Misaka drags me and Sakura straight to the back corner by the open window, overlooking the west training dojo.

  We slide onto the mahogany bench behind the lines of desks. I drop my bag from my shoulder and kick it under my legs.

  A projector hangs from the ceiling, casting a soft glow over the room, and humming as it powers up. A slideshow flickers to life on the white wall behind Nakamura.

  “Pay attention,” he clicks the remote in his hand. “This is survival, learn from it.”

  WEEKLY LEADERBOARD: DEAD ZONES

  November 1-8, 2049

  No. of exorcisms.

  Satoshi Gojo: Forty-seven

  Shiori Sazama: Thirty-five

  Megumi Fushiguro: Twenty-one

  He scans the room, his onyx eyes flitting over every student. “Anyone know what these numbers mean?”

  Every head swivels in my direction at Shiori’s name. My stomach lurches. Shiori has exorcised thirty five curses in a week. That’s thirty five times she could’ve died. My lashes brush my cheekbones as my eyes flutter shut and I take a deep breath. She didn’t die. She’s alive. You saw her earlier.

  Muttering breaks out across the room. Students don’t bother hiding their disdain. Lips curl and eyes narrow.

  They think I didn’t earn my place. I got handed special grade because I’m the principal’s daughter. Never mind that I nearly fucking died. No – I did die. Twice. You can’t fake surviving Zone Four. But the facts don’t matter to them.

  A student at the front – one of the only ones not openly gawking at me – raises his hand. “It means they’re strong, Sensei?”

  Nakamura tilts his head. “Wrong. It means they’re not dead yet. Strength don’t mean shit when you’re dead.” He pulls a toothpick from his tan trench coat, sliding it between his teeth.

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the other Sazama will make the casualty count next week.” Sora sneers from two rows ahead.

  Snickers scatter around the others.

  Nakamura’s onyx gaze cuts to Sora. The toothpick stills at the corner of his mouth. “Yomizaki. How many curses have you eliminated this week?”

  “I haven’t been assigned to the Dead Zones yet, Sensei. I haven’t —”

  “Until you have been to the Dead Zones, keep your shitty comments to yourself.”

  Sora’s bows his head. His two shadows wrinkle their noses. Even his friends think he’s a fucking moron. Good to know.

  Nakamura flicks to the next slide. He sits cross-legged on his desk, resting his head on his fist, sucking air between his teeth.

  CASUALTIES (THIS WEEK):

  November 1-8, 2049

  KIA: Five Grade Fours, two Grade Threes and one Grade Two.

  INJURED: Fifteen (Out of action for a minimum of two weeks)

  RETIRED: Two (Permanent disability)

  TOTAL CASUALTIES: Twenty-five ranked sorcerers.

  NET ROSTER LOSS: Ten ranked sorcerers.

  “Eight people.” Nakamura scrubs a hand down his face. “Dead. This week alone.” He rolls the toothpick to the other side of his mouth. “That’s the reality. We die. We replace.” His eyes go glassy for a moment.

  I pick at the dirt under my nails, the numbers sit heavy in the pit of my stomach. In one week we lost eight people, and I’ve seen reports in Dad’s office from previous sweeps. Eight is actually low.

  That’s how fucked this has become.

  Misaka clears her throat on my right, drawing me from my thoughts.

  “Sensei?” She shoots her hand into the air. “How many of those deaths were preventable?”

  Nakamura uncrosses his legs and leans back on his palms, letting his coat flow over the edge of the desk.

  “That depends,” he responds bluntly. “Do you mean preventable by better training, or preventable if they’d stayed in bed that morning?”

  The room goes eerily quiet.

  The boy in the front shifts. Misaka’s fingers lock together. Sakura’s breath hitches.

  “Neither,” Nakamura answers, breaking the silence. “Both. All eight could’ve been prevented if the Higher-ups allocated resources properly. None were preventable because curses don’t give a fuck how well you’ve trained.”

  He pulls the toothpick from his mouth and points it at the class.

  “You want a real answer? Six of those deaths were because someone hesitated. One was ‘cause someone got too cocky. One was bad fucking luck.”

  Six people died because they froze. I think back to Zone Four. The skeletal curse’s clicking, and my body locking up. The metallic taste of blood when I bit my tongue. I hesitated. But I was lucky enough to walk away with my life.

