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“Hey, Nanami-kun. What kind of woman is your type?”
Nanami sighs, from the bottom of his lungs.
He drags the air up and out, slowly, savoring every second of that exhale, delaying the inevitability of having to talk to Tsukumo. If there’s one thing he’s learned about special grades, it’s that they’re stubborn. Even if he stood here sighing forever, she’d wait patiently to say her piece.
“Don’t you get tired of asking that question after years?” Nanami asks.
Even the slight motion of speaking causes a painful stretch in his face, skin still tight from healing burns. Ieiri did her best, but no one walked out of Shibuya unchanged.
“People always have interesting answers,” Tsukumo responds.
“And yet you don’t get answered half the time.”
“That’s telling, too,” she says, with a wink.
If Tsukumo was a worse person, he’d probably assume that was a cruel joke at his expense.
It’s been nine days since the incident at Shibuya. Nine days since Gojo Satoru was sealed. Nine days since the world began to end.
Nanami failed to stop it, but he was always going to. That was supposed to be how a sorcerer died. Full of regrets. It was just the way of things. It was just right. Standing here in Tengen’s sanctum, he feels like a corpse. He feels like a soldier still fighting, not yet knowing he’s dead. It’s nothing new. He’s felt that way since the first time he stood in a small, cold, white room, and every time since then.
“Do you need something?” Nanami asks.
“You’re going into that Culling Game even though you’re still recovering,” Tsukumo says, her voice lilting up like it’s a question even though it’s not.
“There aren’t many options. We’re shorthanded.” While Kusakabe is content to leave everything to the students, Nanami can’t say the same for himself. Even if he got out of the game now, he’d agonize over it until he rejoined anyways. It’s better to skip that part.
“Tengen-sama and that brother guy seem to think the Heian sorcerers are going to be something else,” she says.
“If you think I can’t handle it, just say so.”
She laughs, surprised.
“I think that’s a reductive way to look at things. There’s no telling what can awaken someone’s potential, so I don’t have a clue if you can handle it,” Tsukumo answers, holding up her finger, grinning. “You either will or you won’t.”
Nanami’s been stuck in place for years. He’s running out of more to offer, out of any use he has to others. He won’t lament it. He can only continue to go until he burns out.
“Still,” she continues, “you’re a really strong sorcerer. You hold the world record for black flashes, right?”
“Itadori-kun overtook that in September.”
“He did?!”
“You’d know that if you weren’t always slacking during important moments.”
Tsukumo pouts, pulling a face that makes Nanami think she’s thinking something like get it together! Or how do I win in this conversation?!
“That’s not the point. What I really wanted to discuss is this: What sets you apart from the next level of sorcerer is a domain expansion. I heard you haven’t been able to make one.”
“Few sorcerers can. We can’t all be the same as those with special grade abilities.”
Even though he likes to think frustration over his own inability has never been part of his life, domains are something he’s pondered over for years. Maybe his technique isn’t suited to it.
“If you’re so sure of it, then I want you to test a theory I’ve been turning over,” Tsukumo says.
“What is it?” Nanami sighs, preemptively.
“When you think about it, isn’t a domain just a barrier?” She asks.
He’d expected her to say something stupid, so his mouth is half open to reply before he’s processed it. He pauses, closes his mouth, furrows his brow.
“What do you mean?”
“When you create a veil, you select the conditions on activation. You can choose the range, the exclusion, and the effect. A domain is just an extension of your innate technique onto the effects of the veil.”
“...Even if that’s the case, it still requires a lot of cursed energy to pull off,” Nanami concludes.
“That’s natural if you start imposing extreme conditions like “my technique will always hit,” and “my domain can’t be escaped from the inside,” and “my barrier is five hundred meters wide,”” Tsukumo says. “Only the sorcerers with the greatest amount of cursed energy can afford a trade that big. But even with regular veils, you can do things to offset the cost of casting them. Like using existing structures as a shell, or only lowering a veil of darkness instead of creating a physical barrier.”
The two of them let that hang for a moment before Tsukumo continues.
“So for someone like you, the best way to unlock your domain is to put in the least effort possible.”
