Chapter Text
CHAPTER 1 – Man with the Strength of an Ant
Her eyes fluttered open to dim candlelight bouncing faintly off the walls. Talismans flooded their surface, the paper parched by the strains of time. Despite this, almost every brush stroke appeared to glisten with fresh inscription ink. Her gaze swayed, mind still muddled. To either side of her, a pair of thick ropes spiraled down, pulled taut by pegs with ring swivels that had been screwed to the floor. A web of cracks branched out from the points of impact.
As her peripheral vision expanded, she became aware of a man’s presence. He sat opposite to her, upright, with his shoulders pulled back and his hands atop his knees, fingers relaxed. Craning her head ever slightly, she took in his dark, slim-fit pants and matching zip-up jacket with its high and wide collar. He wore his bangs in a swept-back look, which he held in a loose ponytail over his mullet. The soft light mellowed his hazel eyes, but it also cast striking shadows on an already sharp jawline. Subconsciously, she shifted in her own seat to match his posture.
“You fell asleep during the ride. Welcome back,” he said and bowed his head. After a moment, she mimicked the gesture. “Do you remember my name?”
She thought about it. A vague memory started to form in her head. He was no high schooler, couldn’t be more than thirty either. Still, she practiced caution with the honorifics. “Ōshiro-san, was it?” A dryness had settled in her throat. It didn’t surprise her.
He nodded. “Correct. My name is Ōshiro Kenta. I am a teacher at Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College. Our educational institution sent a letter of recruitment to your guardian last month and I arrived to take you soon after, Yukiko-san.”
“May I ask something, sensei?” she said hesitantly and only after she had waited to ensure he didn’t add anything. He motioned for her to go on and she swallowed in return. “Why me?”
Ōshiro-sensei indulged her. “I checked up with your school before arriving in Kyūshū. It’s true that your grades are average. The teacher I spoke with also commented you were not enlisted in any clubs. I would assume that was in order to help out your mother with the family business. May I ask what it is you produce?”
Yukiko reached out, mingling with her own, short bangs as she answered: “Flowers. My mother makes the bouquets and my big brother does the delivery. I, on the other hand…” She muttered the last bit without any intended direction. It trailed off into nothingness.
“You,” Ōshiro continued in her stead, “possess above-average levels of cursed energy.”
“Cursed energy?” she echoed.
“Nationally, the average number of unexplained deaths and missing persons exceeds ten thousand annually. The majority are the result of negative energy that flows out of people– the result of a curse. Curses can only be defeated by curses. Here, we learn about them in order to exorcize them. This,” he waved at the wall of talismans, “is Tokyo Prefectural Jujutsu High School.”
***
Deep in the mountains, on the foothills of Mt. Mushiro, existed a long set of stairs. Accented by a row of repeating torii gates, they led into a Buddhist temple. To the unsuspecting, that was all it was. In the jujutsu society, however, it was one of only two educational institutions in Japan dedicated to fostering the next generation of sorcerers.
Ōshiro Kenta watched the grounds from the principal’s office. Situated on the top floor of the main building, the room opened up past its glass wall and into a balcony that overlooked the temple entrance. This high up, he could almost feel the protective barrier’s cursed energy prickling his skin. A bitter tang lingered on his mouth, like the aftertaste of burned coffee. All the while a playful breeze tugged at his lazy ponytail.
He spotted Yukiko as she exited one of the classrooms. She walked behind Kuroki, another faculty member. He was an auxiliary manager– not a sorcerer, but somebody who could sense curses nonetheless. This meant that, though he couldn’t use jujutsu, he had impeccable social, organizational and coordination skills. Ōshiro noticed he was waving his hands. It was a sign Kuroki was speaking. He had once claimed that it helped with approachability. Yukiko, on the other hand, kept her head low, nodding along on occasion. Besides that, she expressed no interest in her surroundings.
“I thought you were afraid of heights, Ōshiro-chan.” Principal Haraguchi’s voice stirred him away from Kuroki.
He rounded on her. Standing before the glass wall, the reflecting light reminded Ōshiro what a distinctly beautiful woman the principal was: auburn bangs with added volume, jade eyes that sparkled under the sun and a beauty mark on her right cheekbone. The dark bodysuit and skirt further complemented her youthful figure.
Despite sharing the same age, the first thing Ōshiro did was bow in respect to her rank. Then, straightening, he said: “I realized I had to man up.”
She put a hand over her mouth, stifling a giggle. “Is that so? I’ll be sure to let Kuroki-san know so we can ditch the Crybaby Kenta nickname.”
Ōshiro crossed his arms and made a face that wasn’t quite a pout. “Yes, those days are long behind us.”
