Archive of Our Own ^beta

Blacksmithing is hot. The tools, the forge, the cinders, the very air with each breath; fire and burns never stop even with a lifetime of experience. Accidents happen, sparks fly uncontrollably. Heat exhaustion is as miserable as it is familiar, a brutal beast to be kept at bay, especially in the warmest months.

Blacksmithing is dangerous. Hammer, anvil, chisel—each tool is as essential as it is miserably heavy and difficult to handle. A single-second slip of focus born from hours of uninterrupted labor spelled disaster. 

Blacksmithing is also addictive.  

…For most who practiced the craft, anyway.

For Chihiro, not so much. 

That wasn’t to say he didn’t understand. The burn of exertion from each strike of the hammer, muscles screaming and straining with the satisfaction of hard work. The desperation to improve at each turn because no matter what there is always something else to learn and someone else more talented to aspire towards. Even the act of creation itself was never enough, the next project already in sight.

But when Chihiro considered why he wanted to be a blacksmith, ‘passion for the craft’ wasn’t the first thing to come to mind. Nor was it a sense of mere duty or obligation, an understanding of the role that his Cursed Technique would play in jujutsu society that led him to this life.

“Chihiro; let's fold it one more time.”

When Chihiro considered why he wanted to be a blacksmith, he immediately thought of his Dad.

Chihiro kept his hammer low in a two-handed grip as he nodded in agreement. Glowing red eyes, hot like the poker sitting nestled in their forge, watched him assessingly. It wasn’t a lack of trust that had his Dad watching him so carefully, but rather, a sign of his patience and respect for such dangerous work. 

The white-hot iron was flipped and a chisel balanced delicately on its back which Chihiro began to beat with high swings raised above his head. The clang of metal chipping at metal was a familiar beat, a rhythm he felt deep in his bones with each strike. Eventually, his father took over with his own hammer reinforced with his Cursed Energy, metal beaten to fold in on itself on the newly created wedge. 

Chihiro made sure to watch his father with his full attention, unwilling to miss even a moment of a master hard at work at his craft. Not only was his smithwork precise, each blow of the hammer striking the perfect position and wielding an exact amount of necessary force, but the Cursed Energy that flowed through each strike into the hot iron and embedded itself deep within was still a sight to behold.

His Dad finally stopped, returning the hammer to his side to once again support the iron rod. No words were exchanged, the process so natural that Chihiro needed no prompting to raise his hammer overhead and begin compressing the iron all over again.

“Good,” his father said, his eyes trained on the point of contact. “You’re doing well.”

The hammer came down in a burst of sparks with more power than he’d thought he had left. Ignoring the shaking of his tired arms, Chihiro gave an apathetic grunt in response. It was the best he could muster, certain that with how dry his throat had become his voice would come out embarrassingly scratchy if he tried to speak. While his Dad may be focused now, he wouldn’t hesitate to ceaselessly poke fun at him for something as simple as a voice crack later. 

Raising the hammer over his head, Chihiro readied another swing when a shudder tore through his body. He froze in his position despite the strain of his muscles, looking out of the corner of his eye yet unwilling, and perhaps incapable, of turning his head directly. 

There was a figure lurking in the doorway of his Dad’s workspace, tall and seemingly unfamiliar. His arrival had been all but silent and should have gone entirely unnoticed by Chihiro. Would have gone entirely unnoticed if it weren’t for the state of the man’s Cursed Energy. Chihiro wasn’t an expert regarding Cursed Energy—in fact, he could barely muster up the basics of controlling it himself—but the power radiating from this new arrival was too recognizable to ignore.

It was a power that reminded him of the collection of katanas hidden deep beneath their home. Swords that Chihiro knew better than the back of his hand.

“Chihiro.” The sound of his Dad’s voice pulled Chihiro from his stupor. Releasing a shuddering breath that had until then been lodged in his throat, Chihiro brought his hammer down and resumed his work.

The Rokuhira home was safe—Shiba had made sure of it, personally erecting a barrier over their property after a Curse User had attacked their home some years prior. Being well-known within jujutsu society was both a blessing and a curse. 

Besides, unfamiliar this person may be, the Rokuhira’s had been expecting his arrival. Today, this man was a guest at their home.

An annoyingly early guest.

Casting a quick glance to his Dad revealed a face drawn with a cool-headed and unflappable seriousness. He was seemingly unbothered by their observer, perhaps so lost in his work that he hadn’t even noticed the other man to begin with. Whatever the reason, he showed no sign of stopping, so Chihiro followed his example and ignored the god amongst men who observed from the doorway. 

It was unpleasant to be watched, sapping away at all of Chihiro’s confidence in his craft. He felt self-conscious, almost embarrassed, and he checked the position of his hand on the hammer more than once, as if expecting to find himself holding it wrong despite not having made such a simple mistake in years. The man in the doorway did not comment nor did he attempt to interrupt, seemingly content to observe them at work, and Chihiro couldn’t help but interpret his silence as a form of judgment.

He wished he could be like his Dad, so focused that not even a Special Grade Sorcerer could interrupt him. As it was, a bead of sweat ran down the back of Chihiro’s neck, and for once it wasn’t caused by the heat.

He still had a long way to go, it seemed.

It took the freshly forged blade being quenched in water for Chihiro to release the tension in his body, sagging slightly in place. He was more exhausted than he’d been in a long while, the mental tax of being watched so closely by someone who wasn’t his Dad getting to his head. Still, he didn’t let himself falter, falling into repeated routines as he cleaned up and put away their tools while his Dad finished up with the katana which now pulsed softly with its own Cursed Energy, roughly at the level of a semi-first grade Cursed Tool. They may be wrapping up for now but Chihiro did not doubt that his Dad would be back before long to sand, fine-tune, and hammer out the blade’s remaining imperfections.

“Why don’t we break for now,” Chihiro’s Dad offered, setting aside the blade and moving to take care of the forge. It seemed he’d finally noticed that they weren’t alone, his statement directed more toward their quiet observer than at Chihiro himself.

