Years before he ever set foot in Jujutsu High, Souten lived under the quiet weight of expectation.
Even then, his steps echoed through the Mikazuki Clan's dojo—sharp, deliberate, far too heavy for a normal 12-year-old boy. Morning light filtered through the high windows, casting long slashes of pale gold across the polished wood. Morning light filtered through the high windows, casting long slashes of pale gold across the floor.
Souten moved through his forms, each motion sharp, deliberate, and precise. His breathing was steady, his cursed energy flowing evenly beneath his skin, reinforcing every muscle and tendon with careful control.
Several elders and instructors stood along the far wall, their arms folded behind their backs, watching in silence.
There were no harsh criticisms. No raised voices. Only the quiet, ever-present expectation.
Souten pivoted sharply, dropping low into a sweeping kick before flowing back into a defensive stance. He could feel their eyes on him—not hostile, but weighty. Measuring. Judging.
When he finished the final form, he straightened, bowing low toward the assembled elders. A brief murmur of approval passed among them, but no smiles. No warmth.
"Excellent control," one of the instructors said.
"A little more sharpness in the transitions," another added.
"His cursed energy flow is already stable beyond his years," an elder noted quietly.
Souten accepted the praise with a small bow, his expression unreadable.
Inside, he felt the familiar knot tightening in his chest.
It wasn't that he resented their expectations. He understood them. Admired their faith in him, even. But the constant quiet pressure—to always be more, to always be better—was a weight he could never set down.
As he moved to reset for another round, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the polished wood floor. His stance was flawless. His energy refined.
And yet, for the first time, he wondered—
Was he training for himself?
Or for the silent expectations of those who watched?
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The evening air was cool by the time Souten finished his final training set. The sun dipped low behind the distant trees, casting long shadows across the courtyard as he made his way to the clan's private shrine.
Reijiro Mikazuki waited there, standing quietly before the weathered stone monument where generations of the clan's ancestors had been honored. His posture was relaxed, but the air around him was weighted with thought.
Souten approached with slow, deliberate steps, bowing once before stepping to his father's side.
For a long moment, neither spoke. The shrine was silent save for the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze.
"You've grown," Reijiro said finally, his voice low and steady.
"I have much left to learn," Souten answered without hesitation.
Reijiro smiled faintly, almost sadly. "Learning never ends. But there are lessons that no amount of repetition can teach. Lessons only life can carve into you."
He turned his gaze outward, to the fading horizon.
"There are many who believe strength blooms from isolation," he said, voice quieter now. "That solitude sharpens the blade. That detachment breeds unbreakable resolve."
The words drifted between them like smoke.
"But I became a Special Grade Sorcerer not just because I could stand alone," Reijiro continued. "I became one because I trusted. Because I leaned on others when the weight grew too heavy for one pair of shoulders."
He turned his full attention to Souten, his gaze piercing yet kind.
"Isolation hardens you. It can teach you to survive. But it starves something just as vital. Without bonds, victories are hollow. Strength becomes brittle. A weapon rusts when it has no wielder to protect."
Souten listened intently, the words embedding themselves deeper than he expected.
"You carry our hopes, Souten," Reijiro said, placing a firm hand on his son's shoulder. "But you are not a tool. Not a weapon crafted by old men who fear change. You are yourself first."
The weight on Souten's chest shifted—still heavy, but no longer suffocating. This was a burden he chose, not one shackled to him.
"One day," Reijiro said, softer now, "you will face choices no one else can make for you. And when that happens, remember—trust those who choose to walk with you. Stand with them. Fight with them. That is the strength that endures."
Souten bowed his head deeply, the lesson burning into his heart.
Reijiro squeezed his shoulder once—steady, sure—then turned away toward the shrine's steps.
"Rest tonight," he said over his shoulder. "Tomorrow, we prepare for the journey ahead."
As his father's footsteps faded into the deepening twilight, Souten remained standing before the monument, feeling the threads of past, present, and future knotting together inside him.
For the first time, he questioned: Was strength alone not enough? Would trusting others really forge what isolation could not?
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The next morning dawned gray and overcast, the sky heavy with the promise of rain. Yet the courtyard of the Mikazuki estate pulsed with life—the rhythmic clash of practice weapons, the sharp exhales of breath, and the steady hum of cursed energy in the air.
Souten moved alone at the center of the grounds, his figure a blur of precision and power. Each strike he threw was sharp, deliberate, and reinforced with cursed energy that coiled perfectly beneath his skin. His motions while still filled with the stiffness of youth; now they carried the quiet ferocity of someone honing their craft into something greater.
Two elders observed from the shaded veranda, arms folded neatly within their sleeves. Another leaned against a post, watching with narrowed eyes.
"At this rate," one murmured, voice low with something like awe, "he will surpass what the estate can offer him."
"He may have already," the other replied quietly.
Souten didn't hear them. He was too immersed, too synchronized with the rhythm of his own body and spirit. His cursed energy thrummed steadily, denser and more refined than ever before. When his strikes connected with the wooden dummies, the air itself seemed to tremble, and the heavy practice targets shuddered under the force.
Between each strike, he recalibrated without thinking—adjusting strength, speed, and angle instinctively. Not perfect yet, but closer with every movement.
And yet, amidst the satisfaction of progress, a growing tension pulled at the edge of his mind. He could feel it—the edges of a wall drawing near. The boundary of what repetitive training and tradition could teach him.
