The sliding door clicked shut behind Naobi. Her footsteps faded down the corridor—measured, though it was leisurely and unhurried.
Naoya lay still on the futon, staring at the ceiling beams. The medicinal smell clung to his bandages. His ribs throbbed with every shallow breath.
Hmph, as if he's going to listen to a woman like her.
His fingers curled weakly in response to his emotion. The bed, the blanket, the pillows. Everything here is soft. Everything in this world had been trying to smother him with comfort while at the same time stealing everything that should belong to him.
Crushing the weak without any regards. Throwing his weight around with no fear of repercussions. And even just making the lives of those who dared to look down on him unbearable. Those were his rights. And yet... they're stolen from him now.
And also, did she just misunderstand him? About wanting to topple tradition or something?
He replayed her words in his head—"You want to save them, don't you? The men." His stomach turned.
Ugh… how dreadful.
Naoya couldn't care less about those pathetic men that could be forced into submission by women of all things. Let them rot in their kitchens, playing with dolls and reading poetry. They deserved their chains. They had no spine, no pride, no birthright to reclaim.
Nor did he even care about the tacky and frankly idiotic tradition of having women in power in this new world. Let the fools worship their matriarchs. It meant nothing to him.
It's simply his right to rule this clan. His jaw tightened. And a woman doesn't have that right. His birthright was stolen and he's going to take it. That's the one simple reason he has.
He closed his eyes. In his mind, he summoned images of his world—the real world. The Zenin compound as it should be. Naobito, drunk and useless most of the time but he was his father. Proper parent and mentor, unlike that impostor Naobi. The Kukuru Unit, bristling with men who knew their place beneath him. The Hei, his to command.
And the strong ones. The ones even he had to respect. And one day, he shall reach their strength and stand with them side by side.
Toji-kun. And Satoru-kun.
They were magnificent. Their strength was absolute. Their presence alone could shift the balance of the jujutsu world.
But here? In this twisted reflection?
He let out a bitter, quiet laugh that turned into a cough. Pain lanced through his ribs.
There's no way the women here could ever replicate them. Even if some bitch has the same technique as Toji—that heavenly restriction, that physical perfection—she's still a woman. Born weaker. Born lesser. Her cursed energy might be zero, the same like Toji. Her body might even move the same. But the spirit? The will? He scoffed, the sound rasping in his throat. A woman could never have Toji's disregard for everything. His freedom. His utter contempt for the world. That requires a man's soul.
And Satoru... He almost laughed again. The strongest. Untouchable. Arrogant in a way only a man can be. A female Satoru would be soft. Emotional. She would hesitate where he never did. She would care about something other than herself.
He opened his eyes and came to a conclusion.
Everyone here is a lesser version, he decided. They have the same faces. The same techniques. But they were born wrong. That makes them inferior.
Still…
"Fuck!"
Naoya couldn't help but curse out loud. The word echoed off the wooden walls, raw and angry. His small fist struck the futon—a weak, pathetic impact that only made his knuckles sting.
Though he didn't know the details, it was clear that this world was an inverse of his own, with the gender morality being flipped and so did the gender of everyone he knew. He considered it a blessing that he was not turned into a girl. At least that humiliation had been spared from him.
He's still a man. He still has the right.
The birthright doesn't disappear just because the world changed around him. He would take back what was his. Even if he had to burn this entire pathetic reality to the ground.
But…
His gaze shifted towards a small wooden calendar hung on the wall beside the window—its pages thin, dated with the current year and month. He had checked it earlier. And he came to a conclusion that he should already have his technique. In his past life, he awakened it at age four.
But, unfortunately for him, every time he reached for that familiar current—the frame-by-frame precision of the Projection Sorcery—something went wrong. His cursed energy moved as he commanded. It flowed through his limbs, gathered at his head, and waited for the shape of the technique to form. And then... nothing. It fizzled out like a flame choking air. No feedback.
Why?
He spent quite a long time thinking about this and came up with 3 possible reasons.
Hypothesis one: This body is different. Inferior. It lacks his cursed technique. He had already considered that. But his cursed energy reserves felt similar—perhaps even slightly larger than he remembered at this age. So that probably—hopefully—wasn't it.
Hypothesis two: The technique itself doesn't exist here. Some alternate reality nonsense where the Projection Sorcery was never passed to this branch of the Zenin. But then how did that woman—Naobi—use it? He had seen her use it. So the technique definitely existed, it just didn't answer to him.
Hypothesis three and the one he's been banking on to be the right one: He wasn't the rightful owner of this body.
He turned his head on the pillow, wincing as the movement pulled at the bruises on his neck.