“No need to stop on my account,” a voice chimed from the doorway. It was easy and self-assured, a pleased smile audible in each word.

With his back turned as he hung up the last of the tools, Chihiro spoke up, “We would have stopped around now, anyway.” His voice was flat, though that wasn’t entirely unusual. What was unusual was the conscious effort he had to make to keep it that way. 

Steeling himself, Chihiro released a slow breath, shook out his shoulders, and finally turned on his heel to face their guest. “What’re you even doing here? You’re early.”

A long-limbed figure leaned casually against the open door frame. He oozed a sort of easy confidence befitting someone who belonged anywhere and no one would tell him otherwise. His shock of white hair was brushed up and out of his face, making his imposing stature even taller. Even with half his face obscured by white bandages, it was clear his appearance was striking, his conventional attractiveness all the more aided by his self-assured body language.

Gojo Satoru was exactly as described. Stunning, unnerving, and utterly unreal.

Chihiro’s body tensed all over again as Gojo’s lips pulled into a playful grin, and he found himself unconsciously crossing his arms across his chest. This only seemed to make Gojo smile even wider. Beneath those many bandages, Chihiro was certain that Gojo’s eyes must have been filled with pure mirth. 

“Me?” Gojo responded easily. “I’m just enjoying the show, of course.”

For whatever reason, this earned a huffed-out laugh from Chihiro’s Dad. In contrast, Chihiro himself released a weary sigh.

This was going to be a long day.

“-so I raced over to his middle school as quickly as possible. With a call as vague as ‘Fushiguro Megumi got into a fight with students two years above him,’ I’m expecting the worst, you know?”

“Mm-hmm mm-hmm.”

“But I arrived to see Megumi perfectly fine! Meanwhile-”

“No!”

“Six! He’d hospitalized six boys in a single fight! One of them even had a concussion! I swear, that kid has barely hit puberty and he’s already been branded as a public menace!”

“Hey, that reminds me of the time Chihiro-”

“Dad.”

“Sorry, sorry!”

At the admonishment from his son, Chihiro’s Dad broke out into yet another round of loud guffaws, his laughter as boisterous and uncontrollable as ever. Gojo himself watched on with utter amusement, sporting a shameless grin. All Chihiro could do was let out a tired sigh.

The two men sat together at the kitchen table gossiping while Chihiro kept his distance and kept busy, hunched over the open fridge as he debated what to make for lunch. While his Dad sat in his chair like a normal person, Gojo had disregarded all sense of formality, spinning his chair to straddle it backward and giving his overly long legs room to stretch out. Chihiro had been tempted to say something but in the end held his tongue, certain that if he spoke up, Gojo would flip himself upside down in his seat or something equally childish just to get on his nerves.

“Say, Chihiro,” Gojo called out, propping up his chin with his palm. Chihiro didn’t acknowledge the older man, focusing on bundling the cold cuts and cheese into his arms, then using his hip to nudge the fridge door closed. Still, this didn’t discourage Gojo in the slightest. “It’s a shame Megumi won’t be starting at Jujutsu Tech for a few more years; I bet you and him would get along great. He’s just like you, all ‘serious’ and ‘too mature for his age’.”

“When he’s not beating up older kids for getting on his nerves,” Chihiro shot back with a flat tone as he pulled out a loaf of bread. 

“When he’s not beating up older kids for tugging on his stepsister's hair during passing period,” Gojo corrected.

“...Maybe,” Chihiro acquiesced. This seemed to be the right call as Gojo was quick to shift his attention back to Chihiro’s Dad, leaving Chihiro to prepare sandwiches in relative peace. 

He didn’t like that Gojo had arrived early, nor did he appreciate the man watching them work—no matter how amiable his Dad may be regarding the matter, to Chihiro it was an invasion of privacy that made his skill crawl to consider. Even Shiba knew not to disturb them when they were working. 

Not only was Gojo’s early arrival disruptive, but it was also an inconvenience. Now forced to play host earlier than planned, Chihiro didn’t get a chance to run the laundry. He’d been forced to change into one of his few remaining clean t-shirts and hope for the best. The shirt he’d settled on was a gift from his Dad that had wound up stuffed in the very back of his closet; the cringeworthy print of a cartoon cactus jeering the words ‘Stay back! I’m prickly!’ emblazoned across the front was embarrassing, to say the least. To make matters worse, with the lack of time, he didn’t even get a chance to shower. Chihiro prayed that he didn’t smell too disgusting, but judging by how damp with sweat his hair was, he may already be a lost cause.

After plating and cutting his Dad’s sandwich in half, Chihiro brought it over and placed it on the table. While neither of the men broke in their conversation, his efforts didn’t go unnoticed as a well-calloused hand reached out and ruffled Chihiro’s hair. Chihiro pulled away with a sharp eye roll as quickly as he could, but he still caught the thankful smile his Dad shot his way.

As he finished putting away the ingredients and prepared to take a bite of his food, Chihiro paused, noticing how his Dad’s plate was already empty. While his Dad sat waving around half a sandwich as he spoke through a too-large bite, the other half was already being eaten by Gojo Satoru. Even though Chihiro couldn’t see the sorcerer's eyes, he swore the look the older man sent his way was one of pure mischief.

“So, why did you come?” Chihiro asked, interrupting the back-and-forth conversation between the two men as he placed the second half of his own sandwich on his Dad’s plate. 

“You know, most people tend to be a little more gracious when meeting me,” Gojo teased as he peeled the crust off his sandwich.

Chihiro shrugged. “I just figured it’d be Kusakabe.” Or rather, he’d have preferred if it were Kusakabe. The man may be belligerent and dour, but he was a familiar sight. He’d been buying his swords from Chihiro’s Dad for as long as he could remember, and at least he showed some respect to the master swordsmith. 

Better than an all-powerful sorcerer who thought it was fine to lounge about their family home and steal his Dad’s food from under his nose.

“Aw, c’mon! You’ve barely given me a chance!” Gojo whined with a slight pout. “Kusakabe teaches the second-year students, while I teach the first-years. So, don’t you think it makes more sense for you to meet with your teacher-to-be?”