“So stiff, so stiff,” Haraguchi waggled her hand. “Does this mean you won't accept the vendor drink I got you?”
Until that point he hadn’t realized she had been holding onto two cans, and that only then had they conveniently poked out from behind her sleeve. “Well,” he said, faking a cough, “just because the Vending Machine King graduated does not mean he gave up his crown.”
“Great! I got us…” She flashed the drinks before him. “Sweet Kiss and Cheerio Grape!”
“Those are…” He took a moment to think about his next words. Belatedly, he settled for: “Not that good.”
“Does this mean you’re refusing my sweet kiss?” Haraguchi said, running a painted nail along her lower lip.
Ōshiro bunched his shoulders. Hot air shot out of his nostrils. “I’ll take the Cheerio Grape, please and thank you!” he said with a stiff bow.
Haraguchi extended her arm, the mischievous smirk still on her lips. Ōshiro accepted the can, rolled it over in his palm with the finesse of somebody who’s had far too many drinks of this kind. They cracked them open at the same time and the fizzle persisted through their silent toast. Ōshiro drank slowly. He always savored the first sip. Cheerio Grape was light on carbon and didn’t tickle his nostrils much. The taste was refreshingly fruity, a perfect sendoff to the summer season.
Neither of them said anything for a while, even after parting their lips from the can rims. They simply stood there, atop the rooftop, each gazing at whatever caught their interest. Kuroki and Yukiko were gone, possibly off to a different school sector. Ōshiro found himself staring at the torii gate closest to the entrance. The silence didn’t bother him. His head was empty, his thoughts clear. If but for a moment, he felt at peace.
“You used to love Sweet Kiss, Kenta-chan.” Haraguchi’s voice sounded distant, expressed with a sentiment Ōshiro couldn’t properly distinguish.
He exhaled. The Cheerio Grape was still cool to the touch. Thawed frost wetted his fingertips. “I realized it’s just a variant of Mountain Dew. Its one appeal is the distinctive graphic design. Besides that, you could say there’s nothing original about it.” He used the first character of her last name, Hara, for the word ‘original’ in an attempt to tease her back.
There was an amused huff. “Is that so?”
He nodded, then drank some from his can before rolling it over to look at the logo. “Cheerio Grape isn’t anything special, either. It was first launched in nineteen sixty-five. I remember buying my first at the candy store near my house. It was on sale.”
“That’s the first time you talk about your childhood, you know,” Haraguchi pointed out. Ōshiro’s face soured. She sighed in good humor and prepared herself for a sip. “May I ask about your relationship with them?”
He watched the trees in the distance sway back and forth. The sturdiest among them didn't budge. The memory of a buzz-cut appeared in his mind’s eye, the only one amidst a sea of dark-haired toddlers. There was wailing, too. Tears falling in a cascade, staining the image of a crested shirt. He dismissed the thought with a blink.
“It was bad,” he said brusquely. “I distanced myself as soon as I turned eighteen.”
“Eight years, huh? Well, what about siblings?”
Haraguchi’s voice was pleasantly smooth, like honey. Slowly, the conjured images began to recede. Some tension eased from his shoulders. “I have too many,” he sighed, “and don’t like any of them.”
She pondered about that for a moment. “Do you ever wonder if any of them have started a family?”
“No, and I’d prefer if my bloodline ended as is.” He didn’t say it with malice. Rather, his voice was coated in blunt indifference.
Haraguchi’s smile faded. “I see.”
Silence fell over them once more. Occasionally they would drink some, but not once did they make eye contact. The wind whistled at Ōshiro as he reminisced about a time when he, Kuroki and Haraguchi were in their final year of high school. They had snuck out of their dormitory and taken the train to the city center. They ate ramen from a stand and later on soft serve ice cream under the Tokyo Tower.
It hadn’t been long before their homeroom teacher had apprehended them and subsequently forced them to run around campus till the sun had risen. A distinct bit of recollection included his tongue and throat drying up by the third lap. The same had happened to Kuroki during the fourth. That was when Haraguchi had revealed her trump card: she had smuggled carbonated drinks. After teaching them how to hide the cans under their sleeves, they would stop for a sneaky sip just as they came around the warehouse.
The following day, after the post-training shower, Ōshiro had yammered his classmates’ ears off about the intricacies of their drinks. That was how he acquired the nickname Vending Machine King. At least, what he had opted to call himself. He remembered Haraguchi laughing and then calling him Crybaby Kenta. For all her beauty, wit and good humor, the one feature Ōshiro appreciated most about her was her sincerity.
“Principal…” Ōshiro stopped himself, breathed in and started over. “Nao-san…”
She perked her head up.
