Chapter Text
“Hey, Kin-chan, did you hear about the new first-year?” Kirara Hoshi leaned across his desk, voice laced with gossip and glitter.
Hakari Kinji rocked back and forth in his chair beside his classmate, feet propped on the desk, hands sunk deep into his pockets. He chewed on a gum slowly, eyes drifting toward the ceiling as he stared into nothing in particular.
“Yeah, heard the higher-ups wanted to execute him,” he said, voice slow. “But Gojo-san stepped in. Got his sentence suspended. I wonder what makes him so special.” A bubble popped.
Kirara's eyes sparkled as he leaned toward his classmate, closing the gap between their desks. “Ne, ne, Kin-chan… wanna hear what I found out?”
Hakari turned to him, his black locks swaying with the motion. His eyes narrowed with mild curiosity. “Sure. Shoot.”
Kirara pressed a palm to his mouth as though shielding a sacred secret. “Rumor says he’s cursed… by someone he loved. Isn’t that romantic? Love — even beyond death!”
Hakari gave him a questioning look. “That’s not romantic. That’s straight-up horror.”
Kirara gasped, scandalized. “You don’t think so?! It’s like a cursed Romeo and Juliet! Ugh — so dramatic.” He clutched his cheeks and squealed.
Hakari smirked, tugging at his moustache. “Getting cursed over a lover’s spat? Harsh. If my girlfriend haunted me, I’d move countries.”
Kirara grinned, devilish. “Your girlfriend would absolutely curse you.”
“Oi! What’s that supposed to mean?” Hakari protested.
Kirara ignored him, chin in hand, thoughtful. “Anyway, that’s just gossip. Maybe Sensei knows more?”
He turned, finally addressing the third student in the room — the one who hadn’t said a word.
“Sora-chan? What do you think?”
No response.
Hakari and Kirara glanced her way.
Sora Kirihara, the third second-year student, sat upright in her chair, one leg crossed neatly over the other, phone in hand. Her thumbs moved in quick, controlled motions; her face lit by the shifting colours of whatever game had claimed her attention.
Hakari scowled. “Oi! Stop playing while we’re talking to you!”
Sora didn’t so much as glance up. Her one visible brown eye stayed fixed on the screen, fingers kept tapping in a steady, unhurried rhythm.
“Don’t ignore me!” Hakari barked.
Kirara danced across the room and flopped against Sora’s desk. He planted his elbows beside her shoes, resting his chin in his hands as he pouted up at her.
“Soraaa-chan… don’t be mean.”
His attempt to grab her attention, however, was for nothing.
Hakari folded his arms, scowling. “Tch. Forget it, Ki. She’s always like this. What a bitch.”
“Language!” Kirara scolded, wagging a finger at him. “Sora-chan just doesn’t like talking. That doesn’t make her a—”
“More like never talks,” Hakari cut in over his classmate’s words a scowl edged on his face.
Kirara’s eyes flicked back to his silent classmate. His gaze drifted to the phone in her hands — and a wicked grin curled across his face, blooming like a bright idea.
“You know what,” he said, singsong, “I think you’ve played long enough.”
Before Sora could react, he snatched the phone from her hands and hopped back with a triumphant laugh. Her head turned slowly. Her eye followed him precisely, as he dangled the phone from his fingers like a trophy.
For a moment, her face didn’t change.
Then Sora moved. It was a blur — a flash of motion and pressure. A heartbeat later, she was slammed into the far wall, a crack of plaster and a burst of dust marking her impact.
Hakari cackled, slapping his thigh. He gave Kirara a thumbs up. “Nice one, Ki.”
Sora rose from the crater in the wall, slow and silent. She brushed the dust off her shoulders with an eerie calm, her fringe falling over one eye. The other — sharp, cold, unblinking — locked on Kirara.
“Give me back my phone, Kirara.”
Kirara features lit up.
“Ah! She speaks!”
“Shut up.” Her hand extended, palm up. “Give it back.”
He waggled the phone between two fingers, grin unfading.
“Come and get it.”
“I’m not playing your stupid games.”
Hakari grinned from across the room. “What’s wrong, Sora? Chickening out?”
She didn’t look at him. “I’m not talking to you, you brawn-headed buffoon.”
Hakari leapt from his chair, fists clenched. “You wanna go, witch?!”
He stalked across the room and shoved his face close to hers, veins rising on his forehead, jaw clenched.
For the first time, Sora looked directly at him. “I don’t need to,” she said coolly. “We both remember how last time ended.”
Hakari's brow twitched. His knuckles cracked.
But before he could respond— The classroom door slammed open. Atsuya Kusakabe, their teacher, stepped into the classroom, folders in hand.
“Alright, you rag-tags. We’ve got a lot to—” He stopped dead in his tracks. His eyes drifted from the group of students… to the cracked hole in the wall behind them.