Chihiro took a bite of his half of a sandwich in favor of a response. Teacher… It was a lot to take in.

A knock at their front door had Chihiro stuffing the rest of his sandwich into his mouth, chewing quickly, and excusing himself from the room all in one quick motion. Yet despite his rush out of the kitchen, as soon as he hit the next hallway, he stopped. He let himself pause a few steps before the door, stealing a moment to breathe as bellowing laughter rang out from the other side of the wall. 

It was fine when it was just him and his Dad. Chihiro liked his Dad’s zany personality and too-big laugh. But throwing Gojo Satoru into the mix was all kinds of overwhelming, the two men creating a feedback loop of loudness and disruption that was burning Chihiro out faster than working in the forge in the mid-summer heat. 

Another round of knocks from the door had Chihiro shaking out his shoulders. Unable to justify putting it off any longer, Chihiro extended a calloused hand and opened the front door. 

“Rokuhira Chihiro.” That voice was stern. His expression, stern. Chihiro suspected that even his eyes behind those dark-tinted glasses would be stern as well. 

However, stern did not mean unkind. 

Jujutsu Tech’s principal was a powerful-looking man, broad-shouldered and built like a wall. His youthful undercut paired with his mustache and goatee would have undermined any intimidating presence belonging to a lesser individual, but somehow he made them work. The man raised a heavy eyebrow in question, waiting for Chihiro to respond to his statement.

“You must be Principal Yaga Masamichi.” Taking a step back as a silent invitation into his home, Chihiro turned and called over his shoulder to alert the others of their newest arrival. “Hey! A mature adult is finally here.”

Principal Yaga raised an eyebrow but Chihiro ignored this, basking in his Dad’s sputtering which could be heard from the other room. Still, Principal Yaga entered and followed Chihiro where they stepped into the kitchen just in time for Chihiro’s Dad to point an accusatory finger his way. “I am deeply offended!”

“And your offense has been noted,” Chihiro replied dryly. Glancing at the table where his Dad now sat alone, his brow furrowed. However, a quick, cursory glance through the room gave an answer as to the location of their flighty guest.

“Don’t touch that.” 

Gojo’s finger froze just before tapping the glass of the fishbowl set out beside a well-lit window along the far wall. A smile made its way across his face, the kind that Chihiro just knew had gotten this man out of more than enough trouble in his life. Within the bowl, the black and red goldfish meandered aimlessly through the water while the tri-colored fish followed Gojo’s finger with rapt attention, puckering its lips over and over. 

“Cute fish.”

“They’re my Dad’s.” Even though Chihiro was the one who cared for them, fed them, cleaned their bowl… 

With Gojo’s chair now vacated, Chihiro was quick to walk over, turning it back around and pushing it properly under the table. 

“Gojo.” Principal Yaga’s deep voice had Gojo straightening up, already raising his hands in surrender before an accusation had even made itself known. It wasn’t much, but it was nice to see someone could keep the world’s strongest sorcerer in line, even barely. “You were supposed to wait for me before coming here.”

“Aw, but do you blame me?” As he spoke, Gojo crossed through the room to throw himself into the seat Chihiro had just rearranged moments prior. He let his weight tip back until the chair was balanced on two legs, then kicked his legs up onto the table. “It’s not every day you get to see the masterful Rokuhira Kunishige hard at work.”

Chihiro’s Dad scratched at his goatee as he flashed a bright, flattered smile. Somehow, he was seemingly content to waive off someone observing his highly revered and respected craft without even asking.

Chihiro’s eye twitched.

Strongest sorcerer or not, he wasn’t so forgiving.

“Feet off the table.”

Gojo pouted as if that would stop Chihiro’s glaring. The two fell into a stalemate born out of stubbornness, Gojo’s lips pursed and Chihiro’s stare impassive, each waiting for the other to break. Finally, a low grunt from the kitchen entrance had Gojo rolling his head dramatically and dropping his feet to the ground.

Chihiro was growing to admire the principal more with each passing minute.

Entering into the room, Principal Yaga took his time to introduce himself to his Dad, the two men shaking hands. Uncertain of what to do with himself, Chihiro found himself standing awkwardly to the side. Having just finished working for hours, he should be tired, yet his restlessness only seemed to grow. 

By the time he began debating with himself whether he should prepare some tea for their guests, a loud smack rang out through the room. All eyes locked on Chihiro’s Dad who, mid-handshake with Principal Yaga, had slapped his forehead with the palm of his free hand. “The forge!” As his hand dropped away from his face, a bright red imprint of his palm was left behind on his skin. “I must have been distracted! I can’t believe I forgot to properly put out the fire in the forge.”

What a bald-faced lie; his Dad may be flighty at the best of times during their day-to-day, but when he was at work he was as focused and regimented as ever. He never even let Chihiro set foot outside the shop until every hot ember was extinguished and all the heated coal, coke, and ash were separated out.

Still, everyone in the room accepted his excuse as the man rose from his seat. “Well, I may be a while, so no need to wait up for me!” With that, he began to move, only stopping to clap a reassuring hand on Chihiro’s shoulder. Chihiro hadn’t even realized how tense he’d become until his eyes met those of his Dad who smiled at him with reassurance. Once Chihiro finally offered him a small, pinched-lip smile in response, the man patted him one more time on the back and made his way out of the room.

Principal Yaga, Gojo, and Chihiro all remained silent, listening as the backdoor in the direction of the workshop swung open and then shut. Finally, Chihiro was alone with two men he’d never met till that day.

Right. Because of course, his Dad wanted him to speak with them alone. 

They were here for Chihiro, after all. 

“Why don’t we all take a seat?” Principal Yaga spoke up, breaking the tense quiet in the room. Chihiro fisted and unfisted his hands at his sides before nodding and moving to take one of the open chairs. He was quick to grab the seat farthest from Gojo, preferring not to sit directly next to the man who still seemed content to continue balancing on the rear legs of his own chair precariously. The thought of one of the chair legs giving out and sending the cocky man plummeting to the ground flashed through Chihiro’s mind; he found it more enjoyable than he expected.