  Nakamura flicks his toothpick across the room into the metal trash can, then stretches his arms above his head. His tousled light brown hair brushes the collar of his coat.

  “Now,” he clicks the remote again and a new slideshow appears on the wall. “For those of you who are new to this, we’ll be starting with the basics. Even if you have a technique, you need to understand how cursed energy works.” He looks over his shoulder at a student in the front row. “Name?”

  The boy clasps his hands together, and lifts his head to look Nakamura in the eye. “Hiro Kaiko,” he drawls.

  I stare at the back of his head as he pushes his shoulders back. His copper hair sits flat against his neck. He’s got more confidence than most. Normally students avoid Nakamura because of how quick he is to lose his temper. He also didn’t turn to stare when Shiori’s name came up. I raise my brow slowly.

  Nakamura twists to face the room. “Kaiko, basics?”

  “How basic, Sensei?” Hiro twirls his pen between his fingers. “Cursed energy is the spiritual byproduct of negative emotion. Ya know, fear, grief, rage. All that jazz.”

  Nakamura’s mouth twitches. Holy shit. He’s actually impressed for once. Shiori mentioned that he’s hard to crack a smile from.

  “Good. Anyone have anything to add?”

  “Every human produces cursed energy. If you’re a non-sorcerer it escapes the body unchecked, it pools in the world. Over time that leaked cursed energy leads to the creation of cursed spirits.” Sakura folds her arms across her chest as she recites the textbook perfectly.

  Nakamura snaps his fingers in Sakura’s direction.

  “You studied. Some of you could learn from Yashiro. I’ve seen this year’s basic knowledge results,” he clicks his tongue. “This is standard stuff. You wanna live? Then study. Pay attention.”

  I lean back on the bench, the hard wood groans under my weight. This place could do with extra budget. This bench is one more sudden jolt of weight away from becoming part of a bonfire.

  “Sazama.”

  I snap my head up. Nakamura’s staring at me. Shit. What was the question?

  I bite my lip, breaking the skin. Sora snickers along with a few others. I fight the urge to roll my eyes at them. I know this stuff. I just got distracted by the school’s shitty funding.

  “Sorry, Sensei. What was the question?”

  Nakamura’s jaw tenses. Ah fuck. Detention incoming.

  “If you come face to face with a Special Grade, and you freeze because you’re inexperienced. What should you do?”

  “Become lunch or run.” Hiro replies without hesitation and the class laughs, even Sora who hasn’t stopped glaring daggers at me at every given moment snorts.

  “Precisely, but I was asking Sazama, Kaiko.” He pins me with a stern look as he slowly steps toward my desk. “You’re going into the Shibuya dead zone in a week. Which one are you picking?”

  The words die on my tongue. What would I do? I’ve frozen before. In Zone Four. Everyone in this room has probably frozen too. Running is the best option. Obviously, but if I freeze anyway? I’d be a curse’s entrée. I steel myself and square my shoulders.

  “I’d run and call for backup, Sensei.”

  He stares at me silently for a few seconds. My heart hammers against my ribs.

  “Good answer. That is why you were paired with Gojo. A strategic mind complements raw power.”

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  I swallow a grimace. The theory is right, except Satoshi can barely stand to be in the same room as me. What happens when he decides his life is worth more than mine and leaves the curse to finish me off? I’m not exactly thrilled about working with him either, but I know he could take out a Special Grade quicker than I can. At least he wouldn’t freeze.

  He turns and strolls back to the front of the class, and leans against his desk again, pulling another toothpick from his pocket, and sliding it between his teeth.

  “How many first years are assigned to dead zones this year?” Hiro calls out.

  “Every first year graded Grade Two or above are being assigned to the dead zones.” He snarls, and his nostrils flare.

  My stomach hits the floor. Every first year Grade Two and up. We’re all being sent to our deaths.

  “That’s a death sentence.”

  Nakamura’s dark brows rise.

  “Yes, Sazama, it is.”

  More inexperienced sorcerers are going to die. My mind whirls. Cursed spirit numbers are increasing and attacking more frequently according to the reports in Dad’s office, and yet the Higher-ups are throwing inexperienced first years to die defending the borders.

  “Have the Higher-ups said why they’re only sending Grade Two and upwards, Sensei?” Sakura asks.

  “No, dipshit,” Sora scoffs, his grey eyes narrow on Sakura. “The Higher-ups don’t hand that information over to anyone. You need clearance. You should know that by now.”

