Choso stared at Julian, a cold edge of caution creeping into his posture.
The previous details about the Cursed Womb: Death Paintings were buried deep, but a dedicated sorcerer might eventually piece them together through old archives.
This, however, was on a completely different level.
How could an ordinary Grade 4 sorcerer know the precise origins of his creation?
Kashimo, on the other hand, lost interest the second the technicalities were laid out.
“Only a Grade 1?” Kashimo shook his head, looking down his nose at Choso.
“Boring.
Step aside and work on your fundamentals.
I have no business with you; I’m here for Sukuna.”
Julian pursed his lips from three paces behind.
Only Grade 1?
Easy to say when you haven’t faced modern heavyweights.
Kinji Hakari sent you flying through a building, didn’t he?
Talk about putting on airs.
Neither fighter paid Julian’s internal commentary any mind.
Their focus remained locked on each other.
Choso didn’t step back.
“I refuse.
As long as I am breathing, you won’t touch a hair on Yuji’s head.”
The defiance flickered across Kashimo’s eyes like dry static, his mood souring further.
“You obstinate Kamo spawn,” Kashimo muttered, his knuckles whitening around his iron staff.
“I suppose I’ll have to break you first.”
“I told you not to use that name!
My name is Choso!”
Thick, volatile Cursed Energy erupted from both men simultaneously.
Electric blue sparks crackled across Kashimo’s frame, while Choso pressed his palms together, bringing his forefingers into alignment to charge a high-pressure beam of Piercing Blood.
Before the tension snapped, Yuji reached out and rested a hand on Choso’s shoulder.
“Yuji, stay back!” Choso urged, not taking his eyes off Kashimo.
“I’ll handle this!”
Yuji didn’t pull away, but his stance remained firm.
Ever since Shibuya—ever since Sukuna used his body to flatten city blocks and erase thousands of civilian lives—Yuji had been drifting in a fog of guilt.
He struggled to find a reason for his continued existence.
He could feel the sheer pressure emanating from Kashimo.
Yuji refused to let anyone else bleed on his behalf.
Yuji stepped past Choso, his eyes settling into a cold, quiet focus as blue energy flared around his boots.
“Choso, thank you,” Yuji said softly.
“But this is my weight to carry.
It has nothing to do with you.”
Choso froze.
He wanted to explain the pull in his veins, the instinctual resonance that screamed Yuji was his blood, but the words caught in his throat.
How could he explain a spiritual connection he barely understood himself?
From the curb, Julian raised a hand.
“Actually…
you two are directly related.”
Every head turned.
Yuji blinked in confusion.
Choso stared in absolute disbelief.
Even Kashimo glanced back at his self-proclaimed intelligence master, his brow raised in mild suspicion.
Julian offered a sheepish grin under the collective weight of their stares.
“What?
It’s the truth.”
Choso took a step toward him, his voice tight.
“You know something about Yuji and me?”
Julian cleared his throat, adjusting his jacket with unearned confidence.
“Of course I do.
My network doesn’t miss.”
He pointed a finger toward Choso.
“You all know about Kenjaku, right?
His innate technique allows him to hop between bodies by transplanting his brain.
Over a century ago, during the Meiji era, he took over the body of Noritoshi Kamo.
He used that head of the family to experiment on a woman, mixing his own Cursed Energy into the fetus to create the Cursed Womb: Death Paintings.
So in a literal, biological sense, Kenjaku is your father.”
Julian then pivoted his finger toward Yuji.
“Fast forward a hundred years.
The Noritoshi Kamo identity was burned, so Kenjaku needed a new host. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
He took over the body of a woman named Kaori Itadori.”
Yuji’s breath hitched.
“Kaori…
Itadori?”
The name echoed through his chest, pulling up faint, long-buried memories from his earliest childhood—a woman with dark hair and stitches running across her forehead.
“You recognized it, didn’t you?” Julian said, pointing at Yuji’s pale face.
“Kaori Itadori was your mother.
I don’t know how she died, but Kenjaku took her corpse, inhabited it, and carried you to term with your father, Jin.
Which means, strictly speaking…
Kenjaku is your mother.”
Silence fell over the street.
Julian looked between the two of them, gesturing with both hands as he tried to construct the family tree out loud.
“So, if Kenjaku is Choso’s father and Yuji’s mother…
that makes you two half-brothers through the same parent’s brain!” Julian clapped his hands together as the logic settled.
“Chronologically speaking, Choso is your elder brother!”
The word brother shattered Choso’s remaining composure.
The vague, inexplicable blood-call he had felt during their battle at Shibuya suddenly aligned into absolute, undeniable clarity.
The visions, the shared resonance at the moment of death—it was all real.
Choso looked at Yuji, his chest heaving, his eyes wide with desperate hope.
Yuji stared back at Choso, his mouth slightly open.
The sheer absurdity of the revelation was eclipsed only by the genuine warmth radiating from the man in front of him.
The pieces clicked.
The sudden shift in Shibuya, the unconditional protection, the fierce refusal to let him fight alone.
“Brother…” Yuji muttered under his breath.
The word hit Choso like a physical force.
He staggered back two steps, his eyes brimming as he opened his arms wide.
“Yuji!”
Julian nodded along, wiping a non-existent tear from his eye.
“Truly a heartwarming family reunion.”
Kashimo, meanwhile, stood dead center on the pavement with a look of utter, unadulterated disgust.
His face twisted as if he had just swallowed a sour lemon.
A thousand-year-old sorcerer taking over a woman’s body just to give birth to a child?
Even for an ancient warrior from the Edo period, Kenjaku’s sheer commitment to his twisted schemes was profoundly unsettling.