He sighed. Long. Tired. “What did you do now?”
Sora pointed at Kirara immediately.
“He took my phone. Used his cursed technique when I tried to get it back.”
Kirara gasped, hand to his chest. “No fair! Don’t snitch!”
“I don’t care,” Sora said flatly. She extended her fingers. “Phone.”
Kusakabe pinched the bridge of his nose like the motion was muscle memory at this point.
“You’re all going to kill me.” He muttered. “Fine. Sit. I’ll get someone to fix the damn wall later. Kirara give her back her phone.” He moved to the front desk putting down the folders in his arm.
Hakari was still glaring — fists clenched, his face too close to Sora’s. He looked ready to blow.
Sora met his fury with a single, elegant middle finger, held up without expression.
Hakari’s veins bulged. He started to lift his arms—
—but Kirara giggled and quickly hooked an arm through his, leaning on his shoulder.
“Come on, Kin-chan~! Don’t rile up Sensei. It’s bad for his complexion.”
“Tch. I don’t give a damn about his ugly mug,” Hakari grumbled to himself. But the tension in his shoulders faded as he allowed Kirara to pull him back toward his desk.
With a little twirl, Kirara pranced over to Sora and offered the phone back with a grin.
“Here you go, Sora-chan~!”
She took it without a word, slipping it into her pocket like it had never left.
The others settled into their seats as the classroom slowly returned to order — and their teacher, at last, began his lesson. “Today we’re covering the end of the Heian period. Who remembers what we did last—?”
Kirara’s hand shot up. “Sensei! What do you know about the new first-year?”
Kusakabe gritted his teeth.
“Respect, Kirara. Try it sometime.“
He gave the beaming student a long, deadpan look.
A pause.
Then he sighed again.
“Fine. What I can tell you — and what you’ve probably already heard — is that his name is Okkotsu Yuta. He’s cursed. Carries a special-grade spirit named Rika, also known as the Queen of Curses.”
Hakari raised an eyebrow.
“Queen of Curses? How strong is that curse?”
“Stronger than you,” Kusakabe said flatly. “Stronger than all of you. The higher-ups were so scared, they wanted him executed on the spot. Gojo-san intervened on the kid’s part.”
He pointed a sharp finger at Hakari.
“And don’t even think about starting a fight.”
Hakari rolled his eyes. “Wasn’t going to.”
Kirara giggled beside him. “Sure, Kin-chan. We believe you.”
Then he turned back to Kusakabe, eyes shining with curiosity.
“Is it true the curse, Rika, is his former lover?”
“According to the file,” Kusakabe said, flipping a folder open, “she was his childhood friend.”
Kirara clutched his chest with theatrical flair. “My oh my…”
Kusakabe narrowed his eyes at Kirara’s expression but didn’t ask. He didn’t want to know what was running through his student’s head.
“Anyway.” He turned back to his desk and began flipping through the folder he’d just opened, his movements lined with restrained resignation. “Let’s return to the actual subject.”
“Last time, we ended our lesson on the golden era of jujutsu — the Heian Era. So—who can tell me where we left off?”
Silence.
He scanned his papers looking through the folder
“No one? Sora? Can you answer the question?”
Still silence.
“Sora?!”
A hesitant voice broke the silence.
“Uhm… Sensei?”
Kusakabe’s nose twitched. “What is this time, Kirara?”
“Sora’s… gone.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Gone?” He looked up from where he’d been flipping through his lesson materials—and promptly choked on his spit.
Sora’s chair was empty.
Kirara helpfully pointed toward the open window.
“I think she went out the window.”
Kusakabe dragged his hand down his face.
“That damn brat…”
Elsewhere on campus, Okkotsu Yuta sat stiffly in his chair, trying not to sweat through his uniform.
Even now, surrounded by his new classmates, he felt like a ghost at someone else’s party — invisible, but still terrified of being seen. The initial shock of entering Jujutsu High had worn off, but the weight of years spent in isolation hadn’t left him. He still felt the old jitters under his skin, like static waiting to spark.
He focused on the teacher at the front of the room. Gojo-sensei clapped his hands together.
“Yosh! This one’s pretty easy, but since it’s part of the curriculum, let’s go over it quickly. Alright — who can tell me what an innate technique is?”
Beside Yuta, Maki scoffed.
“Do we really need to go over basic crap like that?”
Gojo shrugged, unbothered.
“Hey, I don’t make the curriculum. Even if you know it, some of your classmates might not.”
He turned to Yuta. “Yuta — do you know what an innate technique is?”
Yuta hesitated. His voice was soft, uncertain. “Uhm… no. I don’t.”
All eyes turned to him. He flinched, breath catching in his throat. He tried not to shrink, but the weight of their stares made his skin crawl.
Maki looked over, brows drawn in faint disdain. “Of course you wouldn’t know.”
