At noon, the lingering dark clouds finally dispersed.
In Japan, the rain is constant.
Even in Tokyo, which is considered relatively dry, the annual rainfall averages around 1,500 mm—nearly double the global average.
When cherry blossoms meet the rain, the resulting “melancholy beauty” is a sight worshipped by many.
Rain inevitably stirs the soul; a shower of petals dampens the fires of youth while simultaneously jolting life into motion.
The imagery of rain and human emotion is a tether that binds the heart, allowing youth to bloom amidst the downpour.
Of course, none of that mattered to Taira no Minamoto.
On this rare, sun-drenched afternoon, he was currently lying on the ground, playing dead.
This wasn’t because he was about to face the only girl in his class in a duel; rather, it was because a burly man in sunglasses was staring him down with terrifying intensity.
That man was Principal Masamichi Yaga.
Minamoto didn’t dare move a muscle, terrified that Yaga was looking for an excuse to pick a fight.
In hindsight, he probably shouldn’t have gone so hard on Panda.
Panda was Yaga’s proudest “masterpiece,” raised from a cub like his own son.
Rumor had it Yaga had personally changed Panda’s diapers and provided a full nursery with a cradle and baby room.
Today, his “son” had competed in his first real match, and of course, the doting father was there to watch.
Minamoto had been careless—even if he thought he had controlled his strength well.
Footsteps approached.
Minamoto prayed fervently that it wasn’t Yaga, only to feel a sharp kick to his leg.
“Principal Yaga is gone.
Stop playing dead,” Gojo Satoru’s voice drifted down.
“Honestly, Minamoto, you’re such a coward.
It’s not like the Principal is actually going to kill you.” Minamoto gingerly opened one eye.
He saw Yaga slinging Panda over his shoulder and walking toward his workshop.
Seeing they were still within earshot, he whispered cautiously to Gojo.
“He can still see us!
It’s not like he can’t turn around.
Besides, you get beat up by him all the time.
Don’t lecture me, Gojo-cc.
Now move—let me recover my Cursed Energy in peace.” The post-rain sun offered little warmth at first, but as the minutes ticked by, the heat began to rise.
Inumaki Toge had mostly recovered, though he still looked a bit drained.
He, Maki, and Gojo sat in the shade of a tree, watching Minamoto tan himself on the damp training ground, waiting to see how long he could hold out.
Gojo suddenly spoke up.
“Let’s grab teppanyaki later.
I’ve got a sudden craving for it.
I know a place in Kagurazaka that’s amazing.
My treat.” “Ikura!” (Hell yeah!) Toge’s eyes lit up.
Even if he hadn’t won the tournament, a free feast was a win in his book.
“I don’t care what we eat,” Zen’in Maki snapped, her patience wearing thin.
“When is that idiot going to get up?” “Teacher!
I want A5 Black Wagyu!
Everything at Jujutsu High is great, but the food is way too plain!” Minamoto had scrambled to his feet the second he heard the words “my treat.” Gojo immediately sent him back to the dirt with a casual kick.
“Finish the match first.
Since you’re both Cursed Tool users, weapons are permitted.” Maki gripped her naginata.
With a sudden burst of movement, she surged onto the field, her eyes fixed excitedly on the approaching Minamoto.
Her lips curled into a faint, eager smile.
She couldn’t hold back any longer—she wanted to see which of them was the superior Cursed Tool user.
If she beat him, she wondered if he’d keep that annoying smirk on his face.
Minamoto always seemed to have a trace of a smile playing on his lips.
In that regard, he and Gojo were cut from the same cloth; no matter the situation, they always looked amused.
To Maki, it looked like pure arrogance.
Minamoto stood opposite her, still finding the time to joke around with Gojo.
To Maki, it felt like he was dancing through a minefield.
She cracked her neck, her smile widening into something fierce.
It was the kind of smile born from genuine irritation.
Minamoto caught the look and felt a surge of confusion.
I didn’t even do anything to her, did I?
Why is she so pissed?
Is she hitting early-onset menopause?
“You better take this seriously, Minamoto,” Gojo warned from the sidelines.
“Maki isn’t playing around.” Gojo stood up and looked at the two of them, his hand slicing through the air.
“The finals of the Jujutsu High Tenkaichi Budokai…
begin!” Whoosh!
The moment the words left Gojo’s mouth, Maki exploded forward, trailing a whirlwind in her wake!
Dressed in her black uniform, her green ponytail whipping behind her, she tore through the air in a straight line.
Minamoto didn’t bother dodging.
Like two bulls charging head-on, they collided in the center of the arena, kicking up a massive cloud of dust.
Amidst the haze, a blue light flickered, followed by a clearly articulated incantation.
“Trace on.” The Tracing Sorcery Minamoto had practiced tens of thousands of times was completed in an instant.
The black and white twin swords materialized in his hands, crossing to catch the blade of Maki’s naginata.
Kanshou and Bakuya.
He flexed his arms, shoving the naginata back, and pivoted into a roundhouse kick.
Maki handled it with ease, bringing the shaft of her weapon across her chest to block the strike.
Seeing the kick neutralized, Minamoto used the momentum of the impact to flip backward and put some distance between them.
But Maki wasn’t about to let him breathe.
When it comes to a naginata versus shortswords, “one inch longer is one inch stronger.” She slammed her right foot into the dirt, readjusting her stance in a heartbeat and closing the gap.
A blinding exchange of white-hot steel erupted between them.
“Warm-up’s over, Minamoto!” Maki shouted.
She lunged like a piercing arrow.
Even from the sidelines, Toge could feel the sheer violence of her speed.
At the moment of impact, Maki spun her entire body, using the rotational momentum to bring the naginata down in a crushing overhead strike!
Maki’s form blurred—a speed beyond the reach of normal humans.
The strike was heavy, decisive, and carried the weight of a mountain.
It was a killing stroke: hard and unforgiving.
Even a block of solid iron would have been cleaved in two.
Minamoto didn’t flinch.
He stood his ground, crossing his twin swords above his head.
The strike bore down on him, and for a split second, he could see the mocking smile on Maki’s face.
Then, Minamoto’s blades surged upward, not just to block, but to parry.
He struck the very tip of Maki’s blade with a precise, measured force.
It was a clash of pure technique versus overwhelming power—a perfect interception timed to the exact millisecond Maki’s grip tightened for the final impact.
The two figures were repelled instantly, skidding back dozens of meters.
Every step they took left half-inch deep gouges in the reinforced ground.
“Looks like they’re perfectly matched,” Panda noted, having returned after being patched up by Shoko.
“Neither of them gave an inch.” Gojo looked at Minamoto and then turned to Panda.
“Look at Minamoto’s swords.
They’re already cracked.” “Hell of a lot of power you’ve got there, Maki,” Minamoto muttered.
He tossed the shattered Kanshou and Bakuya aside.
In the next breath, an identical pair materialized in his palms as the discarded shards began to dissolve into blue particles.
“Come on.
Round two!”