Principal Yaga grabbed one of the free chairs and turned it to face Chihiro, and what was once a preferred seating arrangement was now entirely undesirable as he suddenly found himself facing down both adults at once. Chihiro sat far too still with his back respectfully straight, hiding his hands on his lap as he picked at the skin around his nails. It was difficult for him to meet either of their gazes—what with Gojo’s bandages and Principal Yaga’s sunglasses—but he did his best, determined to squash even the possibility of nerves.

“There’s no need to be nervous,” Principal Yaga said.

Well, so much for that. “Sorry.” Chihiro would have loosened up his posture if he could, but as it was, he couldn’t find it in himself to relax. “Whenever people visit they’re always here to see my Dad. I’m not used to this.”

“We’re just here to get to know you, Rokuhira.” 

And yet, Chihiro hardly knew where to begin. Sure, some of his Dad’s customers would chat with him when they stopped by, but that was different; he was never the center of their attention, not really. 

“Chihiro is fine.”

“Chihiro, then,” the principal offered. “So, then-”

“So, is it true that you inherited your father’s technique?”

Both Principal Yaga and Chihiro frowned in unison. Gojo, however, was shameless in his interruption, simply crossing his arms and shooting the principal a face as if to challenge him to take back the question. At this, Principal Yaga sighed, rubbing his temple as he gestured for the teen to answer.

As brash a question as it was, Chihiro preferred it. This was something he knew how to talk about.

Wetting his lips, Chihiro nodded. “Yes, I inherited my Dad’s Cursed Technique; Tanren. It allows me to permanently infuse items with Cursed Energy to create Cursed Tools.” 

A pleased expression found its way across Gojo’s face, but it was Principal Yaga who responded. “That’s good,” he acknowledged. “Your and your father’s techniques are incredibly valuable to jujutsu society. Cursed Tools of any grade are incredibly rare and heavily monopolized by the Zen’in, Kamo, and Gojo clans. So, for you and your father to wield a Cursed Technique that allows you to forge Cursed Tools with such ease is an incredible feat.”

Chihiro stopped the fidgeting of his hands, flattening his palms on his lap. “But that’s not why my Dad is considered the most famous swordsmith of our time.”

“No,” Principal Yaga agreed. “It’s not.” He brought his hands down onto the table in front of himself. Those hands were large, frighteningly so. Chihiro bet that a single hand could cover his entire face, wrap around his throat, with ease.

“It’s because of the Enchanted Blades.”

The Enchanted Blades; Special Grade Cursed Tools all forged by Rokuhira Kunishige. Each katana carried a unique and devastatingly powerful Cursed Technique, restricted by a binding vow that ensured only one person alive at a time could wield its power. 

Those blades; the epitome of the Rokuhira legacy.

“Can we see them?” Gojo piped up as he casually stretched his arms over his head. “The Enchanted Blades; they’re here, right? Creating even one Special Grade Cursed Tool in a lifetime is a monumental feat, but six?” With a charming smile, he tilted his head to the side, an action equal parts playful and dangerously disarming. 

“Gojo,” Principal Yaga warned.

“What, can you blame a guy for being curious?”

“...You’re used to getting what you want, aren’t you?”

The words had left Chihiro’s mouth before he could even consider them, and the effect was instantaneous, Gojo’s mouth hanging open in shock while Principal Yaga let out a stunned yet equally amused, “goddamn,” under his breath. Chihiro’s face felt miserably hot.

Eventually, a smaller and more open smile made its way across Gojo’s face. It was evaluating, as if truly observing the teen in front of him for the first time. “You really say what you feel, don’t you, Chihiro?”

“I guess,” he admitted.

Gojo smiled even brighter at that. 

Coughing slightly into his fist to regain his composure, Principal Yaga pressed on. “And how far along have you come with your technique, would you say?”

“I-” At this question, Chihiro faltered, slightly taken aback. 

“I don’t have the best control over my Cursed Energy,” Chihiro finally admitted. “My Dad is a great teacher when it comes to blacksmithing but he’s hopeless when he tries to explain anything to do with something that isn’t tangible.” To be more accurate, any explanation from his Dad usually involved waving hand gestures and descriptors such as ‘a warm, tingly feeling’ that made it sound more like he was describing peeing one's pants. “I sometimes train my Cursed Energy with Shiba when he visits. He’s better at that kind of thing.”

This caused Gojo to perk up. “Shiba Togo?” He questioned. “The teleporter, right?”

Principal Yaga, too, wore an impressed if slightly surprised expression as he nodded in confirmation. “A First Grade Sorcerer.” At this, he turned back to Chihiro. “I didn’t realize he was a family friend.”

“Yeah,” Chihiro breathed out, feeling his own sense of surprise though doing his best not to show it. Chihiro’s Dad made an effort to remain pretty far removed from most of jujutsu society unless it came down to business, so it was easy to forget that Shiba had made quite a name for himself as a sorcerer.

“He and my Dad have been friends since before I was born. I basically grew up with him,” Chihiro continued. “But he’s pretty busy, so he doesn’t get to visit a ton or for very long.”

Gojo hummed to himself as he took this information in. He looked as though he had more to add but before he could Principal Yaga cut in, directing their focus back to the topic at hand. “And what about the weapons you’ve forged yourself? What grade are they?”

Chihiro’s spine straightened the slightest bit, a chilly sweat breaking out on the back of his neck. Questions about his technique were to be expected, he supposed, but this… this was different. Was he missing something?

“...I forged my first Second Grade Cursed Tool on my own just a few months ago,” Chihiro finally answered. Never mind that he’d passed out after the fact—receiving much admonishment and doting from his Dad in the aftermath—nor that he had yet to come anywhere close to replicating such an accomplishment since. 

There was a slight twitch in Principal Yaga’s expression but Chihiro didn’t know what to make of it, and Gojo’s unpleasant smile was growing more uncanny with each passing minute. Principal Yaga opened his mouth to speak but Chihiro was already cutting him off. “Why? Does that matter? I thought I was already accepted into Jujutsu Tech.”

