Kamo Itsuki's smile held a serene certainty. He knew close combat was the crucible where Black Flash was most likely to ignite—and the chasm between those who had touched that sublime convergence of power and those who hadn't was vast. It was why, on missions, he always steered the fight into hand-to-hand range. Trained from childhood by Kamo Masaki, his combat instincts—offense, defense, evasion—were polished to an instinctive perfection. A physical contest? He was assured of victory.
"It seems this match is unavoidable," he said, his tone light. "In that case, let's make it interesting. A wager."
"A wager on what?"
"Remember that luxurious meal after our first mission?" Kamo's eyes glinted. "We'll bet on that."
"Rules?"
"The three of us. A free-for-all. Only one winner. The two losers pay the bill. Shoko will referee."
The rules set, the three instantly dispersed, each finding their footing on the training ground. Shoko, wisely, had already retreated to a distant corner of the stadium. She knew better than to be anywhere near the epicenter when these three monsters clashed.
***
The night hung heavy over Jujutsu High. Yaga Masamichi stepped out of his brightly lit office for a walk, his brow furrowed in thought. His gaze drifted toward the sports field. "I wonder if those four have finished their training," he muttered. "With students that capable, a teacher's left with little to do. No sense of accomplishment at all." He sighed, the sound echoing in the quiet corridor.
As he neared the stadium, his pace slowed. An unusual sound reached his ears—not the rhythm of running, but the violent crash of impacts and the groan of collapsing structure. A bad feeling settled in his gut. He quickened his stride.
When he rounded the corner and saw the stadium, his blood ran cold, then hot.
The once-sturdy building was a skeletal ruin, dust and debris clouding the air. Yaga's eyes widened. "What in the world have these brats done?!" he roared.
As the dust settled, four figures emerged, coated in gray powder.
"It seems I won," Kamo Itsuki stated, calm and assured.
"How? It was clearly a draw!" Gojo shot back, unwilling to yield.
"Exactly," Geto agreed, siding with Gojo.
They turned as one to Shoko. "You're the referee. Tell them."
Shoko cleared her throat, brushing dust from her uniform. "While it began as a three-way free-for-all, due to the overwhelming pressure Itsuki exerted, you two unconsciously began teaming up against him in the later stages. Therefore, the result is clear: Itsuki is stronger." She paused, a pointed look at Gojo and Geto. "Moreover, when the stadium collapsed under the strain of your… enthusiasm, only Itsuki had the presence of mind to shield me. You two were a bit too preoccupied. So, stop acting like children and pay up."
Gojo and Geto opened their mouths to protest further, but the words died in their throats. A new presence had arrived—a simmering, volcanic rage radiating from the edge of the ruins.
Yaga Masamichi stood there, his eyes practically glowing in the dim light. "Would one of you," he began, his voice deceptively quiet, "care to explain how a running drill resulted in the stadium being demolished?"
Gojo raised a tentative hand. "Teacher, what if I told you a Special Grade cursed spirit launched a surprise attack?"
Yaga's scoff was like the crack of a whip. "The entire school is under Master Tengen's barrier. Are you doubting the barrier, or my intelligence?" Without another word, he delivered a swift, corrective thump to the head of each troublemaker—thwack, thwack, thwack.
"Ow… Teacher's hand-to-hand is no joke either," Gojo grumbled, rubbing his skull.
But Kamo Itsuki wasn't focusing on the pain. A sudden, electric realization jolted through him, his eyes lighting up. That's it! Why didn't I think of it before?
Yaga Masamichi was the foremost authority on Puppet Cursed Technique Studies—the art of creating autonomous Cursed Corpses. He was the only one who could craft them with true independence. If Kamo wanted to learn that craft, to understand the principles of instilling a cursed technique into a constructed vessel, Yaga was the sole, the perfect, source.
He also understood, with crystalline clarity, that this was not a technique one could simply replicate by collecting a blood sample. This was profound, esoteric knowledge—the kind that required a teacher.
"Yes," Kamo Itsuki confirmed, his voice steady.
Yaga Masamichi leaned back in his chair, studying the young man before him. The boy's usual placid confidence was still there, but Yaga detected a new, focused intensity in his gaze. "Why?" he asked, fingers steepled. "You've never shown interest in Puppet Cursed Technique Studies before."
The unspoken question hung in the air: Was this the Kamo Clan's doing? Had they finally taken an interest in his unique method of creating autonomous Cursed Corpses?
Kamo met his teacher's probing look without flinching. "It's a natural extension of my Blood Manipulation," he explained, his tone analytical, as if presenting a thesis. "The bodies of my blood clones are, in essence, a form of temporary Cursed Corpse. But they lack a core—a true, replicable technique matrix. They are shells. Puppet Cursed Technique Studies is the discipline of creating that core, of engineering a vessel that can not only hold a technique but execute it with autonomy."
He paused, choosing his next words with care. He would not mention the grand, world-shaking potential of mass-producing technique-bearing constructs. Not yet. "My reserves of Cursed Energy are… substantial," he continued, a mild understatement. "And my control over biological material is precise. I possess the raw materials and the fine motor skills. What I lack is the foundational knowledge—the theory of inscription and animation that you have mastered. I believe integrating this knowledge could solve several inherent limitations in my own technique's applications."
It was a calculated answer: part truth, part tactical omission. It presented the desire to learn as a logical step for a dedicated technician seeking to refine his craft, not as a grab for a strategic weapon. He framed it as a personal challenge, an intellectual pursuit, making it harder for Yaga to dismiss it as mere clan espionage.
Yaga was silent for a long moment, his eyes never leaving Itsuki's face. He saw the keen intellect, the drive for optimization, and the sheer power that simmered just beneath the surface. The boy wasn't lying about his capabilities. The ruined stadium was proof enough of that.
Finally, Yaga let out a slow breath. "The study is arduous. It's not just mechanics; it's about imparting a spark—a core command structure that borders on creating a cursed life. It requires patience, respect for the craft, and an understanding of the responsibility that comes with it." His voice hardened slightly. "This isn't a parlor trick. It's a profound and dangerous art. Why should I believe your interest is genuine, and not just… borrowed?"
The challenge was clear. Kamo Itsuki didn't look away. "Because a borrowed interest wouldn't have survived your lecture the other night," he said, a faint, wry smile touching his lips. "It would have been scolded away. Mine wasn't. It crystallized. You showed me the gap in my own understanding. I want to bridge it. Not for the clan. For the craft itself."
The office was quiet save for the hum of the overhead light. Yaga Masamichi weighed the student's words, his demeanor, and the formidable potential he represented. Finally, he gave a single, slow nod.
"Very well. We start tomorrow. Be prepared. I don't teach shortcuts, and I demand perfection in the fundamentals." A stern look returned to his eyes. "And the first fundamental is rebuilding the stadium you three destroyed. By hand. No cursed techniques. Consider it… your tuition."
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