The Culling Game, he remembered. In his past life, those players—incarnated players—they were apparently ancient sorcerers placed into modern bodies. Two souls. One vessel. And the mastermind behind the whole thing was Satoru-kun and Suguru Geto along with a whole slew of special grade cursed spirits. Or something like it. He doesn't really remember much from the files because he deems most of them to be useless.
But he hadn't been placed here by any of them or he would've remembered. He had died—cut in half by Maki—and woken up in this twisted reflection of his childhood room.
So maybe... maybe it's the same principle. He wet his lips, tasting copper. The original Naoya of this world—the soft, obedient, perfect little male—his soul is still here. Just not in control of his own body. He's just... a passenger who had taken the wheels. But because the original is young—only five—his soul isn't strong enough to reject him.
So it fell asleep. Or fell unconscious. Like a child's body suddenly forced to carry unbearable weight.
His breath caught. The more he turned it over, the more it fit.
That's why his cursed energy moves but his technique doesn't respond. The technique is tied to the soul that owns the body. The original Naoya's soul. And his technique...is possibly different from his Projection sorcery and that's why nothing happened when he tried to activate his technique.
But...it still doesn't feel right somehow. Shouldn't he be able to use his own cursed technique right away since child Naoya's soul is unconscious? There's something else at play here.
His thoughts spiraled—looping, tangling, leading nowhere. The pain in his ribs pulsed in time with his heartbeat. The bandages itched. The room felt warm and cozy.
Aghh... whatever. He's too tired and way too hurt for this now. Let's just sleep this off for now.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
The darkness behind his eyes did not stay empty.
He stood on a surface that felt like polished stone, yet when he looked down, he saw no floor—only a disk of solid ground floating in an infinite void. Beyond its edges, there was nothing.
Ahead of him rose a palace—its wooden pillars dark and gleaming, its roofs curving upward at the corners. The doors were sliding screens painted with scenes of cranes and pine trees, all rendered in muted gold and green.
And above it all, looming behind the palace like a second sky, was a moon.
An eye.
A single, enormous eye—iris pale, pupil green—hung in the void where a moon should have been. It did not blink nor did it move, but Naoya felt it's all encompassing sight connected to him.
This was his Inner Domain.
He looked down at his hands. Adult hands. Strong, scarred, familiar. He was himself again—his original body, his original height. His cursed energy is a lot heavier too, and it hummed in his veins, whole and complete.
And then he heard it.
Laughter. High and light. A child's laughter.
He lifted his head.
Across the stone ground, near the edge of the palace steps, a small figure was playing. The child ran in circles, arms outstretched as if chasing invisible fireflies. His dark hair bounced with each step. His kimono—blue, like the curtains in his room—flapped around his small legs.
The child noticed him.
Those young eyes, so like his own, widened. A smile broke across the boy's face—bright, unguarded, innocent. And then he ran. Straight toward Naoya, his small sandals slapping against the stone, his arms reaching out as if greeting a long-lost friend returned from a great journey.
He ran with his whole body, his excitement evident in every step.
The child's small body collided with his. Arms wrapped around Naoya's waist. A face pressed into his chest.
"Hellooo Adult me!!"
Naoya stood motionless. His arms remained at his sides. The expression on his face—icy, unmoving—was stained with disgust. His lip curled down slightly.
"You..." His voice came out low and almost emotionless. "I thought you would be unconscious because of my sudden intrusion, but you're all well and dandy, aren't you?"
The child pulled back just enough to look up at him. His eyes were bright, guileless. A smear of dirt crossed one cheek.
"Uhhh… yes, I'm fine. I'm hoping you are too!" He tilted his head. "I saw you getting beat up by that woman... who was it again? Ah! Oiko! Are you okay?"
Naoya's jaw tightened. "I don't need your concern. And get yourself off me!"
The child immediately released him and stepped back. He folded his hands in front of himself and bowed slightly—a surprisingly formal gesture for one so young.
"Okay. I apologize for my unsightly conduct. I was just really excited at seeing a cooler version of myself."
Naoya's eyes narrowed. "...What an uncanny switch. Whatever." He looked past the child, toward the eye-moon hanging in the void. Its pupil seemed to contract, just slightly. "I think I get why I can't use my technique now…" His gaze dropped back to the boy. "Hey, brat."
"Yes? What is it?"
"Do you have a technique of your own?"
The child's face lit up. He nodded eagerly. "Of course I do! It's called the Ten Shadows Technique, but why would you ask the name of your own—"
Naoya felt the words hit him like a physical blow as his eyes widened.
"...Huh." His voice was barely a breath. "So it seems that it's news for you. So we possess different techniques."
The child's smile faltered. Confusion crept across his small features.
"But wait… doesn't that mean…" He took a half-step back. "You aren't my future self?!"
