Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Taira no Minamoto was jolted awake, his eyelids twitching violently in rhythm with the jarring racket of the gong.
He performed a “carp leap” straight out of his futon, his heart racing.
He threw open the sliding glass door, ready to see which suicidal idiot was— Oh, it’s Gojo-sensei.
Minamoto finally conceded to the fact that his teacher was a lost cause.
Leaning against the balcony railing, Minamoto let out a massive yawn.
“Gojo-sensei, it’s only five-thirty.
Even for an assembly, this is overkill.
Also, where the hell did you get a gong?” Gojo Satoru waved cheerfully, looking immensely satisfied with his morning’s stroke of “genius.” “I made a special trip to Yokohama Chinatown for this baby!
Pretty neat, right?
And five-thirty isn’t early!
The folks in Chinatown have been up for ages.
You didn’t think I was joking about the special training yesterday, did you?
Go wash up and grab some breakfast.
The dorm lady already has it ready.
Maki is already waiting downstairs.” When Minamoto got downstairs, he found Panda sulking at the table.
The new dorm landlady, a sweet-looking obasan, seemed to have taken a liking to Panda and had served him a giant pile of bamboo leaves.
Bamboo was the one food Panda absolutely detested, but he couldn’t bring himself to crush the lady’s kind heart.
He sat there in an awkward stalemate.
Minamoto offered a quick greeting and dug into his own breakfast.
Inumaki Toge slid the door open, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
“Kelp,” he murmured before starting on his meal.
Minamoto, having finished his food, leaned over to Panda to gossip about why Toge looked so drained.
The panda head and the human head huddled together, whispering furiously.
“Stayed up all night playing games?” “Nah, I bet he was falling down a YouTube rabbit hole.” “Think he’s got a girlfriend?
Texting all night?” “Could be.
No restrictions on typing, after all.” As their theories became increasingly unhinged, Toge felt the need to intervene.
These guys were shamelessly spreading rumors right in front of him.
Toge gestured emphatically.
“Bonito flakes!” (No!) “Tuna mayo!” (I just hate morning assemblies!) Minamoto sighed.
They really were a bunch of unlucky bastards—waking up to find their least favorite things waiting for them.
Then again, he wasn’t much better off; he loathed early mornings more than anything.
The door slammed open.
Maki stood there, framed by the light.
“What are you idiots lingering for?
Special training has started.
Get out here and prepare for a beatdown!” The three boys froze.
Oh, she’s talking big now?
Who does she think she is?
“Let’s go, let’s go.
Time for a fight,” Minamoto muttered.
“Bonito flakes.” The Training Grounds.
The four students stood at the entrance, their fighting spirit completely evaporated by the sight before them.
Gojo Satoru was perched atop a tree branch, standing solitary against the biting wind.
It was April, and it had rained only yesterday.
Anyone seeing him would have called it “atmospheric,” but to them, he just looked like a dork.
In a blur of movement, Gojo appeared in front of the group.
With a look of mock-melancholy, he sighed, “The wind…
it is troubled today.” The four stared at him in dead silence.
It was peak second-hand embarrassment.
Knowing the meme Gojo was quoting, Minamoto felt obligated to provide the countersign.
“The grocery store next door has half-off potato chips,” Minamoto deadpanned.
Gojo instantly perked up, slapping Minamoto on the shoulder.
“Minamoto-kun!
Only you truly understand me.
As expected of my star pupil!” “Ahem.
Anyway,” Gojo said, his expression turning uncharacteristically solemn.
“Special training isn’t a game.
I won’t always be around to bail you out.
Get stronger.
I’m looking forward to the day you can stand by my side as equals.” “Cherish this.
I fought to clear this time for you.
You may be students, but you are also sorcerers.
You won’t get another chance to grow this fast without the world getting in the way.
Now, let’s start the morning assembly!” Gojo held up a single finger.
“The curriculum for today: The 50 Laps of Youth!
Start running!
The body is the foundation of everything.
Regardless of whether you have an Innate Technique, a sorcerer must master martial arts.
A strike infused with Cursed Energy is a weapon for exorcism.
Combined with a technique, it has the power to guarantee a kill.” The group wasn’t thrilled about running, but none of them lacked physical conditioning.
Panda was a Cursed Corpse; as long as his core was fueled, he could move.
Running was a non-issue.
Maki, due to her Heavenly Restriction, had only as much Cursed Energy as a normal civilian, but in exchange, she possessed top-tier physical prowess.
Toge looked lean, but his physical stats were second only to Maki’s.
And Minamoto?
His body was a temple forged by ten years of training backed by his “Cheat” ability.
Seeing their “Is that all?” expressions, Gojo offered a mysterious, cat-like grin but said nothing.
Maki took the lead, and the others followed suit.
However, after the first lap, the four of them felt the shift.
The air felt heavy.
The ground seemed to pull at their heels.
They all shot a look at Gojo.
Gojo gave a wicked, “black-hearted” laugh.
“I asked Lord Tengen to set up a barrier here.
Every lap, the gravity increases.
We’re aiming for 8x gravity by the end.
Good luck!
The medals of youth are forged in hot blood!” By lap forty, Panda and Toge were no longer able to move on raw muscle alone.
They had to rely on Cursed Energy reinforcement to keep their legs moving.
Minamoto was still doing okay, but Maki was hitting her absolute limit.
She, Zen’in Maki, could not use Cursed Energy.
Without her specialized glasses, she couldn’t even see a Curse.
Born into the Zen’in clan—one of the “Big Three”—she had been discriminated against since birth because of her pitiful Cursed Energy levels.
A certain Heian-era aristocrat once said: “If you are not of the Zen’in clan, you are not a sorcerer.
If you are not a sorcerer, you are not a human.” The Zen’in clan maintained their unshakeable status through several Innate Techniques passed down through generations.
Those who didn’t inherit them—even those of pure Zen’in blood—were considered failures from the starting line.
For someone like Maki, who lacked even basic Cursed Energy, her fate as an oppressed pariah was sealed the moment she drew breath.
But Maki refused to accept it.
Why should she have to eat scraps, sleep in a closet, and endure the gazes of arrogant old men?
If she lacked Cursed Energy, she would compensate with a body of steel.
She would become a Grade 1 sorcerer.
She would become the Head of the Zen’in Clan.
She would shove their elitism back down their throats and tear that family down from the inside.
“I…
will be…
the head of the family!” Maki roared.
Her body felt like it was being shredded by the gravity, but some hidden reservoir of strength propelled her forward.
Gojo watched with a nod of approval.
She had broken through her limit.
When those torn muscles grew back, they would be stronger than ever.
Besides, they had Shoko Ieiri on standby.
He wasn’t worried about injuries.
By the time the fifty laps were done, Maki collapsed from exhaustion.
Minamoto reached out to catch her, but Gojo was faster, scooping her up and slinging her over his shoulder—full concierge service.
In a flash, he vanished, likely heading for the infirmary.
The three boys sat on the ground, gasping for air.
Panda was the first to speak.
“I didn’t know Maki had a goal like that.
Does she really think she can pull it off alone?” “She isn’t alone,” Minamoto said, taking a long pull from his water bottle.
“We’re her classmates.
We’ll help her.” Toge nodded firmly.
“Salmon.” “Good.”