“If you have something to say to me, please be upfront about it.”
Belatedly, Haraguchi said: “I need you to take Yukiko Godai under personal custody.” Ōshiro turned, eyes glued onto her. She took a sip of Sweet Kiss and went on. “Jujutsu sorcerers are rare. Classes are often small and focused on building up the individual students into competent sorcerers as quickly as possible. Yukiko-chan has already moved away from her home in Kyūshū to live on campus. However, she’s the sole student in her class.”
He blinked, not understanding. “I don’t see a reason why I should–”
“Her medical evaluation results arrived in my office yesterday. According to the doctor, her cursed energy is dormant, but the amounts are heavily compressed. On estimate, we believe her energy output to be thrice that of an ordinary sorcerer’s. This qualifies Yukiko-chan as a Special Grade rank, but there’s also a downside.”
Ōshiro pursed his lips. “What is it?”
“Yukiko-chan’s father abandoned her mother and her when she was a child. The trauma has lingered and caused severe abandonment issues. After discussing it with the doctor we agreed that, should she get accustomed to the first jujutsu sorcerer she met, she can manage to steadily recover from these issues and develop her cursed technique.”
He processed Haraguchi’s words. It was hard to draw a reasonable conclusion. He wasn't a medical expert, therefore he was incapable of deciding on the success rate. The one thing he understood though, he voiced aloud. “There was concern of her going rogue. That’s why you had me put her in the isolation chamber.”
Haraguchi leaned harder against the rail. She let her head roll back and faced the midday sky. The breeze played with her hair. “I had orders from above, from apathetic people I don’t understand and have no wish to.”
A short-lived smile crossed Ōshiro’s lips. He drank some Cheerio Grape. “You’re not alone,” he said. “Nobody likes them. But we’re teachers. We have a duty to help people like Yukiko-san, the same way Date-sensei did for you and me.”
Haraguchi shook her head as she chuckled. “We’re not cut out for it, Kenta-chan. It’s just that there’s so few of us left since last year. Somebody had to fill these spots. That’s all there is to it. If it wasn’t me, it’d be Kuroki-san.”
The wind picked up alongside a sudden change of direction. Ōshiro’s nose creased with tension. A memory he had thought repressed forced itself into the surface. The icy touch of a nonexistent cold climbed up his spine and he shuddered. Were it not for the sunlight, he could have sworn his breath had misted.
“No, it wouldn’t,” he said without wanting to.
Haraguchi craned her head to the side, eyes now alert and razor-sharp. “Kenta,” she said, skipping the cutesy honorifics. The sweetness had disappeared from her voice, replaced by authoritative sternness. What followed was not a question, but a demand.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?”
He didn’t answer. Lifting the can to his lips, Ōshiro threw his head back and gulped down the remainder of his drink in a single swig. There was no satisfying smack when he was done. “Starting today, I will take Godai Yukiko-san under my wing,” he said as he placed the can between his palms and crushed it with one, smooth press. Then, bowing, he said: “Thank you for the drink, principal. If you’ll excuse me, I want to be home in time so as not to miss the newest episode of my favorite show.”
Principal Haraguchi watched him step inside the office, where he quickly disappeared behind the door. Her lower lip began to quiver. What an odd sensation, she mused, to be upset over something she couldn’t properly pinpoint. Kenta-chan had changed. She recalled a past image that had been seared into memory: a tear-stricken, snot-nosed good-for-nothing with a lame buzz cut. Compared to the handsome, sullen young adult he had grown up to become, it was almost impossible to believe they were the same person. For all that, he was still unable to take a hint. The thought amused her, if only momentarily.
The trembling had gotten harder to control. She pinched the bridge of her nose in an attempt to regain composure. When she removed her fingers, they were smudged with wet make-up. The realization came soon after. How ironic, she thought.
Enduring the pain of two people, principal Haraguchi Nao was also crying for a childhood friend that had since forgotten how to.
***
What a pain , is what Takeshi would think if, earlier today, he hadn’t decided to buy the issue of Weekly Shōnen Jump currently between his hands. Thankfully for him, there was a department store in Nishihara that was on his way to the Yoyogi-Uehara Station. The Chiyoda Line route took approximately twenty-two minutes for him to reach the office in Harajuku. He could’ve read it then and there, but he considered himself a patient man, prepared for any unfortunate circumstance.
And lo and behold today was his unlucky day indeed. About ten minutes before break-time, the management had issued a forced evacuation due to ‘faulty hardware endangering work performance’. Takeshi scoffed at the phrasing. It was a polite way of saying: “We don’t want any of our employees bailing, alive or not. We want money!” Well, whatever. At the very least, he no longer had to stress over his superior bellowing for the fifteenth cup of tea for a good while.