There was a flicker, just a moment, where the two men before him seemed to look at one another, debating what to say. An unpleasant feeling coiled its way through Chihiro’s stomach. His hands began to ball into fists, wrinkling his pants in his grip.

He wasn’t a child, and he wasn’t oblivious.

“...You want to know if I’ll be able to make my own Enchanted Blades,” Chihiro supplied before they could answer. 

As Gojo turned his head to avoid Chihiro’s accusatory gaze and Principal Yaga removed his sunglasses to pinch at his brow, he knew he’d gotten right.

Because as famous as his Dad was for forging the Enchanted Blades, his Dad was just as hated for a number of reasons. The fact that his Dad kept all of the blades locked away beneath their home so they couldn’t be used was a frequent point of debate, as was how his Dad had stopped making Special Grade Cursed Tools around the time Chihiro was born.

While the former was a matter his Dad would never budge on, the latter… Well, it was certainly what all of jujutsu society was led to believe.

“I don’t know,” Chihiro breathed out in answer to the unasked question. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to make my own Enchanted Blades, or if I’d even want to. I think…” As his brow scrunched, Chihiro looked down at his hands, finally releasing his grip on his pants. His upturned palms stared back at him, weathered and calloused with use, experience, and years of hard work. “I think, if anything, I’d want to create the kind of katana this world needs.”

The words were clumsy and perhaps a bit hesitant. It was the exact kind of thing Chihiro’s Dad had said to him before, and while he still didn’t understand what it truly meant, he knew it was the answer that sat the most right with his heart.

“Then I’d say that’s more than enough.” Chihiro’s head snapped up, wide red eyes meeting Principal Yaga’s deep brown. He didn’t look upset at the answer, nor did Gojo, despite him clearly not giving the response they were looking for. 

Chihiro should have taken his win and moved on, yet a new concern had wormed its way into his mind. “Do you expect me to start selling the weapons I make?”

This drew a blank stare from both of the men. “What, you mean you aren’t selling them already?” Gojo asked. The question may have come across as derisive from anyone else, yet instead he seemed purely curious, if a bit surprised.

“No, I haven’t,” Chihiro said. “My Dad says that a swordsmith is complicit in the deaths caused by the katana they made. That when you sell a katana, you need to have principles and accountability.” The heavy burden in his Dad’s expression wasn’t something he would forget soon, the man usually being so carefree and joyous when he wasn’t focused on work. When his Dad got serious, Chihiro knew he had to listen. 

While until then, Principal Yaga had observed him with a more neutral expression, the look on his face now looked harsh. “And what if someone were to use a weapon you made to kill?”

Chihiro couldn’t help suck in a quick breath, his spine straightening out even further.

Principal Yaga was testing him; Chihiro was sure of it. Turning his own words against him to see what would make him break. 

And once again, Chihiro couldn’t be more thankful for his Dad. Their many talks at length of their work and Chihiro’s goals had prepared him more for this moment than he ever expected.

With squared shoulders, Chihiro met Principal Yaga’s eyes dead on. “Then that will be a burden that I’ll take on.”

Principal Yaga watched him carefully, waiting for something to give, yet while Chihiro’s heart lurched unpleasantly in his chest he maintained his cool composure with ease. “A burden that you’ll take on,” Principal Yaga repeated before letting out a frustrated sigh. “But not yet.”

Chihiro’s eyes flickered closed, cringing the slightest bit. 

“...I’m making things difficult for you.” 

“We can’t exactly justify taking on a swordsmith who won’t make weapons to be used.”

“I’m aware.”

While Chihiro was proud of his Dad’s morals and the respect he’d been raised to wield for their craft, it was beginning to sink in just how at odds they were with what society sought from them. There was a wriggling sense of doubt bullying away at the back of his mind, telling him that if he put himself out there, it would only get worse. The major clans, the higher-ups—this was only the start of people wanting him to be something he wasn’t.

Maybe he wasn’t ready for this, after all.

“How about students?”

Chihiro blinked his eyes open. “What?”

The lopsided smile that flashed across Gojo’s face was certainly pleased, but unlike his other smiles, it was somehow lacking in that cocky bite that made Chihiro’s hackles rise. “Making Cursed Tools for your classmates,” he explained. “As long as you know and trust the people your weapons are going to, then you can be sure that they’ll be used for the right purposes. And if that’s the case, there’s no better place to start than making weapons for the other students at Jujutsu Tech.”

“That’s… not a bad compromise,” Principal Yaga concluded, turning to the teen sitting across from them. “How do you feel about it, Chihiro?”

For a moment, Chihiro simply sat, working his mouth open yet unable to find the right words. Eyes flicking back and forth between the two men who waited earnestly for his answer, he was utterly taken aback. 

They were pushing him, sure, challenging and testing him to make sure he met whatever standards they held. But beyond that, for whatever reason, they were actually listening.  

And considering their compromise, he found that it wasn’t a bad idea at all. In truth, it would be nice to know something he made was being used.

No, not just used, but used properly.  

Taking a breath to steady himself, Chihiro spoke. “If I’m going to consider making a weapon for another student, would it be okay if I spent some time getting to know them first?”

“I don’t see how that’d be a problem,” Gojo shrugged after only a moment's consideration. “With their Cursed Techniques, I don’t see either of the other students in your year taking on weapons, but there is a Cursed Tool user from the Zen’in clan that I’ve had my eye on. She’s a year younger than you so no need to worry about it for now, but I’m sure she’d be interested in using your weapons, especially since they’d be tied to the Rokuhira name.”

“A Zen’in?” Principal Yaga asked, turning to Gojo with an accusatory glare. “This is the first I’m hearing about this.”

Gojo waved a hand dismissively through the air as if to physically repel the others' attempted questioning. The two began going back and forth, Principal Yaga reprimanding Gojo and insisting he keep him better informed of these kinds of decisions.

“Is that it?” Chihiro questioned, interrupting the two men. “You’re willing to hear me out, just like that? Why? Because my technique is valuable?”