Naoya's expression hardened again. He ignored the question, pressing forward with his own line of thought. "Hmph... then are you the one who suppressed me when I was about to use my technique?"
He was sure of it now. The reason his child self could do something like that—even through the vast difference in power and strength as a sorcerer—was probably because fundamentally, they were both the same person. The same cursed energy signature. The same blood. The same soul, even if split across two different timelines. It was like trying to pour water into a cup that was already full of the same water. The vessel recognized itself. Rejected the intention of activating his technique not through strength, but through identity.
The child had not overpowered him nor did he overpowered the child. Their intentions were simply... refusing to coexist. His own cursed energy and intention, meeting the child's and his own intention, could not distinguish between enemy and self. And so it had fizzled out. The boy in front of him had probably suppressed him that way.
The boy shuffled his feet, looking down. "Uhh... I'm sorry?" He glanced up through his lashes, sheepish. "But listen, okay! I thought you were my future self, so I stopped you from using it because father would be troubled!"
Naoya's fist remained raised. He lowered it, barely.
"...What do you mean?"
The child clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on his heels. "So... uh, father was with me when I first summoned the demon dogs, and he basically told me to never tell anyone that I have it and to never use it in front of anyone, unless my life is in danger. And uhhmm... I thought you also had the Ten Shadows, so I prevented you from activating your technique... hehehe."
He smiled. Nervous.
Naoya's hand shot out.
He smacked the child hard in the head—a sharp, flat impact that echoed across the stone floor. The boy stumbled sideways, one hand flying to the offended spot, his eyes wide with shock.
"You damned little shit!" Naoya's voice rose, cracking through the stillness of the Inner Domain. "Are you really that stupid?! Did you think I wasn't in danger just then?! Huh?!"
The child's lower lip trembled. "You are my adult self, so I thought you'll be able to han—"
"Don't talk! I haven't even finished yet!" Naoya jabbed a finger toward the boy's chest. His whole body vibrated with fury. "Did you even know what kind of technique I possess?! If you didn't suppress me, I would've easily won against that whole fake Kukuru Unit! I'm not so weak as to be taken down by a bunch of weaklings with no cursed technique!"
All was silent and Naoya took a moment to compose himself. The boy looked at him with those disgustingly naive eyes.
"...This is the end for you now, brat."
Naoya's voice was cold, but different from before in a way that made the child's eyes widen. The eye-moon above them pulsed once, its pupil contracting to a thin line.
"I will suppress you entirely and take over your life. Correctly, this time."
He took a step forward. The child stepped back. His small sandals scraped against the stone floor.
"Don't worry, I will make good use of the Ten Shadows Technique."
Another step. The child's back hit the edge of the floating platform. Beyond him, only the endless black.
"And as gratitude for this second chance in life and your technique—"
Naoya reached out. His adult hand closed around the child's throat. Not squeezing. Just holding. The boy's hands came up to grip his wrist, but his fingers were too small, too weak to pry him off.
"—I will become the strongest."
The child's face had gone pale. His mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Then Naoya's fist connected with his stomach.
The boy folded inward with a choked cry. Naoya let him fall to the stone, then crouched over him. A punch to the ribs. Another to the jaw. The child's small body jerked with each impact—his cries growing weaker and weaker.
He did not fight back. He only curled into a ball, arms over his head, and took the beating.
"You should have stayed unconscious," Naoya muttered between blows. "You should have stayed asleep. Then I wouldn't have to do this."
His knuckles were already bruised. He did not stop.
The child's struggles faded. His arms went slack. His eyes—those bright, guileless eyes—fluttered, rolled back, and closed.
Naoya's fist hovered in the air. He let it drop.
The boy lay still. His chest rose and fell—shallow, but steady. Alive. Merely unconscious.
Naoya straightened, breathing hard. He looked down at his bloodied hands, then at the crumpled form of the child. A strange frustration burned in his chest.
I wish I could extinguish him entirely, he thought. Erase his soul. Make this body truly mine.
But he knew, as any sorcerer knew, that there was one thing in this world that was truly immortal.
The soul.
It could be suppressed. Submerged. Buried so deep that it never saw the light again. But it could never be destroyed. Not by any technique he possessed. Not by any power in the jujutsu world. The soul endured—through death, through reincarnation, through the theft of bodies and the passage of ages.
So this is the best I can do, he told himself. Bury him and chain him. And hope he never wakes up.
The child's body was light as he carried it like a sack of rice over his shoulder. Then, he threw it into the endless void. He turned away from the edge and faced the eye-moon. It stared back at him—unblinking, ancient, indifferent.
When I wake, he thought, I will be the only one in control.
He closed his eyes.