The first attempt ended in a violent crackle of failing energy, the backlash shoving Kamo Itsuki back several steps. "No. Again." His frown was one of pure analysis, not frustration. He reset, hands moving with even greater precision, the incantations a rapid, seamless stream. The second attempt blazed brighter but collapsed inward from a surge of chaotic energy.
"Where is the flaw?" he muttered, dissecting the failure in his mind. The blueprints, the energy flows, the conceptual bridge between barrier and curse—he reviewed them all with cold detachment. The breakthrough came not as a shout, but as a quiet click of understanding. "There. The temporal anchor was misaligned with the spatial lock."
The third attempt was a study in controlled power. Light not as a flash, but as a gradual, swallowing dawn. When it receded, hovering in the center of the scorched workshop was an object of profound stillness: a perfect, featureless black cube, small enough to fit in a palm. It emitted no aura, only a deep, gravitational silence that seemed to swallow sound and light around it. The Prison Realm Puppet Cursed Spirit was complete.
Kamo Itsuki slid to the floor, every ounce of strength spent, but a grim, satisfied smile touched his lips. The most intricate piece of the trap was forged.
After two days of torpor-like recovery, he picked up his phone.
"Satoru. Where are you? We need to talk." His voice held a weariness that bordered on relief.
"Ota Ward. Finishing up. You vanish for months and call out of the blue? I'm getting a bad feeling," Gojo's voice crackled back, laced with playful suspicion.
"It's not a quick chat. Finish up and meet me. Bring Suguru. It's about Kenjaku. Good news, for us."
"Kenjaku, huh? Now you have my attention. Send the address."
They agreed to meet at Itsuki's home. As Itsuki was setting out drinks, a solid thud reverberated through the house—someone had tested his perimeter barrier.
At the door stood Geto Suguru, clad in simple monastic robes, a serene smile on his face. Beside him, Gojo Satoru, in his signature black uniform, was rubbing his forehead with a theatrical pout.
"Fast as ever. Your teleportation is getting reckless," Itsuki remarked, stepping aside to let them in.
"Tried to bypass your boring barrier. It's harder than it looks," Gojo grumbled, though his eyes were sharp with curiosity. "Had to cut my mission short because of your mysterious summons. So? What's the earth-shattering news that requires both of us?"
Inside, under the soft glow of lamplight, Itsuki laid out an array of desserts. The mood was deceptively casual. Moonlight sliced through the curtains, painting silver lines across the table as the three most powerful sorcerers of their generation gathered.
"We're not waiting for Kenjaku's next move anymore," Kamo Itsuki began, his voice low and deliberate. He placed the small, silent black cube on the table between them. It seemed to absorb the light around it. "We're going to force his hand. And to do that, we need to make him believe he's found the one thing he needs to complete his plan."
He looked from Geto's calm, attentive gaze to Gojo's suddenly focused, ice-blue eyes.
"This," Itsuki said, tapping the cube, "is the bait. And the two of you are going to help me sell the biggest lie in jujutsu history."
Gojo Satoru's eyebrows shot up, the usual playful glint in his pale blue eyes replaced by a sharp, focused light. "Someone in the higher-ups is in bed with curse users?" His voice was flat, stripped of its usual levity.
Kamo Itsuki met his gaze without flinching, his nod slow and deliberate. "Yes. The specifics are still shadowed, but the rot is real. And much of it… stems from my own Kamo Clan."
A heavy silence hung in the air. Gojo's stare was dissecting, probing for any hint of deception or hesitation.
"You're planning to move against your own clan's elders?" Gojo finally asked, his tone unreadable.
"I'm planning to move against corruption," Kamo Itsuki corrected, his voice low and steel-edged. "It doesn't matter what family name it hides behind. If it poisons the jujutsu world, it must be excised. The fact that the tumor is rooted in my own bloodline doesn't change the necessity of the surgery." A thread of cold scorn entered his tone. "Besides, cleaning house at Jujutsu High should be your pet project, Satoru. You have the clout and the… disregard for tradition. Tell me you haven't sensed the decay. What have you been doing besides racking up mission miles?"
He gestured toward Geto Suguru, who sat with the serene, unshakeable calm of a true leader. "Look at Suguru. He's building a faith from the ground up. What are you building? A frequent flier account?"
Gojo let out an exasperated sigh, throwing his hands up in a theatrical shrug. "I am executing a plan! Scouring the countryside for talent is part of it. We need new blood, real power, not just more bureaucrats in robes."
"And the results?" Kamo pressed, unimpressed.
"...Progress is… incremental," Gojo admitted, a rare flicker of frustration crossing his face. "You think Special Grade potential grows on trees? I'm not interested in collecting mediocrity."
"Well, consider your search over for the moment." Kamo Itsuki reached into his pocket and slid a photograph across the table. "I have a candidate for you. His name is Okkotsu Yuta."
Gojo picked up the photo, studying the image of the serious-eyed boy. "Okkotsu…?"
"A distant descendant of Sugawara no Michizane," Kamo explained, a hint of a smile touching his lips. "One of the Three Great Vengeful Spirits. Which makes him, in a very distant, convoluted way, a relative of yours. From what I've sensed, his latent potential is… monumental. Solid Special Grade material."
Gojo's eyes narrowed. "My relative? Since when? And where did you just 'happen' to find him?"
Kamo Itsuki's smile turned faintly smug. "My Blood Manipulation gives me a certain sensitivity to lineage. I was conducting field research for my barrier techniques—mapping spiritual lay lines, very tedious—and I felt an echo. An echo that smelled distinctly like you, but… younger. Raw. So, I looked into it. Pleasant surprise, as they say."
He made it sound as effortless as picking a ripe apple, a casualness that deliberately needled Gojo's own prolonged, fruitless search. Gojo's expression darkened into a familiar, exaggerated scowl of annoyance.
"Oh, of course," Gojo drawled, the sarcasm thick. "You just 'stumble upon' a generational talent while taking a scenic stroll. Meanwhile, I've been combing through provincial reports for months. How terribly convenient for my 'frequent flier' schedule."
But despite the grumbling, his eyes kept drifting back to the photo, a calculating, intrigued spark already igniting behind the Six Eyes. The bait, it seemed, had been taken. The first piece of their counter-conspiracy was in play.
Patreon Seasay