“Well, it certainly helps.”

“Gojo.”

“What? It’s true.”

Principal Yaga let out a slow breath, keeping a tight hold on the glasses in his hands before loosening his grip and looking back to Chihiro. “In part, yes, your technique is valuable, and we’d be doing both you and us a disservice to pretend that wasn’t a factor. You are a unique case, even amongst your peers; you won’t be training to fight or to exorcize curses. Yet no one can do what you can, and for that, a bit of compromise is unavoidable.”

Chihiro’s eyes drifted away, settling on the fishbowl by the window. In flashes of black, white, and scarlet, the trio of fish flit lazily about the water.

“But,” the principal continued. “What truly matters is your conviction. Despite being raised in your father’s shadow, you intend to build on his legacy and make your own. You don’t intend to create weapons solely at the behest of others, nor will you give the means to cause harm to any who asks indiscriminately. And that is what makes you the kind of student I’d like to see thrive at Jujutsu Tech.”

For the first time since they’d sat down, Chihiro found himself relaxing the slightest bit, a comfortable warmth settling in his chest. He’d been uncertain about Jujutsu Tech, there was no denying it, but he was finally coming to see a way to forge his own path in this world. It would be full of conflict, external and internal alike, but before him now he saw people who would back him through it all.

Gojo and Principal Yaga went back and forth, bouncing around ideas of schedules and training plans, of commutes between school and home to continue his blacksmith work. It was soothing in a way to listen, to have the right adults on his side to help create the life he desired. 

Before long his Dad finally rejoined them. The man flashed a joyfully overblown smile as he draped himself over Chihiro’s shoulder, laughing in his ear as he jumped in to add his own thoughts and plans. 

And at that moment, Chihiro finally saw it.

He finally saw a future to call his own.

Ash and tragedy. A home destroyed. Their attackers long gone.

His Dad’s corpse, cold and lifeless in his hands.

That very same future Chihiro once saw would go on to end a mere month before it could even begin.

“This wound is probably going to scar.”

Chihiro felt rage. 

He felt rage and heartache, fear and desperation. Yet now, as hands, soft yet clinical, carded through his hair and dragged along his temple with a buzzing warmth, he also felt something he hadn’t felt in what seemed to be a lifetime. He felt a semblance of comfort and he didn’t know what to do about it.

“I don’t mind.”

Maybe it was thanks to Shoko’s tired eyes that looked at him without an ounce of pity, or perhaps it was the way her coat smelled like cigarettes. The clawing scent of cigarettes was safe, familiar.

“Really? Most people do.”

Shiba had never smoked around Chihiro yet the smell had always clung to his white button-down and suspenders. Even now, stressed and panicked out of his mind for days on end, Shiba always made the conscious decision to step outside of wherever they were staying at that moment when he thought Chihiro was sleeping to allow himself a quick smoke. 

“The scar will be a reminder.”

Shoko’s hands fell still, Reverse Cursed Technique receding till all that remained was the easy weight of her palm. In another life Chihiro would lean into that weight, enjoying her gentle contact. But in this life, he wanted nothing more than to slap it away and reject her kindness. Hatred withdrew when compassion thrived until it was smothered out all together; what should be a thriving flame choked out without the oxygen needed to sustain it. 

And Chihiro needed to sustain it.

Without hatred, he didn’t know what he’d have left.

Shoko worked her jaw as she mulled over her words in her head, face pulled with an unplaced discomfort. Chihiro wasn’t the easiest person to read, but she clearly had picked up on his intent and was left debating if she should make it her problem or not. He hoped not, hoped she’d fall back on her professionalism and leave him to stew in his vision of red.

Fate was on his side because before she could make up her mind, the clinic door slammed open. Her hand dropped from his head just as quickly, leaving Chihiro cold and oddly empty. There were several figures in the hallway but the one who mattered most was the tall, built man whose angular face was pulled with exhaustion. His button-up was unkempt, several buttons undone and the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. His blond hair was brushed back a bit messily, one bang flopping loosely into his face.

At the sight of Chihiro sitting on an exam table, relief filled his eyes, the tension leaving his quickly sagging shoulders. “Chihiro.”

Deft hands returned to his temple, beginning to wrap bandages around his head snuggly. “Shiba.” His voice was hollow. Everything about him felt hollow when it wasn’t ablaze.

There was a flash of white hair outside the door but this was blocked out as Principal Yaga stepped inside, beginning to crowd the room. He too looked tired and agitated, his arms crossed over his chest and face twisted with thinly concealed consternation. His eyes bore into Chihiro from behind his sunglasses with an intensity that was almost accusatory, though Chihiro had no clue why. Doing his best to ignore the principal, he kept his eyes trained on Shiba who now crouched in front of him, the pose reminiscent of a show of fealty. 

Chihiro didn’t know what would have happened if it weren’t for Shiba. When the barrier protecting their property was broken, their home ransacked and destroyed and his Dad murdered before his very eyes, Shiba was the one to pick up the pieces. Extracting Chihiro from the flaming ruins of his home and prying his Dad’s cooling corpse from his hands. 

All this suffering to steal the six Enchanted Blades. 

Without any idea as to the identity of the culprits and with Chihiro as the sole survivor, they’d had no choice but to retreat out of fear that whoever had attacked their home may return to finish the job. Laying low had been difficult, what with their apparent lack of biological relation and Chihiro’s state of injury and grieving, but they made it work. They hopped between cheap hotels at random hours, steered clear of busy streets and populated areas. In any other circumstance they may have retreated to the safety of Jujutsu Tech, but during those days of uncertainty, even that was too great a risk. It was likely just a coincidence that the attack took place within a month of the visit by a teacher and the principal of Jujutsu Tech, but mistrust was one of the few defenses they had left. 

Yet as time passed, their exhaustion grew and nerves thinned, and Chihiro showed no signs of improvement with his head wound. What they were doing was unsustainable, and if things didn’t change then surely they would give. 