“It’s almost two weeks in a row now,” groaned Kobayashi. Takeshi didn’t like him one bit, but couldn’t help but glance sideways either way. Kobayashi stood several paces away from him, beside the trash can. A lit cigarette occasionally spilled ash on his lousy tie. The product he had used to smear his already oily hair had dried, white flecks peppering it throughout.
“Ichika won’t stop complaining about that beauty pageant winner,” he went on, sucking on his cigarette like a faux movie star. Any coolness he tried to replicate was whisked away by his nasally voice.
“It’s the same with mine,” nodded Honda-san. He was one of the older office workers, soft-spoken and polite to everyone. Takeshi wondered what he was like outside of work. For one, he never showed up at office parties. A rumor pertaining to a troubled past with alcohol only served to fuel his imagination.
“What’s their problem, anyway?” Kobayashi snorted. “I thought the winner was hotter than the rest and dropped it there. But Ichika didn’t. I’ll do you a favor and spare the details, senpai.” He took another drag, choked on some smoke. Honda-san patted his back. “There’s a new disaster at home every day at this point, I swear,” he coughed, voice still garbled.
Honda-san shook his head. “At least anything that happens now won’t be as bad as last year’s blizzard.”
“Hey, hey, don’t mention it like that, senpai,” Kobayashi said with a sudden alarm. He wetted his throat with some coffee. “Though say, I don’t like to gossip, but I heard someone from the office say we evacuated because of the AC. Apparently, the temperature went below normal levels. Do you think it’s…” Here, he swallowed before uttering: “Cursed?”
Honda-san let out an uncomfortable chuckle. “Please don’t say things like that. And try to relax, you’re making me nervous.” From the edge of vision, Takeshi saw him loosening a tie that had become too tight for his neck to handle.
Cursed? he echoed. What superstitious nonsense. It would make sense if they were farmers from Hokkaidō complaining about a decline in harvest or the sudden disappearance of cattle, but they were in the center of Japan. Technology reigned supreme and there was nothing that couldn’t be fixed by qualified technicians.
“Please excuse us,” sounded the voice of a man who had just entered the yard. All the employees present, Takeshi included, turned to look at the person in question. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and carried himself with a certain authority. One of his hands was buried deep inside his pants pocket. Takeshi’s eyes honed in on his pierced ears, tiny, circular jewels glimmering under the light. Was he a yakuza? The man looked at Honda-san, recognized him as the eldest of the three. “Is this the Nazca Zaimu Jigyou? I’m not very good with directions,” he said.
Honda-san nodded. “Yes, it is,” he said with utmost politeness. “Are you the electrician?”
The man inclined his head in response. “Yes, we’re here to deal with your company’s problem.”
“Wait a second,” Kobayashi butted in. Takeshi rolled his eyes. “What do you have the highschooler around for then, huh? Is she your little sister or something?”
Behind the pages of Weekly Shōnen Jump, Takeshi tried his best to catch a glimpse of the lady Kobayashi was pointing at with a spindly finger. She was standing inconspicuously behind the yakuza. Her school uniform had an asymmetrical blue jacket with a high collar and two pins on the left side, along with a matching skirt for a bottom. She was holding her bag before her legs, staring at it vacantly.
“She’s a practitioner. It’s her part-time job,” the man said in response. His words were precise and direct. Kobayashi sank his head in apology, gulping down his brash stupidity. He looked over to Honda-san again and said: “Can you please tell me on which floor the problem lies?”
“Yes, of course. It’s on the fourth, in the office at the end of the corridor.”
“Sounds good, thank you. Let’s go, Yukiko-san.” After an exchange of bows, the man approached the entrance.
Takeshi tried to scooch over so as to not make it too obvious that he was trying to avoid a passing greeting, or any small talk for that matter. A short distance away from him, Kobayashi was expressing further suspicion about the man in hushed tones. Apparently he didn’t carry any toolbox with him. What was his problem? It wasn’t as if he would fix the AC.
“Hey, you,” the man’s voice sounded again, alarmingly close to him. Takeshi jolted, subconsciously pulling the magazine closer to his chest. It was akin to an embarrassed woman that had been caught in the shower and thought that pulling the curtains to cover herself would stop the prying eyes. How embarrassing…
“You’re reading Kinnikuman, right?” Takeshi nodded nervously. The man’s brows knitted as he made an approving face. “I like it a lot. Did you know that it won the Seiun Award for Best Comic of the Year?” He nodded to himself, acknowledging the achievement. “You have good taste,” he concluded.
