The aftermath settled into a new, gentle rhythm. Though Nanako and Mimiko clung to Kamo Itsuki with a child's instinctual gratitude, he knew his own limitations. Immersed for days in the labyrinth of barrier equations, he was a poor guardian for fragile, healing hearts. When Geto Suguru quietly offered to take them in, the relief in Itsuki's eyes was profound.
On a rare afternoon free from research, Itsuki visited Geto's home. The scene he found was one of serene domesticity: Geto, with uncharacteristic focus, was carefully braiding Mimiko's hair while Nanako leaned against his side, holding up hair ties. A soft, setting sun bathed them in gold.
"Shoko joins your righteous crusade, and now you've acquired two daughters," Itsuki teased from the doorway, a genuine smile touching his lips. "It seems you're the one living the charmed life."
His tone held a thread of light envy, but far stronger was a deep, settled gladness. Beyond the joke, he saw the truth: Geto, with his innate gentleness, and Shoko, with her steady compassion, were the perfect salve for the girls' trauma. Their home was becoming a sanctuary, slowly replacing shadows with sunlight.
The nightmare of Hakone, however, had sown a seed of purpose in Geto that went beyond guardianship. The villagers' readiness to believe monstrous lies, to turn on their own out of fear and ignorance, had crystallized a realization for him: remote areas languished in a different kind of darkness, one that craved not just protection, but understanding.
Thus, a bold vision took shape. He would build a beacon, not from the enlightened center, but from the neglected edges. Religion, he reasoned, could be reshaped into a vessel for truth—a way to guide people out of the fog of superstition and toward a rational acceptance of the jujutsu world.
The practical foundation appeared in the form of the corrupt and stagnant Bansei Cult. Geto saw not an obstacle, but a framework. With a reformer's zeal and a politician's shrewdness, he began meticulously purging its greed, rewriting its doctrines, and infusing it with sanitized jujutsu principles. He was, it turned out, a natural evangelist—his sincerity and charisma turning dogma into compelling narrative. The reborn sect grew, attracting followers with a message of order, knowledge, and protection.
Kamo Itsuki observed this quiet revolution from afar, a pang of admiration cutting through his usual analytical detachment. In the theater of hearts and faith, Geto was the undisputed prodigy. Itsuki consciously chose the role of the architect in the shadows, dedicating himself wholly to his barrier research, content to support Geto's sacred mission from behind the scenes.
He had set a pivotal stone in the river of fate, altering Tengen's path and weaving a strategic lie about the assimilation's failure to lure out hidden threats. But from here, the current was Geto's to navigate. The risk of a tragic descent into darkness, as once foretold, remained—a specter not fully banished. Yet, Itsuki understood the limits of his influence. He was a catalyst, not a puppeteer. Geto, Nanako, Mimiko, Shoko—they were all living, breathing people with wills of their own, capable of writing a future divergent from any pre-known script.
Watching Geto gently correct Mimiko's grip on a hairpin, his smile unguarded and warm, Kamo Itsuki allowed himself a sliver of hope. Perhaps this was the timeline where Geto Suguru, armed with a purified purpose and a family to protect, would find a different, brighter summit. The path ahead was his to walk, but he would not walk it alone.
A cold, strategic layer underlay the warmth of their daily lives. To sell the lie of Tengen's failed assimilation, Kamo Itsuki had gone a step further, meticulously crafting a fake Star Plasma Vessel and leaking its location to the bounty network, a meal ticket specifically for Fushiguro Toji. The credibility had to be airtight.
His calculations ran deeper. If the mastermind behind the scenes—Kenjaku—still clung to his apocalyptic dream of merging all humanity with Tengen, then his logic was predictable. The now curse-like Tengen would require a specific key to control: Cursed Spirit Manipulation. Geto Suguru, no longer a vulnerable student but a confirmed Special Grade, had become the most coveted—and most dangerous—prize on the board. A direct confrontation would be a seismic event, one even a millennium-old curse user might not easily win. At minimum, Geto should be able to escape.
But Kamo Itsuki played a longer game. He never relied on an opponent's failure alone.
"Suguru, try absorbing this one." On a quiet afternoon, Itsuki produced a Cursed Spirit from his sleeve. It pulsed with a solid Grade-1 energy signature, yet lay inert in his palm, devoid of any will to fight or flee.
Geto took it, curiosity piqued. He activated his technique, and the spirit condensed into the familiar, distasteful black orb with unsettling ease—no resistance, no struggle.
"My latest puppet curse," Itsuki explained, his gaze analytical. "Its structural composition is nearly identical to a natural-born Cursed Spirit. I need to verify if your technique can integrate it."
Understanding the unspoken request, Geto swallowed the orb. A strange, cool potency bloomed within him. He focused, and a moment later, the same puppet curse materialized before them, obedient and whole.
The experiment was a complete success. A shared, satisfied look passed between them—this was more than a test; it was a new piece on the strategic board.
"It seems flawless," Geto remarked, examining the placid curse in his hand. "But what's its purpose? Its combat strength is negligible."
A faint, knowing smile touched Itsuki's lips. "Its power is irrelevant. It has a single function: if it, or rather, its host, meets with calamity, I will know instantly. No matter the distance."
"Is that all?" Geto's tone was light, almost teasing.
"For now, that's all. Consider it a part of you. If you ever find yourself in true misfortune, I'll sense it. I can come handle your affairs." Itsuki's words were delivered with a casual air, but the bedrock of concern was unmistakable. He turned to go.
"I think it's more likely I'll be the one collecting your corpse," Geto retorted, a wry grin on his face. Even as he dismissed its utility, he absorbed the puppet curse back into his reservoir. A Grade-1 spirit was a Grade-1 spirit, after all—waste not, want not. He'd keep this peculiar, watchful "gift."
As Itsuki walked away, his mind was already elsewhere, weaving the next layer of contingency plans. The puppet curse was a silent alarm, a tether in the shadows. He had given Geto the tools to be stronger, the family to fight for, and a faith to guide him. Now, he had also given him a lifeline—a hidden beacon in the event the ancient darkness came calling. The game was in motion, and every piece, even a seemingly useless puppet, had its role to play.