Which was why when the Hishaku, a band of yakuza-aligned Curse Users, claimed responsibility for the attack and assuaged all their fears, they hadn’t hesitated in reaching out to Jujutsu Tech for aid. It was the first time they’d come out of hiding in days, the first confirmation to any part of jujutsu society that Chihiro had survived at all, and the school had jumped into action without a moment's hesitation. 

This brought them to the present; teleported to the school grounds, Chihiro had it easy, being whisked off to receive proper medical treatment that wasn’t rudimentary first aid. Though in contrast, judging by the pure exhaustion that Shiba now wore like a second skin, whatever he’d been dealing with was a far more complicated matter.

“Is that the worst of it?” Shiba asked. The man's words were directed at Shoko yet his eyes still focused on the teen before him, worry evident in his furrowed brow. 

“He also had a minor concussion alongside some other bruising,” Shoko responded before stepping back, finally finishing with dressing his wound. “You said that you got hit in the head and blacked out during the attack?”

Chihiro spotted a restless shifting in his periphery but chose to ignore it. A slight headache began to pulse at his wounded temple, annoying, but far better than before. “That’s correct.”

“And you’re sure you don’t remember anything about the attackers?”

Hands balled into tight fists on his lap. Redirecting his focus, Chihiro sent a cold glare toward the culprit of the question. Gojo Satoru lounged at the far end of the room, having slipped inside without Chihiro noticing. He stood casually, his hands buried deep in his pockets. For once he wasn’t smiling, his expression flat and near impossible to read with the way his eyes were covered. Chihiro hated it.

“That’s right,” he answered, eyes unflinchingly locked on Gojo. 

Two men and one woman; three sorcerers total. 

Each with a black, flame-like tattoo on the back of one of their hands.

“I don’t remember anything.”

Gojo pursed his lips, head leaning one way and then the other, reminiscent of an owl observing its prey in the dark, evaluating when it was at its most vulnerable. “Is that so?”

The flames of Chihiro’s anger were only further stoked by Gojo’s judgment. “Yes.” As he spoke, his temple began to throb even more, a low, thrumming pain that left him slightly dizzy. 

“Really? And that doesn’t bother you at all?”

“Gojo-”

“I mean, these are the people who killed your father that we’re talking about-”

“That’s enough.”

The atmosphere in the tight room was near claustrophobic with tension. Principal Yaga glared at Gojo who remained as composed as ever, the two falling into a silent battle of wills. In the corner that Shoko retreated to, she pulled out a pack of cigarettes, seemingly fed up with any sense of professionalism in the face of this mess. Shiba ran a tired hand down his face, puffing out his cheeks as he released a long, slow exhale. 

Chihiro let his eyes fall closed, hoping that the lapping waves of lightheadedness would finally retreat. 

“The Hishaku will be dealt with in due time,” Principal Yaga eventually stated, shutting down the topic in its entirety. “Right now, our priority is Rokuhira’s safety and well-being.” There was a hard edge to the principal's words, his voice terse and restrained, incongruous with his seemingly well-meaning words. 

“Kunishige named me as Chihiro’s legal guardian in the case that anything were to happen,” Shiba commented. 

“And I’m sure that’s fine in theory.” Gojo’s voice was drawling yet articulate, a show of disinterest when in actuality he seemed to have given the matter much thought. “But what will you do when the major clans start crawling out of the woodwork to challenge your right to custody?”

Chihiro’s eyes pinched tighter till lights began to flash behind his eyelids. The pounding in his head only seemed to grow worse.

“You’re constantly moving and lack any sort of stable income; face it, the major families are going to go to war to get their hands on that kid’s technique and you won’t be able to do a thing about it.”

“I can work something out-”

“Can you? Because the moment it gets out that Rokuhira is alive—and it will get out—they’re going to make their move.”

Chihiro opened his eyes and pushed himself to his feet in one swift move, all eyes turning to him as he swayed slightly in place. “So, I should stay at Jujutsu Tech.”

When no one responded, he pushed on. “That’s what this is all leading to, isn’t it? If I stay in the care of Jujutsu Tech then no one can reasonably oppose, and Shiba can still be my legal guardian. Doubly so if you can get the higher-ups on your side.” Chihiro leaned a bit too far one way as he spoke, and his hand lashed out to brace at the edge of the exam table to keep from falling over. Shiba jumped to his feet at the same time, carefully resting his hand on Chihiro’s back to steady him. Still, he didn’t let his swimming head deter him from glaring at Gojo. “But you already knew all that.”

Gojo considered him with an unreadable intensity, unseeingly seeing him so thoroughly that he felt naked and exposed. Chihiro had little clue as to how the Six Eyes worked, but under the man’s scrutiny, he felt distinctly vulnerable. This wasn’t like before when he’d been appraised for his worth and value of character—rather, it was as though Gojo knew that a monster born of vengeance hid in the guise of a boy and believed he could flay away Chihiro’s false skin with nothing but sheer will.

And somehow, Principal Yaga was no better. The man’s piercing gaze was obvious even from behind his tinted glasses, the tension in his body ever present as though he were readying himself for a fight. Thinking back on it, his words and demeanor had been cold from the start—both of them had been. 

Chihiro had just lost his Dad yet they were treating him like a wounded animal, one wrong move away from lashing out. Chihiro had no clue what he’d done to deserve such mistrust. 

Though perhaps it was warranted.

Shiba’s hand began to rub slow circles into Chihiro’s back, and he began to shake less. That was probably not a good sign, since he didn’t remember beginning to shake in the first place. 

“I’m tired,” he lied, using all his remaining willpower to keep from slouching in on himself. In truth, he just didn’t want to keep having to hold it together under such scrutiny. Maintaining his composure wasn’t usually so difficult, but exhaustion, loss, and pain were all conspiring to leave him defenseless. 

Principal Yaga’s face pinched tighter. “There’s still more that we need to discuss-”

“Chihiro just lost his Dad,” Shiba cut in none too gently. “If he says that he needs rest then let him.”