And before Takeshi could muster any courage to at least say thanks, the man and high schooler had entered the building, shutting the door behind them.
***
The temperature inside the building was completely different from the courtyard’s. It was cooler, a soft chill that subtly built up to a biting cold. Over the walls and stairs, granted a pale blue glow by the light tubes overhead, was a light coat of frost.
“Can you feel it?” Ōshiro asked, his breath misting. There was no answer from Yukiko. Understanding his question was very broad, he elaborated. “This is the work of a curse. It’s slowly expanding its territory in order to become stronger. You can see the ice, yes?”
He gestured for Yukiko to approach, tapped the wall with his foot when she was close enough. A webbing of cracks spread from the point of impact. Veering his eyes to the side, he noticed the young girl was holding her breath. Her limbs were rigid, she wasn’t shaking. A positive sign.
“It’s not real,” he assured her. “This is the curse’s energy, molded into a technique. It’s very similar to what sorcerers do. Watch this.” He nodded at the fractured ice. It was piecing itself back into a smooth, unified layer. “Since this was fixed, it means the curse is preoccupied with expansion. What’s important here are the energy residuals it’s leaving behind. Consider this your first lesson, Yukiko-san. Concentrate. You can see the technique, therefore the energy, so it’s time to identify the patterns underneath it. If you can do that, you will be able to pick up on the curse’s trail through the residuals it’s left behind.”
Yukiko approached the wall and squatted down for a closer look. Her lips pursed as she stared at the freshly renewed ice. Behind her, Ōshiro watched as her own cursed energy jumpstarted. It began circulating within her body, honing her senses to a greater degree. Her nose crinkled. Despite its dormant state– or rather because of it, Ōshiro reconsidered– she had become aware of the sea-salt tang emanating from the technique near instantly. With a slow rotation, her eyes veered sideways to trace the flight of stairs.
“Do you think you can follow it all the way through?” Ōshiro asked. He followed Yukiko’s gaze, noticed it was distant, as if she was searching for something beyond the staircase. She rose, the bag pressed tighter against her chest. Her amber pupils quivered with weariness.
“Take it slow. Cautiously,” Ōshiro said.
Yukiko let out a shuddering breath and took the first step. The ice underfoot was coarse, fresh sleet that had just started solidifying. The pair climbed in silence. There was nothing notable to inspect between floors except for the drinking fountains. Busted handles had turned them into human-sized glaciers. The overflowing water was still running, a chilly bloodstream traveling between the frosted layers.
The temperature became colder the higher they went until the fourth floor, where it escalated. Yukiko’s breathing got heavier, recycled gulps of air wheezing out of a dried throat. To ask if she could use her cursed energy reserves to regulate her body temperature would be asking too much. After all, she was but a young girl that had only recently found out how unique she really was. Ōshiro decided against it, concerned that the idea might stress Yukiko. Despite everything, however, she hadn’t complained.
Deeper down the fourth floor corridor, they came across a single, closed door. When they reached it, Yukiko stepped back unwillingly. She looked at her feet, mouth agape in evident confusion. Every residual trail across the building had originated from here. The presence was imposing, powerful enough to overwhelm the senses. Yukiko was experiencing a surge of negativity so sudden that, in that one moment, primal instinct had taken over, screaming at her to turn tail and run away.
That was how any ordinary human would react. But they were more than that; they were jujutsu sorcerers, tasked with confronting and exorcizing this danger to society. Ōshiro stepped up, dragging his hand out of his pocket. Within his grip was a metal rod. At a flick it expanded into a baton four times its original length.
“Whatever you do, stay behind me,” he told Yukiko before bringing his foot up and kicking the door down.
In the eerie silence, the bang and crash of splintered wood atop fresh ice was deafening. Through the misty cloud of his own making, Ōshiro entered the curse’s territory. The room was cramped with squat work stations that were meshed together into twin, conjoined masses. The little space between them extended past the entrance, splitting the room in the middle and leading into a window wall that had glazed over with rime.
The desks on either side had become frozen hillocks, large clumps of ice that resembled cave stalagmites. Ōshiro squinted, looking past the outer layers of the pillar closest to him. A young man was still in his station, frozen solid in his seat. His face betrayed no shock or surprise, only the bored indifference of working such a tedious job. From below, strings of cursed energy were being siphoned into the pillar. They crept up to settle over the worker, spinning into threads like a cocoon. Eventually, Ōshiro realized, the overlapping energy would assimilate its weaker counterpart and contribute to the domain’s expansion.