“Please don’t say it that directly.”
---
The initial veil at Shibuya had a radius of 400 meters, an area of 0.5 square kilometers trapped under a blanket of darkness. Tokyo Colony No. 1 is significantly larger. From some angles, it eclipses the sun, leaving the ground shadowy and cold. Looking at it leaves Nanami short of breath, chest tight.
It has been twelve days since these barriers were erected. There’s a communication blackout inside. No one knows the current state of the colonies, only that most of the residents have been evicted and are occupying refugee centers in pre-selected regions, their walls overflowing. The country is in chaos and the council has been relatively content to let this play out, to retreat into themselves and ignore that anything is happening.
The only major move they’ve made is going public with Curses.
After Shibuya and the formation of the barriers, they practically had no choice. Their hand was forced. And the cursed energy from all that terror swirls in, circling around the colonies. It’s so thick in the air that Nanami can almost taste it.
Nanami has structured so much of his life around keeping this a secret; it’s odd to think that it could change.
He could call up his old coworkers and tell them Sorry for leaving so suddenly; I had to go back to my old job of killing curses.
He could tell that baker Sorry for letting you suffer under that curse for weeks; I was still trying to convince myself I could live a normal life.
He could tell his mother Sorry I was such a troublesome child, sorry I had so many problems in school; I was already particular, but I also saw the evils of this world long before I could understand them.
He won’t, though. He knows he’s never going to talk to any of those people again.
Nanami checks his watch. 12:11 p.m.
Hakari, Panda, and Kugisaki must be arriving at the Tokyo Colony No. 2 by now. He felt bad sending them alone, but they needed to divide and conquer, and he has no intention of letting Itadori out of his sight again.
He lets his eyes track to the young man, his stare hidden by his sunglasses. Itadori looks years older, his face scarred, his eyes hollow. Nanami once told Itadori that adulthood was about the accumulation of little despairs, but he can’t imagine the effect of a despair this complete. There’s a haunted look on his face even worse than when Yoshino died. He can see himself in it and he has to look away again.
He remembers a promise he made. To help Itadori, to help stop the despair accumulating in his heart from crushing him. Gojo wanted the help of someone who grew up stably, but can Nanami even say that about himself anymore?
“...But explain it to me again, Fushiguro,” Itadori’s voice comes, filtering through Nanami’s thoughts.
“You don’t get it, huh?” Fushiguro mutters under his breath. “Some are from 1,000 years ago… But even people from 100 or 200 years ago valued life differently. Plus, they’re sorcerers.”
“While that’s true, you should treat everyone in the colony as a potential threat,” Nanami interjects, trying to find his footing in the conversation, to reassert himself as someone who belongs here.
“Even the modern-day sorcerers like Tsumiki?” Fushiguro asks, frowning. “I figured they’d be more open to negotiations if they didn’t want to be embroiled in this.”
“Among modern-day sorcerers, curse users still exist. Just because someone is from the modern era doesn’t mean they’ll have a refined sense of morality. Further, we don’t know how the situation has devolved inside the colonies. Anyone desperate enough for points or resources might react with hostility,” Nanami explains, his mind wandering back to movie theaters and teaching Itadori about residuals. These are still just kids. They shouldn’t have to learn these things. “And all of that is assuming we can even reliably tell them apart.”
“Plus we have to worry about the cursed spirits,” Itadori offers.
“Just exorcize those like normal if you encounter them, but try to avoid them. It’s best to preserve your cursed energy for a conflict with another sorcerer.”
“What if we find a civilian still trapped inside?” Itadori asks.
Nanami knows what the canned reply is. What the council directive would be. The mission is more critical, so we unfortunately have to ignore them for now. If they’re in trouble, focus on getting yourself out alive first. The lives of non-sorcerers matters so little to those higher-ups.
Luckily, this isn’t a council-sponsored mission.
“We’ll try to guide them somewhere safe and let them know there will be a rule allowing them to exit the colonies soon. We’ll find a way to deliver an announcement later.”
Nanami unbuttons his jacket, preparing to enter the colony.