The room was quiet for several long seconds, only broken up by Shoko flicking open a lighter and raising it to a cigarette resting loose between her lips. Finally, Gojo waved a dismissive hand, content to relinquish any responsibility he’d held in the conversation. Principal Yaga gave a slow, half nod, clearly frustrated at the discussion being cut off so abruptly but unable to argue further. “We went ahead and moved all of your things to the dorms. Your classmates won’t be arriving for another month so you’re welcome to change rooms if you’d like.”

Chihiro’s heart jumped with panic. It was as close to an admission that they’d intended Chihiro to stay at Jujutsu Tech as he would get. He should have felt vindicated, yet all he felt was creeping dread. 

Did they find it? Was that why they were so suspicious?

“I can have someone show you to the dorms,” Principal Yaga offered, seemingly unphased by Chihiro’s sudden building anxiety. 

Gojo’s unwavering focus felt accusatory; Chihiro wanted, needed out, now. 

“No thanks,” Shiba was quick to reply before Chihiro could even open his mouth. “We’ve got it from here.” One hand snaked up to carefully brace Chihiro’s neck while the other formed a mudra, his index and middle fingers raised and pressed together. Chihiro realized what was about to occur just in time and braced himself. 

With the slightest lurch and a single blink, what was once a cramped, poorly lit clinic was now an open hallway, empty of anyone but the two of them. The floors and walls were all wood, adding a layer of warmth to their environment that Shoko’s clinic had distinctly lacked. Sunlight streamed in through the many windows on both sides, dust particles catching slightly in the sunbeams, a testament to how undisturbed this place truly was. 

Chihiro took a rushed step forward, only for his leg to buckle beneath him. 

“Woah, hey!” Shiba had yet to let go of Chihiro thankfully, and he helped support the young teen before he could collapse entirely. “How’re you feeling? Need to throw up?”

Chihiro scoffed. 

This earned him a smile, weak and marred with concern, but still present. “Just making sure. I would have preferred to not use my technique with you in this state, but you seemed pretty eager to get out of there.” At this, Shiba’s expression fell slightly. “Not that I blame you.”

It didn’t take them long to find Chihiro’s things placed carefully on the made bed of the first room at the start of the hall. It was a nice space, already set up with a desk, chair, and dresser, but none of that mattered. Chihiro was already pulling forward and away from Shiba, rushing toward the bed, almost tumbling onto it in his haste. He began to sort through the pile of bags and tools as Shiba cast a last look down the hall to ensure they were alone before closing the door behind them and locking it.

From the look of it, no one had gone through Chihiro’s belongings, everything in place from where he’d last left it, a small relief. The few bags he had were an amalgamation of random bits and pieces he salvaged from the remains of his home and random thrifted clothes and cheap toiletries they’d picked up while in hiding. 

And beneath it all was a long, heavy, wrapped canvas.

“Chihiro, I want to know that you’re sure about this,” Shiba said. 

Chihiro ignored him in favor of undoing the several thick knots of rope that were used to tie the makeshift bag closed. 

“It’s going to be a lot harder for us not to get caught if you're staying at Jujutsu Tech.”

Unraveling the large canvas until it extended halfway across the large bed jostled its contents so that they were spread out before him. Chihiro shifted through the many hammers, chisels, and swords as he sought out one tool in particular.

“Let's also not ignore the fact that you lied to Gojo Satoru. The Gojo Satoru.”

Chihiro’s hands finally settled on a sheathed sword. He let out a soft breath.

“It’ll be fine,” Chihiro finally responded, turning toward Shiba who leaned his back against the closed bedroom door, arms folded casually over his chest. “I’m not going to back down. We’ll just have to be more careful.” He let his fingers drag along the deep black sheath as he rose back to his feet, thumb hooking on the blade's guard. 

With utmost care Chihiro wrapped his hand around the handle of the katana, drawing it free from its sheath with the soft ringing of metal. It was heavy in his hands in a familiar sort of way, beautifully balanced as its body glinted a fine silver in the sunlight. The craftsmanship was utterly immaculate and without a single blemish, a masterpiece among masterpieces.

This sword was the one secret his Dad had kept from all of jujutsu society, a shared creation forged by the hand of father and son.

The seventh and final Enchanted Blade.

Enten.

Chihiro wasn’t entirely sure what would happen as he bound himself to the Enchanted Blade, imbuing it with his Cursed Energy. Perhaps draining exhaustion as it constantly sapped away his strength in exchange for its great power and greater techniques. Maybe he would be left longing and empty, his Cursed Energy giving the impression of a phantom limb as it entered a state entirely removed from his body. Maybe the sacrifice of his Cursed Technique—the price paid in his binding vow, in exchange for the swords full power—would leave him as nothing but an empty husk.

What he didn’t expect was familiarity. A long lost sense reawakened, a forgotten core memory at last unlocked. There was no sense of loss at all, but a sense of finally being complete despite never realizing he’d been unfinished in the first place. Channeling his Cursed Energy into Enten felt as natural as breathing itself. 

For the first time since his Dad’s death, that burning hatred inside of him finally had direction, had purpose. 

He could do this. 

Cursed Energy pulsed and took physical form until it presented as water, taking shape along the edge of the blade. Each drop that freed itself from the sword seemed to reject the very laws of gravity, dripping upwards slowly till they hung suspended in the air. 

And with each pulse of Cursed Energy he felt the blade's own power deep in his chest, his heart, his very soul.

“Shiba,” Chihiro said without once tearing away his eyes from the katana. “The Hishaku will pay for taking my Dad’s life. For rejecting all that he believed. For stealing his katanas for their own purpose.”

A small shikigami began to take form, a deep black. It was followed by another, a gash of scarlet, and then a third of tricolor. Chihiro's breath hitched as he recognized the three small goldfish that had manifested before him, from him, swimming through the air in winding arcs. There was something utterly beautiful in their mundanity and simplicity.

Kuro. Aka. Nishiki.

“But I need you to teach me how to fight.”

Really, Dad? Leaving me to take care of your fish again?

“Teach me so that I can cut down the sorcerers who killed my Dad once and for all.”