Yuta’s gaze dropped. “Sorry…”
“Don’t apologise,” she muttered. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Yuta blinked, caught off guard. “R-right. So—” He caught himself before apologizing again and simply nodded.
Maki turned her attention back to the front. The edge in her voice had softened.
Gojo chuckled at the exchange. It seemed like they were getting along better after their mission “Well then! I’ll give you the short version, Yuta.”
He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “You can think of innate techniques like appliances — devices powered by cursed energy. Almost all sorcerers have one. It’s a technique unique to each sorcerer, and it usually manifests around the age of five or six. You can imagine cursed energy as the electricity that charges the appliance.”
Yuta tilted his head. “So… like how anime characters have different powers?”
Gojo grinned and gave two thumbs up. “Exactly!”
Yuta hesitated. “Then… do I have one?”
Gojo leaned back against the podium, eyes scanning his student behind his blindfold. A thoughtful look on his face.
“Well… that’s hard to say in your case just yet.” He beamed. “But who knows! Maybe you’ll surprise us with a flashy new technique.”
He turned and gestured toward the silver-haired boy beside them. “Take Inumaki as an example. His cursed speech is a hereditary technique — lets him infuse his words with cursed energy. Pretty cool, right?
Yuta nodded, and for a moment, his eyes met Inumaki’s. The other boy stared back silently — not that he could speak — which only made Yuta more awkward.
He quickly looked away, returning his focus to Gojo.
“I think I understand now, sensei.”
“Great! Now, onto some actual—”
In that moment the classroom window creaked open.
Everyone’s head turned.
A girl — about Yuta’s age — stepped casually onto the ledge. She wore a white jacket like his, though hers was cropped, shorter and unbuttoned, revealing a dark vest beneath. Her baggy dark trousers were tucked into white high-top sneakers. A katana rested loosely in her gloved right hand.
She looked up, meeting Yuta’s gaze directly.
His breath caught.
One eye studied him with a disconcerting intensity. Her other eye was hidden behind her fringe, and her hair hung in a smooth curtain down to her shoulder blades.
Their teacher was the first to recover from their surprise at the appearance of the newcomer.
“Sora!” Gojo beamed. “What a surprise! Did you come to see your favorite teacher? I’ve missed you!”
Gojo-sensei’s enthusiasm met only silence — his bright energy a stark contrast to the still and cold aura the girl excluded. She stepped down into the classroom and settled on the windowsill, one arm wrapped loosely around her knee. She surveyed the room with a kind of dispassionate ease, like none of it particularly concerned her.
But then her gaze returned — and settled on Yuta.
Was she staring at him? Why was she here?
And why had she come through the window?
Maki voiced the question on everyone’s mind. “Hey. Who is she?”
Gojo turned back to the class, still grinning. “Oh — did I forget to introduce her? My bad!”
He cleared his throat with theatrical flourish, throwing his arms out wide. “Everyone, meet your senpai, Sora. One of our most talented upperclassmen!”
He turned back to her. “Sora, meet your new kouhai!”
Silence.
Sora didn’t speak. She didn’t move. She didn’t give any reaction whatsoever. The only sign of life from her was the slow blink of her visible eye. She continued watching the room — and Yuta — from behind her knees.
Yuta shifted in his seat, unsure what to do.
Gojo coughed. “She doesn’t like to talk much,” he offered. “But don’t let that scare you. She’s harmless.”
Yuta wasn’t so sure about that.
Maki leaned toward Yuta. She whispered “What a weirdo—”
She stopped mid-sentence. Her eyebrows shot up. “Wait—where did she—?”
Gasps followed. The first years collectively jolted.
In the blink of an eye Sora had changed position. Now she stood on Yuta’s desk.
Yuta flinched, nearly tumbling from his seat. He braced against the desk, eyes wide as she crouched down, face inches from his own.
She crouched down, eye-level with his face, her face mere inches from his.
“Are you the cursed one?” she asked. Her voice was quiet, but sharp as glass. “Okkotsu Yuta?”
His mouth went dry. He nodded.
“Y-yeah. That’s me…”
She leaned in further. Her eye scanned him slowly, like he was a specimen to be examined beneath glass. Yuta leaned back instinctively, heart hammering, his palms flat against the desk behind him.
He couldn’t hold her gaze.
His ears burned. His heart thudded somewhere near his throat.
Then, just as quickly, she leaned back and stood upright
“For someone with a special grade curse,” she said coolly, “you look weak.”
She stepped off his desk and headed for the window. “What a disappointment.”
Yuta sat frozen in place; her words cut deeper than he expected. His breath caught in his chest.
Without another word, Sora slipped out the same way she’d entered — through the open window.
Silence fell again.
Gojo eventually wandered back to the front, unfazed.
“Well,” he said, smiling, “looks like you’ve got an admirer, Yuutaaa.”
Yuta doubted his heart would return to its normal rhythm anytime soon.