“Hi! I’m Kogane! Inside the barrier, a lethal contest called the Culling Game has begun! Step inside and you, too, become a player! Are you willing to enter?!”
“Yes.”
“Nanami Kento has joined the Culling Game. Would you like to consult the rules?”
---
The window frames stop shaking. Nanami has his back pressed to the wall, his breathing coming out shaky. His ears are still ringing from the explosion in the hall. Sweat creeps down his neck and a burning feeling licks up his left side despite the fact he dodged the blast.
He pries himself off the floor, pressing back into the hall, knowing he has to check on Fushiguro. It still smells like gasoline.
On his left, Max Elephant bursts through the door, splintering the wood, throwing a man out through the window. Isn’t that the same one that fell just a minute ago?
Fushiguro follows, in the claws of Nue, scorched and holding a sword.
That girl, Remi, launches herself after him, her skin flaking into carapace, hair catching Nue around the throat and sending it arcing, flailing, off course.
Nanami rushes to the windows, gripping the frame, trying to determine if he could survive a jump.
Reggie Star whistles.
“Don’t get distracted. You and I are still talking,” he says, smug.
The man behind him, the one who threw the explosive, is bleeding from the mouth.
“You’re the one who said there was a negotiation breakdown,” Nanami says, loosening his tie.
Reggie tilts his head back to look at his ally, perfectly exposing his throat, begins to speak-
“Go help those two take care of that kid-”
-doesn’t get to finish, because Nanami is launching himself forward, aiming for that soft flesh with his blunt knife.
“Whoa…! You’re eager!” Reggie says, dodging to one side. He raises his knee up to hit Nanami in the stomach, strikes with surprising force, launches him sideways into the wall.
Just from that strike, Nanami can tell. This man is like those unregistered special grades. Tsukumo was right. He’s on a different level, far above Nanami. The best he can do is hold him here and make sure he doesn’t gang up on Fushiguro, too.
As Nanami struggles up from the ground, Reggie plucks a receipt from his person, duplicates it, and burns them both to summon two umbrellas. He offers one to the man who uses explosives.
This tells Nanami a couple key things about his abilities: he’s able to summon the contents of a receipt, he’s able to duplicate a receipt an unknown quantity of times but probably only while activating his technique, and he knows where a receipt is placed without looking, which means he probably has a categorization system of some type. The last isn’t very helpful at all, but it’s the kind of thing Nanami likes to know.
The explosives man opens the umbrella and jumps out the window, floating gently out of Nanami’s line of sight.
“You’re still getting on your feet?” Reggie asks, resting his umbrella on his shoulder. “Maybe I was wrong to try to talk to you. Just killing you for the points is the most merciful thing I can do.”
Nanami strikes out again. Reggie parries with his umbrella. His blade slides along its length until he hits its weak point and it splinters, shattering apart.
Reggie retreats a few steps down the hallway. He obtains another receipt.
Knives whizz through the air, summoned through his duplication.
Nanami turns sideways, a few blades sneaking past him, leaving shallow notches in his skin. He doesn’t even feel it for the adrenaline.
He closes the distance. They trade blows.
He carves in from the side with his knife. Reggie catches the inside of his arm and knocks it up, out to the side, leaves Nanami wide open, and punches him right in the face. His sunglasses crunch under the impact.
Nanami rips them off, throws them at Reggie, who is already dancing back again.
Another receipt.
A car crashes at an angle into the hall, breaking apart the ceiling and causing debris to rain down.
Nanami raises his weapon, carves through the metal and leather and presses himself through the narrow path the blade creates, the car falling to either side of him, congesting the hallway.
This isn’t working. This space is too narrow for him to dodge properly, but there’s enough room behind Reggie for him to keep retreating. Nanami needs to press him into closer quarters.
Nanami lunges for Reggie again. He dodges and Nanami strikes his true target, the wall behind him. He pulls his blade through plaster and strikes a metal pipe. Water sprays out, soaking him. He ducks down, allowing it to rain into the hall.
Predictably, Reggie ducks away.
It looks like he doesn’t want to get those receipts wet.