“Sensei.” Yukiko’s voice immediately drew Ōshiro’s attention. Rounding on his student, he followed her pointed finger at the room’s top rightmost corner. His gaze sharpened upon spotting the spindly creature that kept close to the AC. It resembled an arthropod of the chelicerae group, its skin pale blue like the frost it generated through the machine’s soft thrum.
“A wolf spider mimic.” He gestured at it with the baton. “Look at the raised position of its abdomen, Yukiko-san. That’s where the egg sac is, but the dorsal side is uninhabited. No eggs have hatched yet. It hasn’t had time to feast on anyone. That’s good for us. Let’s make sure to thank Kuroki-san for his punctuality when we’re finished here.”
The beeper had rang moments after leaving the principal’s balcony, the code for dispatch notice followed up by the three digits for ‘Call me’. Before retrieving Yukiko, Ōshiro had received a thorough rundown of the AC incident, as well as train tickets to Harajuku by one of the junior assistants. The building density, however, in conjunction with the lack of personnel, meant that no curtain– another term for protective barrier– would be erected. Discretion had been a necessity, a requirement made achievable due to Kuroki’s diligence.
The curse hissed at them, a high-pitched shrill that made its mandibles flit. Ōshiro didn’t overlook the spittle, nor the faint sizzle it made after landing on the ice. The creature swayed, slowly pulling out its hind legs from under the AC fans. A series of rattling clicks drooled from its mouth. The sound traveled across the room, bounced back with the intensity of a low rumble. Yukiko sucked in a breath.
Ōshiro’s expression remained impassive. “It seems that it’s already gauged our cursed energy. These sounds are little more than taunts. I can tell it regards us as little more than ants.”
At that moment, Ōshiro’s arm lashed out. The baton came down in an axefall, shattering the ice underfoot into a shower of pellets. The curse recoiled at the sudden display of raw strength, its entire mass squeezing against the wall corners. Yukiko’s eyes widened with equal parts shock and awe. Amidst the cascade of crushed ice, Ōshiro knew exactly what she was thinking. It hadn’t been the baton’s tip that had destroyed the ground; it had been the wind pressure.
“What you just witnessed was my cursed technique, Yukiko-san,” he said. “Allow me to explain how it works.”
A blood-curdling screech filled the office as the curse lunged, legs outstretched and mouth agape. Sawlike teeth blossomed to reveal a second jaw, filled with its own set of enamel daggers. Ōshiro felt the ice with his shoe, seemingly unfazed. He gathered some chunks near the tip, then kicked them toward the curse.
“Weight multiplication,” he said, watching the fragments fly. “Upon contact, I can use my cursed energy to increase an object’s weight up to one-hundred times its mass.” On cue, the tiny bits of ice crashed against the spider. Its faux muscles caved in under the pressure as it got swept up by their momentum and hurled against the wall. Under any other circumstance, they were insignificant, mere droplets of frozen water. But now their weight had been amplified a hundredfold, strong enough to dig fist-sized craters into the wall.
Ōshiro retracted the baton. “The element of surprise,” he explained as he approached the mangled creature, “is the most important weapon we have against curses. By revealing the ability at the very last moment, however, our power amplifies, making our strike fatal.”
With the return of its senses, the spider curse made to retreat on shaky legs. It tried to scale the wall, but something had twisted in the wrong direction, so all it really did was fiddle in despair.
“Like ants, right?” Ōshiro was addressing the monster now. It hissed at him. The defiance almost made him grin. “It’s not good to underestimate ants. They’re much, much stronger than they look.”
The curse suddenly sprang forward, mandibles reaching for Ōshiro’s head in one final attempt to claim his life. Due to its recent birth, the monster was temperamental and arrogant. The thought of having its strength matched by a human’s hadn’t manifested yet. Maybe it never would. Further still, when faced against a jujutsu sorcerer, whose entire training revolved around the elimination of its species, the curse’s thinking capacity was overwhelmed with contradicting information that made its movements brash and predictable.
Tensing his muscles, Ōshiro twisted his waist and brought his palm down in a karate chop, the entirety of his being crunching against the curse’s skull. Weight multiplication was the technique’s name, but this attack was a sub-category, worthy of a special title: the Weaver Ant Chop, a strike that bolstered the might of one hundred Ōshiro Kentas, whose collective force was made ever stronger due to the acceleration caused by the downward arc.
Something cracked and popped under his fingers, and then the frozen floor collapsed under the false creature’s legs as it was sent tumbling through several floors. The distant crashes were almost rhythmic before they were eventually replaced by silence. Ōshiro gazed down the hole, tried to spot the curse at the bottom, but the dust cloud was too thick. He turned to the wall and pressed his fingertips on the ice. Already it was starting to melt. He rounded on Yukiko. If the curse wasn’t already exorcized, it was certainly on its death throes. They would trace its residuals down to the lower floors and finish it off.
