Gojo studied the photo of the serious, haunted-looking boy. A distant relative… a descendant of Michizane. A flicker of predatory interest passed through his eyes. He'd ensure this Okkotsu Yuta learned that to carry such a lineage meant embracing a certain… glorious irreverence. But that was a project for later.
"The kid can wait," Gojo said, setting the photo aside. His focus snapped back to the present. "You called us here about Kenjaku. Let's hear it."
Kamo Itsuki leaned forward, his fingers steepled. "My investigations confirm that the curse user sympathizers among the higher-ups are scrambling to locate a specific Special Grade Cursed Object for Kenjaku: the Prison Realm."
Geto's eyes narrowed in recognition. "The artifact born from Monk Genshin's nirvana. A seal of absolute stasis."
"Why does he want it?" Geto asked. "To imprison some catastrophic curse?"
"No," Itsuki said, a cold, knowing smile on his lips. "To imprison us."
A beat of heavy silence followed.
"Us?" Gojo and Geto echoed in unison.
"Think about it," Itsuki pressed. "Kenjaku is weaving a grand scheme. The sudden rise of three new Special Grades is an unpredictable variable, a monumental obstacle. He must have a contingency to neutralize us. The Prison Realm, a tool that can supposedly seal anything, is the perfect solution. He doesn't need to fight us; he just needs to put us… on pause."
Gojo whistled softly. "Makes twisted sense. A sneak attack with that thing? I might actually get caught if I didn't see it coming."
"Precisely," Itsuki nodded. "Which is why he's risking exposure, using his pawns in the higher-ups to find it. So, we don't wait for him to find the real one. We feed him one."
"You want to plant false intel?" Gojo questioned, skepticism plain.
"False intel alone is too flimsy for a mind as ancient and cautious as his," Geto added, shaking his head.
"Which is why we won't be dealing in intel," Itsuki said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "We will deal in artifacts." He gestured to the innocuous black cube still sitting on the table. "I haven't just been resting. I've been creating. This is a forged Prison Realm. Not a cheap imitation, but a masterpiece woven from barrier techniques and cursed energy designed to mimic its unique signature—a sealed space with altered time."
Gojo's Six Eyes flickered over the cube, analyzing. "A fake? Can it fool him?"
"It's designed to fool the sensors and the desperate," Itsuki replied. "Kenjaku's agents will detect a powerful, anomalous sealing artifact. His own greed and need will do the rest. He's too invested to dismiss it out of hand."
"Alright," Geto said, leaning in. "Assume he bites. What's the play?"
"The play is simple," Itsuki laid out. "You, Geto, will 'accidentally' discover its location and go to retrieve it. Your Cursed Spirit Manipulation makes you the most logical carrier for a volatile cursed object. Kenjaku will be forced to intercept you personally to claim it. And we…" he glanced at Gojo, "…will be waiting. An ambush at the point of exchange."
Gojo's face split into a wide, fierce grin. "A trap! I love it! But why him? I'm clearly the more enticing target."
Kamo Itsuki shot him a look of pure, unvarnished disdain. "Because you'd get bored halfway through and start blowing up the landscape for fun. This requires subtlety and patience. Geto has it. You have the attention span of a goldfish in a glitter factory."
Gojo spluttered in mock outrage, half-rising from his seat. "You—! I'll have you know my attention to detail is impeccable when it comes to crushing cockroaches!"
Geto calmly placed a restraining hand on Gojo's arm, a faint smile on his own lips, but his mind was already working through the logistics, the risks.
Yet, Kamo Itsuki held one final, unspoken card close. His plan wasn't just about luring Kenjaku out with a fake.
It was about understanding that the Prison Realm was vital to Kenjaku for another, more specific reason: it was the only tool that could potentially seal Gojo Satoru. By controlling the narrative of the 'Prison Realm,' they weren't just setting a trap—they were seizing control of the one weapon their enemy believed could defeat their strongest asset. The bait was also a strategic denial.
The unspoken truth hummed beneath the conversation like a live wire: to Kenjaku, Geto Suguru himself was potentially a greater prize than the Prison Realm. His technique was the ultimate key. But Kamo Itsuki couldn't voice that; the source of his foreknowledge was a locked door he couldn't open. All he could do was layer the trap until it was inescapable.
Gojo's voice cut through his strategizing. "So, when's this masterpiece forgery going to be ready?" he asked, popping another sweet into his mouth.
"Oh, it's done," Kamo Itsuki replied, his tone offhand.
Gojo choked. A violent coughing fit ensued, requiring a full glass of water to subside. He fixed Itsuki with a watery, accusatory glare. "You did that on purpose!"
Geto stared, equally stunned. "You're serious? It's finished?"
"In a manner of speaking. It's not a cursed object, but a Prison Realm Puppet Cursed Spirit." With a focused pulse of cursed energy, Kamo Itsuki summoned his creation.
It materialized in the space between them—a vaguely humanoid form, its surface a shifting, unsettling mosaic of countless closed eyes. A palpable aura of stasis and vertigo emanated from it, the sensation of time slowing to a crawl. While not the artifact itself, the fusion of a powerful curse with the Prison Realm's signature effect was a plausible, terrifying hybrid.
"I see," Geto murmured, understanding dawning. "My technique can control this puppet. That's why I'm the carrier—the bait has to be alive and wieldable."
"Ah, yes, that's… one of the reasons," Kamo Itsuki agreed, rubbing the back of his neck. "The main reason is you're simply more reliable." He shot a pointed glance at Gojo, who was still scowling.
"I'm this close to redecorating your living room," Gojo grumbled.
"You're welcome to try."
Before their bickering could escalate, Geto calmly extended a hand. The many-eyed puppet dissolved into a dark stream and flowed into his palm, absorbed seamlessly into his arsenal. The room's oppressive stillness lifted.
"Geto," Kamo Itsuki's voice turned grave, all humor gone. "You are the keystone of this. Your safety is the priority. The moment Kenjaku shows himself, the mission shifts from bait to survival. Disengage immediately. Satoru and I will handle the rest."
Geto met his gaze, his own expression resolute. "I'm a Special Grade. If I can't win, I can certainly escape. Trust me, I understand the stakes."
For the next hour, they huddled over maps and contingency plans, arguing over angles of approach, fallback points, and signals. They poked and prodded the strategy until every conceivable flaw was patched or accounted for.
Finally, as the night reached its deepest hour, Geto and Gojo took their leave. Kamo Itsuki stood in the doorway, watching their figures—one a monk of a new faith, the other a storm in human shape—disappear into the darkness.
"May everything go smoothly," he whispered to the empty night, a quiet plea against the coming storm.
Then, he himself stepped back, dissolving into the shadows of his own home, a silent sentinel bracing for the tremors of a battle he had set in motion. The board was set. The pieces were moving. Now, they waited for the ancient player to take the bait.