  Nakamura gives him a stern look that shuts the first year’s mouth but doesn’t stop him from sneering at Sakura.

  “The Higher-ups don’t explain their choices,” our sensei says, “and anyone who values their life shouldn’t question their decisions.”

  “How many students is that exactly?” one of Sora’s lackeys—the one with dark hair and a matching haircut—asks from where he sits two rows in front of me, drumming his fingers along the desk.

  Nakamura’s jaw ticks. “Forty-three. We’ve never sent this many first years into the dead zones. I won’t lie to you and say that you’ll all come out alive. You won’t. But paying attention in my lessons will give you a fighting chance.”

  The dead zones are becoming overrun at a rate that makes my stomach tense every time Shiori fills me in on one of her sweeps. Either we’re losing this war against the cursed spirits or the cursed spirits are getting stronger. Both possibilities mean that every student in this school is needed.

  Even those below Grade Two.

  The slide changes to an image of Satoru Gojo, Satoshi’s predecessor and the one that died fighting Ryomen Sukuna when he used Fushiguro as a vessel back in 2018. My stomach pitches as I look at the image. Satoshi looks like a carbon copy of him, but rougher around the edges. He’s smiling like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Something I don’t think I’ve ever seen from the third year.

  “If you don’t recognise this person, you need to brush up on your history. The ‘Strongest Sorcerer’ of the modern era,” Sensei’s eyes snag on me briefly. “Satoru Gojo. Satoshi Gojo’s third cousin. Died in Shinjuku thirty-one years ago, just thirty-five days after being unsealed from the prison realm.”

  “If the Gojo’s are so strong why can’t we just send Satoshi to deal with all the dead zones?” Sora rests his head on his hand.

  Because Satoshi isn’t a weapon.

  “Because Satoshi Gojo ain’t able to be in three different dead zones at once, and he would need to destroy the city to exorcise all the cursed spirits at once,” Nakamura replies coolly.

  My breath catches. The cursed spirits are appearing quicker than even Gojo can handle them. He could destroy the whole of Tokyo without a second thought. Yet he carried me like I was something fragile after Zone Four. I shove the warmth that fills my chest at that thought far, far away.

  Probably just to fuck with me. A monster that lures prey in by being friendly before striking.

  “What about Okkotsu and Itadori? They could take a zone each?” Sora’s other lackey—on his left—chimes in.

  “And do what exactly Chujo?” Sensei snaps. “Die whilst being overrun from sheer numbers?” The toothpick in his mouth cracks and falls to the floor. “Because with the help of the strongest sorcerers, there are still too many cursed spirits appearing. More than we can handle, even with the increase of non-sorcerers training with cursed tools.”

  That’s the last thing this world needs. Three sorcerers destroying the city we live in, and what’s worse is Sora and his friends think that’s a suitable solution.

  “Plus, nobody knows where Yuji Itadori is and Yuta Okkotsu is our backup healer, not just a curse killing machine.” I add.

  Lie. Fushiguro has contact with Itadori. Not that I’m supposed to know that information. Fushiguro asked me to grab his phone during one of our training sessions and a text lit up his screen. Signed ‘Y.I’. It doesn’t take a genius to work out who that refers to.

  Every person turns to look at me like I started speaking a foreign language.

  “Sazama’s right. Itadori’s location is currently unknown and Okkotsu has other responsibilities.” Nakamura nods, and every student turns their attention back to him.

  “Can’t we just ask him to take out curses instead of healing?” Sora urges.

  “It don’t work that way, Yomizaki. Everyone has a role to play,” He replies. “Now, back to the lesson. The significance of Satoru Gojo is—”

  “His ability to read cursed energy flow.” Hiro says. His notebook is closed in front of him. I can’t say I blame him. If he has any kind of jujutsu background, this stuff would’ve been drilled into him before he could even recognise cursed energy. “The Six Eyes, right?”

  “Yes.” Nakamura bows his head. “The Gojo clans innate gift that’s rarely inherited. They manifest as bright blue eyes and grant the user extrasensory perception, including seeing the flow of cursed energy in extreme detail and the ability to use that flow to read cursed techniques.”

  “Just for curiosity’s sake,” Sora’s grey gaze doesn’t stray from the projected image of Gojo. “The Six Eyes were tied by fate to Tengen and the Star Plasma Vessel. So why does Satoshi Gojo exist? Tengen’s dead and has been for years.”