A wave of pressure rushed up to meet him, a numbing cold that spider-crawled along his spine. Hurriedly he pivoted. The adrenaline rushed to his head, making time slow down. The curse appeared suspended in mid-air, legs bunched together after a spring. Venom had been launched from its mouth, traces of acidic saliva carving a trail in the air. Any reaction that would divert the spewage would be too late. Ōshiro’s instincts urged him to cross his arms before him, and he would have if not for a last-second realization: the attack wasn’t meant for him.
“Yukiko!” was the one word that managed to escape his throat.
What followed next was a blur of movement. From the corner of his vision, Yukiko had locked up, covering her head and holding her breath. The baton extended between fingers so tightly clenched that the knuckles had turned white. The tip came at the curse from the side, buried itself inside its bulbous head. Muscles contorted as they were torn apart, then the weight amplification technique was activated and the force obliterated the curse’s upper half in a splatter of pseudo-mass.
Ōshiro looked at his armed hand. He repressed a shiver by clutching it with his right. Steadying his breath, he looked over his shoulder and his eyes bulged with shock. There, in the air in front of Yukiko, the venom hung, suspended inches away from her head. In the split second that her eyes fluttered open, it had plummeted and eroded the floor before she could notice what had happened.
As he pocketed the baton, Ōshiro’s head was flooded with thoughts about this bizarre sequence of events, and whether or not it had been the first sighting of Yukiko’s cursed technique. Was it that, similarly to her cursed energy, it had always been there, but was never fully under her conscious control?
***
This day couldn’t get any weirder. That’s what Takeshi thought after watching the would-be electrician and his student apprentice walk out of the building. The disturbing airiness in their step made him swallow harder than normal, his head filled with questions he didn’t dare ask. Honda-san and Kobayashi didn’t share his reluctance. Like moths to a flame, they approached the menacing man and bowed in forced gratitude– multiple times even!
The yakuza repaid their gesture with curt formality. “The AC has been fixed,” he told them matter-of-factly.
“Thank you for your hard work,” Honda-san said. A trail of sweat had highlighted the creases on his forehead. Takeshi assumed that, by this point, he wanted this day to be over and done with so he could go home and do whatever Honda-san did.
“But what was that crash?!” Kobayashi’s interjection had the subtlety of a slap to the face. He kept yammering, but only half his sentences made any sense. Takeshi managed to make out parts, such as: ‘I heard it from the top floor, but then there was a gong at the bottom too.’ or: ‘I wanted to investigate, but my gut told me I’d die if I did!’ What lazy, eye-rolling excuses from the mouth of a pretentious moron. Now that was what Takeshi imagined the yakuza to be thinking.
Alongside a dismissive wave, he instead said: “It was a circuit break,” and didn’t elaborate further. Very suspicious response. Then again, who dared question that man? Certainly not Takeshi.
“Please, what about your payme–” The yakuza hushed Honda-san with a raised palm and a shake of the head.
He turned to face the exit and by extension Takeshi, who had tucked himself at the corner of the courtyard. The man started to approach him. The girl followed right behind, her head constantly down-turned. How immensely creepy! Takeshi struggled to repress a growing shiver.
“Have you finished reading the Jump issue?” the yakuza said, pointing at the magazine whose corners Takeshi had crumpled from the stress. “I haven’t read it yet. Can I have it?” There wasn’t a hint of reluctance in his words, even when he followed them up with: “I’m sorry if that’s an odd request.”
Takeshi’s eyes stared at the hand buried deep inside the yakuza’s pocket. At this range, he could make out a tip sticking out at the base, its width matching a gun’s barrel. He swallowed hard at the prospect of turning down the request. For all Takeshi knew, this man had a detailed file of his profile. A stray thought whispered about the girl, convinced him that she was a prodigal information broker, and that the bag she constantly clung to was filled with documents about the company workers, himself included.
Sparing no more room for paranoid thoughts, Takeshi extended his hands, the magazine between their ends. His lips were pursed too tight to form words. The man looked him over with a raised eyebrow before silently taking the issue of Weekly Shōnen Jump. After a bow, he pivoted for the entrance and the broker lady followed after him.
Takeshi let out a breath he had been holding for more than a minute, then promptly passed out.
***
Harajuku at night was beautiful. Even during these late hours, people flooded its streets, figures awash with the colorful hues of street lights and billboards. Between the clothing, electronics and other such stores, the scent of candied fruit and freshly-made crepes wafted through the air. Ōshiro rubbed his nose, tried to repress his hunger. This job had taken longer than predicted. By the time they reached Saitama there would be no time to attend the gym either. He would have to settle for some conditioning at home, much to his dismay.