Now he’s stuck in a narrow sliver of the hall, too close to Nanami to summon more cars or anything like that.
Nanami strikes out again, catches him in the shoulder, earns a blow in the ribs in trade.
He grabs Reggie by the hair, tries to drag him towards the water. Reggie burns another contract and stabs him in the stomach once, twice.
Nanami grabs him by the wrist, shoves him against the wall. Reggie kicks him back, into the shattered window. Nanami clutches at the frame, broken glass digging into calloused flesh.
Another kick sends him tilting backwards, out into open air.
He scrabbles at the building as he falls, finds purchase with his knife, dangles from a window ledge.
Hauling himself up onto his forearms, he punches through the window and then crawls in, through the broken glass.
Pain radiates out of every pore.
What is he doing here?
Down the hall, the elevator dings. Reggie coming down to find him. He hauls himself forward into one of the apartment buildings, shouldering the door open.
He wants to be back on that peaceful beach. He was supposed to be resting by now.
Others are relying on him, so he can’t just give up.
He tries to ground himself. He’s not here on pointless orders. He’s not just marching to his death for a job. All his life he’s only followed along the path of least resistance, going where he figured it’d be easiest for him to disappear.
When the Shibuya incident hit the media, stocks all over the country plummeted. What little Nanami had invested has disappeared into thin air. Years of work erased in a night. He’s going to be working until he dies. Even then, when this is all over, he’ll be a wanted criminal in the eyes of the council. His career will also be totally destroyed. The best he can do is find the people responsible and make them pay for his wasted time.
“That trick with the water pipe was pretty clever,” Reggie says from the doorway, finally catching up with him. “I’m guessing you figured out my technique.”
“If you want to reveal your hand, do it without involving me,” Nanami replies.
Reggie laughs, peeling another receipt from his tattered costume.
“Contractual recreation. To put it simply, I can do this.” He burns the contract in his fingers up and strikes a pose.
The sparse injuries lining his body fade, though don’t disappear entirely. More notably, an exhaustion lifts from his shoulders and his hair shines. Nanami looks at him flatly.
“The receipt I just used was for two nights and three days, plus an oil treatment, at the five-star traditional inn, starry sky. Which means I feel as refreshed as I would after relaxing for two days at a hot spring. But how about you? You look like you’re recovering from some nasty wounds, plus those earlier attacks…”
As he talks, Nanami just feels his agitation growing. All those earlier attacks were practically for nothing, and his whole body hurts. The ability to have relaxation at his fingertips, to escape mid-fight to something so peaceful, really irritates Nanami more than anything.
“Neither of us have any particularly big moves, but you’re worse off than I am. It seems like this is the end of the line.”
And the worst part is that he thought he could burn it now, like he won’t be needing it later.
It’s not like Nanami doesn’t understand the limitations of his own abilities; but still, he hates to be underestimated.
He doesn’t want to lose his first fight here. He wants to prove this man wrong. He wants to prove that there’s some reason he’s still alive when so many others aren’t.
Nanami undoes his tie entirely, wrapping it around his hand. He looks at his watch.
Then he slaps his palm over its surface.
He focuses on an old familiar feeling, the lowering of a veil. Emerge from darkness, blacker than darkness. He limits it to the borders of this apartment, this room, his curse energy spreading out across the walls, blanketing them.
Domain Expansion: Punch the Clock.
The ticking of a sweep hand fills the air.
A watch face rises from the ground, framing the battlefield beneath their feet.
The look of shock that crosses Reggie Star’s face is gratifying.
Nanami doesn’t gloat.
He just launches himself forward again, lashing out with his blade.
Reggie raises his hands in front of him, clasping them together. His cursed energy weaves around him, forming the hollow wicker basket. It nestles him inside, ready to deflect the sure-hit effect of a domain. The minute hand on the clock ticks forward.
Nanami’s blade strikes him anyways, dragging down his torso. Receipts tear and flutter off, scattering around them. The minute hand on the clock ticks forward.
“You bastard,” Reggie says with a sneer, almost a grin, new admiration and fear in his eyes.