Training within the Mikazuki grounds had forged his foundation—steady, strong, unyielding. But a foundation alone wasn't enough to build a future. Not one worthy of the strength he sought.
Breathing hard but steady, Souten ended his final form and straightened, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. His heart pounded steadily in his chest, not with exhaustion, but anticipation.
His gaze lifted past the estate walls, to where the mountains loomed against the stormy sky—dark, vast, and unknown.
Out there, challenges waited. Out there, he would either rise—or be broken.
For the first time, the thought didn't frighten him.
It sparked something deep within him. A quiet, restless excitement.
A future worth chasing.
And he was ready to meet it.
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The next morning dawned gray and overcast, the sky heavy with the promise of rain. Yet the courtyard of the Mikazuki estate pulsed with life—the rhythmic clash of practice weapons, the sharp exhales of breath, and the steady hum of cursed energy in the air.
Souten moved alone at the center of the grounds, his figure a blur of precision and power. Each strike he threw was sharp, deliberate, and reinforced with cursed energy that coiled perfectly beneath his skin. His motions, still touched by the stiffness of youth, now carried the quiet ferocity of someone honing their craft into something greater.
Two elders observed from the shaded veranda, arms folded neatly within their sleeves. Another leaned against a post, watching with narrowed eyes.
"At this rate," one murmured, voice low with something like awe, "he will surpass what the estate can offer him."
"He may have already," the other replied quietly.
Souten didn't hear them. He was too immersed, too synchronized with the rhythm of his own body and spirit. His cursed energy thrummed steadily, denser and more refined than ever before. When his strikes connected with the wooden dummies, the air itself seemed to tremble, and the heavy practice targets shuddered under the force.
Between each strike, he recalibrated without thinking—adjusting strength, speed, and angle instinctively. Not perfect yet, but closer with every movement.
And yet, amidst the satisfaction of progress, a growing tension pulled at the edge of his mind. He could feel it—the edges of a wall drawing near. The boundary of what repetitive training and tradition could teach him.
Training within the Mikazuki grounds had forged his foundation—steady, strong, unyielding. But a foundation alone wasn't enough to build a future. Not one worthy of the strength he sought.
Breathing hard but steady, Souten ended his final form and straightened, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. His heart pounded steadily in his chest, not with exhaustion, but anticipation.
His gaze lifted past the estate walls, to where the mountains loomed against the stormy sky—dark, vast, and unknown.
Out there, challenges waited. Out there, he would either rise—or be broken.
For the first time, the thought didn't frighten him.
It sparked something deep within him. A quiet, restless excitement.
A future worth chasing.
And he was ready to meet it.
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Three years had passed since that night at the shrine, and the rain finally came on the morning Souten left.
It fell in a steady, whispering curtain over the estate grounds, soaking the earth and muting the usual sounds of training and movement. The world felt softer somehow, blurred at the edges.
Souten stood at the gates, a simple travel cloak draped over his shoulders. His suitcase sat by his feet, plain and unadorned.
Before him, the members of the Mikazuki Clan had gathered—not in formal ceremony, but in quiet, respectful farewell. The elders stood at the front, their expressions calm but proud. The younger members hovered behind them, some with wide, uncertain eyes.
Reijiro stepped forward, holding a small, cloth-wrapped object in his hands.
"This," he said, offering it to Souten, "has been passed down since our ancestors first walked the path you now tread."
Souten accepted it carefully, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a simple, weathered seal—etched with faint karmic script.
"It contains a technique," Reijiro continued, voice steady despite the weight of the moment. "A reversal of the Black Ledger. A method to purify that which was twisted by hatred and fear."
Souten looked up sharply, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"You will find, in your travels, spirits that deserve not destruction—but salvation," Reijiro said. "This seal will allow you to grant them that chance, should you judge them worthy."
He rested a hand lightly on Souten's shoulder, squeezing once.
"It will not be easy," he added. "Purification demands strength—not just of the body, but of the soul."
The rain pattered softly around them, blurring the world into shades of gray.
Souten bowed deeply, clutching the seal close.
"I won't waste it," he said quietly.
Reijiro smiled faintly—the first true smile he had shown that morning.
"I know you won't."
From the road beyond the gate, a black car pulled up. Ijichi stepped out, holding an umbrella over his head, glancing toward them with professional patience.
It was time.
Souten turned to face his clan one last time. No words were spoken. None were needed.
He bowed once—low, respectful, resolute—then turned and stepped into the rain.
The gate closed behind him with a soft, final thud.
And just like that, Souten Mikazuki began the next chapter of his life.
One step away from the weight of blood.
One step closer to his own future.
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The memory faded, and the sound of light rain against the windows pulled Souten back to the present.
He sat alone in his dorm room at Jujutsu High, a small slip of worn paper resting in his hands—the seal that had once contained the reversal technique of Black Ledger. The ink was faded now, its power long spent, but he still kept it.
A reminder.
His thumb brushed over the faint, worn markings as he stared down at it, lost in thought.
His mind drifted to the battle against the corrupted fusion of Haganen and Kazuki. If it had been just him facing that curse alone... he might not be here now. He thought of Toge's timely support, Panda's steady presence. Their strength had filled the gaps where his alone would have failed.
Maybe his father had been right all along.
Strength alone wasn't enough. It was the bonds he forged, the hands that reached for him when his own strength faltered, that would carry him forward.
Souten folded the paper carefully and slipped it back into his jacket.
The future was still waiting—and he wouldn't face it alone.
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