“Do you want something to eat before going to the station, Yukiko-san?” This part of Harajuju had some very good yaki imo and ikayaki. But Yukiko was a teenager, so maybe she would opt for something sweeter.
He looked over his shoulder, watching for her response. She shrugged nonchalantly, avoiding eye contact by focusing her attention on the store windows. Ōshiro realized he couldn’t do much about it, so he looked for the nearest stand, indifferent to its contents. He was ready to suggest it, had he not spotted Yukiko from a window reflection as she entered a game shop.
“Where are you going?” he said, ready to follow her inside.
“I’ll be back in five minutes.” She was talking faster, more excitedly. “I must check something out.”
Ōshiro stopped one foot past the storefront, thinking about Yukik’'s teenage mindset and desire for privacy. It didn’t seem all that different from his own high school spontaneousness. He moved back, decided it’d be good for her to indulge herself, but also made a mental note to exercise caution in the future.
He didn’t want to read Kinnikuman while he waited, so he roamed from stall to stall and checked out the delicacies. He found himself before one that sold hand-made mochi. It had been a while since he’d sampled some. On impulse, he bought the kikufuku variant, then strolled to a nearby vendor. Such sweets had to be accompanied by tea, it was tradition. For all that, he got Yukiko a Mountain Dew; it was hip with high schoolers. His drink, on the other hand, he contemplated for what felt like minutes. Whenever his eyes would hover over an Afternoon Tea or McCOL, something would always compel him back to the Sweet Kiss at the leftmost corner. He didn’t even like it that much, but felt a karmic sadness would follow him back home should he ignore its calling. With a heavy sigh, he caved in and tapped the designated button.
Yukiko showed up shortly after, her school bag now over her back and replaced by a big paper bag between her hands. What little part of the box protruded from the top was gray and embellished with bold red lettering. Over and underneath, smaller Katakana in a dark shade of blue.
“What did you get?” Ōshiro asked, trying to make small talk.
“It’s a…” she paused, hesitant about proceeding. “FamiCom.” She whispered that last word, embarrassed by her enunciation.
An awkward moment of silence came between them. Ōshiro craned his head to the side, rubbed the back of his neck. He wasn’t sure what to say, because he didn’t know what a FamiCom even was. Just then, a poster next to the electronics store entrance caught his eye: an advertisement for the Nintendo Family Computer. Something in his head clicked. FamiCom had been an abbreviation. It was a gaming system similar to an arcade, but smaller, more compact, and designed for home use.
“This one?” Ōshiro said, pointing with his thumb at the poster. Yukiko followed his gaze and nodded sheepishly. “And you wanted this offer specifically?” Another affirmative bob of her head. Ōshiro leaned closer to the poster. Below the FamiCom’s short description, a flashy bubble listed the inclusion of something else. He studied the Katakana characters. “Super Mario Brothers, is it?” His English accent was worse than Yukiko’s.
“My classmates in Kyūshū talked about it a lot. I saved up for it over the summer.”
She tucked her chin inside her uniform’s collar. The memory held a certain warmth and the pride she felt in accomplishing her goal had made a soft smile appear on her lips. She was actively trying to hide it. Were it not for their difference in height, Ōshiro would never have noticed. Then his mind wandered on whether or not she had considered the possibility that his apartment didn’t have a TV set.
“That’s good, you worked for this FamiCom, so you’ve earned it. By the way, I got us this,” he said and lifted the mochi to head height. “You must be hungry. I know I am. And also this.” He offered the Mountain Dew. “To help it go down.”
Slowly, Yukiko reached out and accepted the mochi. She studied the filling list before biting down. It was a small, soft chomp, followed by careful chewing. For a moment they stood there, two people amidst a constantly shifting crowd. Yukiko was looking at something to her left, while Ōshiro watched the Mountain Dew at the end of his outstretched arm. It was the first time someone had refused his extension of friendship. No, he reconsidered, it wasn’t rejection.
She’d ask for it when the time was right.
Tucking the can into his pocket, he cracked open the Sweet Kiss and enjoyed a long sip. It helped clear his mind, the rush of sugar bringing him back to simpler times, when a grinning Kuroki and mesmerizing Haraguchi would wait for him to stop crying. Somehow, the memory made its aftertaste more satisfying.
Ōshiro wondered about it some and shrugged dismissively when he hit a mental block, too tired to care. “Let’s go,” he concluded and chartered their course for the train station.
Silently, Yukiko followed behind her sensei, the FamiCom rustling inside its cardboard confines.