares.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Shiko stand up on her chair and start singing.

  Her voice was pretty—but she was hopelessly tone-deaf.

  The entire restaurant turned to look.

  Sōjun wanted to disappear into the floor. And when she started trying to climb onto the table, he couldn’t take it anymore. He reached out to stop her—

  Shiko instinctively raised her hands to guard her chest.

  ?

  He slowed down, approaching gently.

  She squinted, bleary-eyed, trying to recognize him. When she did, she finally let her guard down.

  He retrieved her tossed-aside shoes and carefully helped her put them back on.

  Then he paid and dragged her out of there like he was fleeing the scene of a crime.

  Halfway back, she passed out cold.

  With no other choice, Sōjun carried her on his back.

  Her snores were faint but steady, and the alcohol stench was overwhelming. His body instinctively resisted.

  He held his breath the whole way, terrified she’d drool on him.

  It was exhausting—more tiring than the actual mission.

  When they got back, Sōjun dumped her straight onto the living room couch.

  He let out a long sigh.

  After grabbing a bnket and covering her, he didn’t bother with anything else. First thing he did was take a long shower.

  Clean again. Finally.

  Everything else could wait until tomorrow.

  He was mentally drained.