  Nakamura closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “There ain’t an explanation, Satoshi Gojo is an anomaly. Jujutsu sorcery doesn’t explain its choices and neither does fate.”

  “Fine. Can he see cursed techniques before they’re used?”

  “No dumbass. Not even the Six Eyes can see a technique before it’s been used. The only way to do that would be with a precognitive technique.” His dark-haired friend retorts with a snicker.

  “What kind of idiot with that much power gets killed by his student anyway?” Sora scowls.

  “A smart one. Megumi Fushiguro wasn’t in control of his mind or body when he fought Satoru Gojo, and Sukuna was able to subdue Mahoraga, objectively one of the most broken Shikigami in jujutsu sorcery.” Hiro rolls his eyes. “You try taking on the strongest sorcerer in history, who was coined a battle genius. You’re a Grade Two. You have no room to talk, asswipe.”

  Multiple hands fly to mouths as the room explodes into suppressed laughter.

  “Oh fuck y—”

  “Yomizaki. Arrogance gets you killed. Kaiko is right. You’re a Grade Two and you wouldn’t stand a chance against someone like Ryomen Sukuna.” Our sensei interjects and glares at the cocky first year. “If you think you can take on someone that powerful then by all means, take the floor.” He throws an arm out to the side and presents the front of the classroom.

  Sora huffs and rips his gaze away from Nakamura. With that attitude he’ll be lucky to survive one sweep in the dead zones. Let alone multiple. Saves me having to break my morals and kill him myself.

  “Sensei, how likely are those below Grade One to survive against a Special Grade?” A student with purple rimmed glasses asks from the right hand side.

  “If they’re alone. Chances are slim. Even those Grade One and above aren’t guaranteed a win against a Special Grade.” Nakamura glances at me for a heartbeat before looking away. “We’ve lost some good people to Special Grades.”

  Something in my chest shifts, and I frown.

  The bell rings, signalling the end of the lesson and we all begin to gather our things. The students group into their circles and filter onto the walkway, emptying the classroom. I rise from my space on the bench and sling my bag over my shoulder as Misaka and Sakura wait for me by the door, with a confused look on their faces. “You were talking about Mum weren’t you?” I ask Nakamura-sensei.

  Sadness fills his onyx eyes as he meets mine. “Yeah, she died to a Special Grade curse, covering for me while I was in medical.”

  I shift the weight of my bag. “It wasn’t your fault. The Gojo clan reported that curse as a Grade One, not Special Grade. You would’ve died if you weren’t in medical.” A rush of grief crushes my heart, stealing my breath. Mum would’ve taken that mission even if Nakamura wasn’t in medical. She always protected those weaker than her. She wouldn’t want him carrying guilt for her death.

  Nakamura leans back against his desk, pulling a cigarette from the drawer, and rolls it between his fingers, as he stares at me.

  “She’d be proud of you, you’re more like her than you give yourself credit for.”

  I blink. I was told that Nakamura was strict and cold.

  “Being the principal’s daughter causes you trouble, don’t it?” he continues.

  I incline my head. “There are more than a few students who would rather see me dead because of my name.”

  He nods. “It won’t always be like that. Once people see what you can do, they’ll back off or worship you. Not because of your name, but because of your strength. Whether you like it or not, you’ll be seen as a weapon and someone to be feared. Remember that next time you train with Gojo.” His dark eyes bore into mine.

  “Thank you for humouring my question, Sensei.” I turn and start towards the door.

  “Sazama,” Nakamura calls out, and I pivot on my heel to look back at him. “I taught your sister. I chose to teach because I’d rather see my students alive than watch my colleagues die on missions or sweeps. Shiori is a strong sorcerer but she can be reckless. Your mother was a kind woman, who always put others’ needs before her own.”

  I nod.

  “You’re smarter than both of them.”

  Come again. It’s not often I get seen as the smart Sazama, or that Dad is left out of the comparison.

  “From what I’ve seen—and heard in passing—you share your mother’s compassion. Don’t lose that.”

  “Thank you, Sensei, but compassion won’t save me from a cursed spirit.” A bitter laugh escapes. “You know from the reports that sorcerers more skilled than me die every day. Compassion didn’t save them.”