“If you want to reconsider talking now, I’d understand,” Nanami replies, flicking his blade to get the blood off.
Reggie burns another receipt, summoning a set of knives. Nanami clashes with them confidently. He hasn’t felt this good in a long time. He’s hitting some kind of flow state, like that night at the Night Parade.
They trade blows again, crashing together.
With every strike, the minute hand on the clock moves forward, the watch matching the rushing of their hearts.
He pushes Reggie back, knocks him to the ground.
The hour hand strikes three.
Nanami’s curse energy suddenly sputters.
When Reggie draws up with a machete, slashes for him, Nanami braces against it and stumbles back, the force almost bowling him over.
Why so suddenly? What’s happening?
His eyes cast down to the clock beneath their feet and it strikes him. The last few hours of a workday, the fatigue of just needing to get through it. He needs to hold out until he gets a second wind. How annoying that even that would follow him in here.
Reggie sees the moment of weakness, seizes it.
He summons a barrage of shit, vegetables and knives and stereos, throwing them at Nanami. They bleed together, hide one another, make it hard for Nanami to react.
He slashes at them, cutting objects out of the air like one of those old action movies Gojo likes. Nanami thinks of some old school day, his friends throwing things at him to test his technique despite his protests. He thinks of the quiet pride of showing off.
A knife pierces his shoulder and he grits his teeth hard enough that his jaw creaks.
The tick, tick, tick of the clock continues. Reggie strikes out, shin connecting with Nanami’s ribs, sending him stumbling back again. Nanami breathes heavily, raggedly, his chest aching.
The hour hand strikes six. Overtime.
His cursed energy flares.
It envelops his arm, flowing down into his hand, into his blade. He forces himself back onto the offensive, even though it hurts every time he breathes.
Reggie sends a fleet of mopeds sailing through the air. Nanami carves through them like butter, inching closer, pressing Reggie back. All of Nanami’s movements feel smooth, full of perfectly precise rage. Reggie dodges, dodges, summoning objects now to protect himself, to play defense.
Nanami hacks all of those apart, too.
The hour hand strikes seven.
Nanami has never felt stronger. He throws himself at Reggie with all his might.
When he strikes, a bloom of black energy follows, erupting like a thunderclap. Reggie’s arm bursts at the 7-3 mark, falling dead to the floor.
Nanami doesn’t stop, following it up, carving out a chunk of Reggie’s torso, the world flashing black.
The man holds his side, dropping to the floor, blood weeping out of the crater in his body.
The domain seeps away, light from the windows filling the room once again.
“To be outsmarted by a modern-day sorcerer,” Reggie breathes, pained. “I guess that’s my fault for underestimating you twice.”
Nanami holds his side, too, twinning the man dying on the ground. It hurts even to breathe, but that’s been true since Shibuya. Still, he made it through. He lived. He finally did something he never thought he’d be able to accomplish. All that’s left is to see it through. He knows a few people who will be very excited to learn about his domain. He just has to last long enough to see them again.
“Kogane. Give this guy all my points.”
“Reggie Star has transferred 41 points.”
“...I don’t understand the purpose of that,” Nanami says, softly. The rib poking into his lungs makes it hard to speak loudly, but he feels a moment of somberness, too. He’s no stranger to death, but it never becomes easier to witness. He needs a drink.
“Don’t make such a sour face. Consider it a good deed before death. Or maybe I want my executioner to make it somewhere,” he jokes, the words gurgling, his throat filling with blood. He’s growing pale, fading fast.
“Use those points well before you die like a fool.”
…
“You have gained… five points.”
Nanami stares for a moment, then unwraps his bloodied tie from his hand. He ties it around his neck once more and stumbles out to the elevator. He leans against the wall and rides it down.
“I know I’ll put them to good use,” he mumbles before he steps off.
He means it, too. He has a new confidence. Even though he’s aching all over and exhausted, he can still move forward. So he does. He limps down the pathway away from the apartments, seeking out Fushiguro.
Soon enough, his moment of solemnity is interrupted by an explosion. Out of the frying pan into the fire. Well. That’s the way it always is for sorcerers.