  “No. But compassion means you have allies who would back you up when asked. Being alone and strong isn’t always the best choice. Even Satoru Gojo could’ve told you that.” He presses the cigarette to his lips. “Strength isn’t just your abilities, Sazama.”

  I nod because I can’t find the words for that advice, and head over to meet Misaka and Sakura at the door. All I know is that compassion won’t save me in the joint training drills next period.

  My stomach churns as I stand at the edge of the training room with Misaka, watching Sakura beat the ever-loving shit out of a second year. It takes her almost no time to knock him out cold with a well-timed punch to the temple. She rises victorious and we clap as she steps back from the second year and takes a deep inhale from the oxygen mask attached to her tank.

  “Enjoy your snooze, buddy.” She leans down to pat his cheek, causing me to laugh.

  “She makes it look easy,” I say to Misaka, my elbow brushing hers. “I need to learn that temple punch. Could save my life when Sora decides to attack.”

  “That prick is going to try and kill you.”

  “Huh?” I glance up and follow her gaze across the room. She’s glaring daggers at Sora. He leans against the polished wood walls with his arms crossed over his chest. “I overheard him on the way here boasting to his friends how people are underestimating him and what he can do.”

  “I’ll be fine, I’m a Sazama. We survive,” I recite because that’s my fucking mantra. I’m stripped down to a sports bra and black gym leggings. My braid has stayed put all day. At least it can’t be pulled mid spar.

  “Keep telling yourself that, Sazama,” Sora sneers across the room wearing a smirk that can only be described as cruel.

  “Fuck off, Yomizaki.” I raise my middle finger to him.

  “I do hope you win your little spar,” his eyes dance with sadistic glee that makes bile burn the back of my throat. “It would be a shame if someone else kills you before I get the chance. But I wouldn’t be too surprised. You are a fragile little thing aren’t you?”

  Like fuck I’m fragile.

  He’d probably second guess killing me if he got hit by one of my pressured strikes.

  I grit my teeth and flick my wrist, sending the atmospheric pressure around him plummeting.

  Sora struggles against the attack, his knees buckle and he braces himself against the wall with a hand.

  Fear flashes in his eyes.

  I grin and wiggle my fingers in his direction.

  “Ren.” Misaka hisses.

  I release the pressure and raise a brow at him in challenge.

  “You’ll regret that.” He points at me with a shaky finger, face flushed pink from embarrassment, before sulking off with his friends hot on his heels. I watch their backs retreat.

  “I’m all for you killing him, but you know you’ll feel guilty for it after,” Misaka says.

  She has a point. I would feel guilty but I wasn’t trying to kill him. I don’t think I can bring myself to do that.

  Even if he deserves it.

  She shakes her head and her gaze shifts to Satoshi, who saunters into the room to have a hushed conversation with Fushiguro-sensei. “There’s another problem of yours,” she adds.

  My eyes linger on Satoshi, and I struggle to look away. This is the first time I’ve seen him since our fight. His bright blue eyes flick to my face. His brow twitches before he looks back at Fushiguro.

  Sakura joins us and gestures to the mat.

  “Your turn, Misa,” she grins. “Let’s see what you can do.”

  Misaka tightens the laces on her boots and stands tall, rolling her shoulders.

  “Sazama, you’ll be sparring with Gojo,” Fushiguro calls to me.

  My face pales.

  What the fuck? He’s a third year. He’s not even part of this training session. It’s first and second years.

  Misaka and Sakura whip around to stare at Fushiguro in disbelief.

  Training with Satoshi in private sessions is one thing, but getting humiliated by him in front of both the first and second years will make me look weak. I can’t afford to look weaker than everyone assumes I am.

  My pulse quickens as I watch Satoshi stroll across the room. My heart does a pathetic flip like he pressed Infinity directly against my ribs. He lifts a white brow, and I swear I see a ghost of a smile as he slides beside Shinji. I hadn’t even noticed he was in the room. He’s biting his lip, shoulders shaking.

  The asshole is laughing at me.

  “Sensei can’t be serious,” Sakura says incredulously. “Gojo would flatten you by reinforcing Infinity. No offence babe.” Her rose eyes flick to mine.

  “Well aware. I’m not exactly thrilled about it.”

  I scan the room. Most of the first years look ready to combust from excitement. Some want to see me die. Some want to watch Gojo fight.

  They’ll be getting a show, and I’ll get to see Mum sooner than I guessed.