Uchiha Ayato knelt on one knee, the unconscious Wakaba Mutsumi lying limply in his arms.
The ocular power of the Sharingan had already invaded the girl’s mind, placing her under a temporary hypnosis.
In the new script of her memories, none of the heroic rescue had ever happened—she was merely a pitiful little fish frightened into a faint amid the raging waves—— In the instant that scissor-wielding monster lunged at her, terror had severed the workings of her consciousness, making her black out on the spot.
She would remember no Uchiha Ayato, would not remember that bolt of lightning that pierced the darkness, and even less would she remember the pact the two of them had just made amid these ruins.
Three days from now, this short-term hypnosis would automatically sever itself, returning those true images to her entirely intact.
And until then, she was a perfect, frightened, ordinary victim.
“Alright now, sleep well.” Ayato slipped his right hand beneath the crook of Wakaba Mutsumi’s knees and lifted her up off the wreckage-strewn floor.
Less than two minutes after the call ended, the ink-thick hemispherical “Curtain” enveloping the villa’s perimeter began to dissolve from the bottom up, scattering into drifting black particles that melted into the night sky.
As the night seeped back into the room, a flurry of hurried footsteps sounded in the hallway.
“Mr.
Uchiha!” Ijichi Kiyotaka came rushing, panting, into the shattered room, his tie askew and a fine film of sweat beading on his forehead.
The moment he stepped inside, he anxiously scanned his surroundings.
“It’s…
over already?” Ijichi swallowed, his voice a little dry.
Having received Ayato’s call, he had taken down the “Curtain” and then charged in from the perimeter at top speed.
A semi–Special Grade Cursed Spirit—a colossal threat capable of wreaking destruction over a wide area.
Before he and Uchiha Ayato had arrived, the Window had already guided the evacuation of the civilians within a five-hundred-meter radius.
On his way over, his mind had already rehearsed countless catastrophic scenarios, and he had braced himself for the possibility that the better part of the villa district would be razed to the ground.
And yet, as he approached, the more he looked the more his heart pounded, and by the time he reached the scene, his shock had finally hit its peak.
The villa’s walls had indeed been damaged, the floor was riddled with scorch marks left by intense heat, the windows lay shattered across the ground, and wind was howling in through the gaping hole.
But—that was all.
There were no deep craters left by clashing cursed energy; the villa’s main structure was entirely intact—even the chandelier downstairs still hung steadily from the ceiling.
For a battle involving a semi–Special Grade Cursed Spirit, this degree of destruction was so slight it might as well have been nothing at all.
And then there was that girl he was holding…
He’d even had the spare capacity to rescue a survivor?
Too fast.
The time elapsed between his lowering the “Curtain” and receiving Ayato’s call had been absurdly short.
He had even been turning over in his mind how, should Ayato fall into a hard fight, he ought to petition the higher-ups for reinforcements.
But not only had this youth won—he had won with such effortless ease.
Like an absolute monster.
The thought surfaced uncontrollably in Ijichi’s mind.
Even a Special Grade Sorcerer, dealing with a Cursed Spirit of this caliber, might not be able to handle it so swiftly and so precisely.
This delicate command over power, this air of lifting something heavy as though it weighed nothing, utterly surpassed his conception of an “incoming first-year.” No wonder Mr.
Gojo had been willing to make an exception for him.
“This one’s an injured party.” Ayato cut off Ijichi’s wandering thoughts, jerking his chin toward Wakaba Mutsumi in his arms: “She’s pretty lucky—she probably fainted dead away the moment the Slit-Mouthed Woman first came in.
Steady pulse, even breathing, basically no injuries to speak of.” Ijichi nodded over and over and pulled a record-keeping notebook out of his briefcase: “U-understood.
Since the victim wasn’t drawn into any actual combat, I’ll contact the medical team to come over at once, and arrange dedicated psychological counseling and aftercare afterward.” As Ijichi jotted things down rapidly, he secretly sized Ayato up out of the corner of his eye: “Mr.
Uchiha, you…
weren’t hurt in the fight, were you?” Ayato shook his head indifferently.
Ijichi closed his notebook, drew a deep breath, and bowed deeply toward Ayato: “In any case, thank you so very much for tonight.” “To resolve a semi–Special Grade Vengeful Spirit at such a small cost—your strength has already far exceeded our estimates.
I’ll submit this flawless report faithfully to the Supervisory Department.” “Just seeing through what I was entrusted with, that’s all.” So said Ayato.
…
Ten minutes later, red and blue lights flashed alternately before the villa’s gate, the wail of sirens and the cries of ambulances weaving together into a sickly symphony in the night sky.
From afar, Uchiha Ayato watched several steady-footed women in white coats deftly wheel a stretcher across the courtyard, carefully lifting Wakaba Mutsumi into that disguised ambulance.
In truth, they were the logistics members of the Jujutsu High’s medical team—able not only to treat wounds, but, more importantly, skilled at handling “traces.” “Mr.
Uchiha, the injured party has been safely transferred.
The Window’s people will take care of the remaining cleanup.” Ijichi Kiyotaka pushed up his glasses and looked toward Uchiha Ayato: “Shall I drive you back to your residence next, or do you have other plans?” “Let’s head back.” Uchiha Ayato stretched lazily, narrowing his eyes in comfort: “Early to bed, early to rise keeps you healthy.
I’ve still got school tomorrow.” Just as the two of them were about to leave, a piercing screech of brakes shattered the stifling air.
A luxury car had not yet come to a full stop before its door was rudely shoved open.
Wakaba Takafumi—that comedian so active on the television screens—was at this moment stumbling his way across the cordon.
His usual sense of humor had vanished without a trace, replaced by overflowing worry and dread.
And behind him, that highly esteemed, famous actress Mori Minami was covering her mouth, her eyes brimming with glistening tears in an instant.
“Mutsumi!
Where’s my Mutsumi!” Takafumi roared into the empty air, his voice hoarse.
“Mutsumi-chan…
you’d better not be hurt!
How is your mother supposed to go on living without you!?” Mori Minami let out a shriek and crumpled limply into her husband’s arms as if every ounce of strength had drained from her.
This bout of on-the-spot improv was thoroughly worthy of a nomination for the Neon Academy Film Award.
Had Uchiha Ayato not, back in Akabane, witnessed the sight of Wakaba Mutsumi sitting alone in a basement clutching her guitar in solitude, he might well have been moved by this tableau of loving father and doting mother.
But in this moment, it all seemed so utterly farcical.
Even as she wailed, Mori Minami did not forget to subtly adjust her stance so that the moonlight would fall slantwise across the side of her face, tracing out that mournfully beautiful, fragile curve.
And when Wakaba Takafumi conversed with the police, the demeanor he put on adhered entirely to a textbook, academy-style rendition of grief.
Truly worthy of a family of entertainers—such talent was nothing short of breathtaking.
Had Wakaba Mutsumi been awake now to see this scene, she would probably have found this poison called “concern” even more revolting than the Slit-Mouthed Woman.
Uchiha Ayato cast one last glance at Mori Minami, who was crying as though about to “swoon.” In the instant their gazes met, the corner of his lip curled faintly, lifting into a mocking smile.
“We’re off, Mr.
Ijichi.
There’s nothing left here for us.” Ayato pulled open the rear door and slid smoothly into his seat.
“Ah!
Right away!” Ijichi Kiyotaka started as if waking from a dream, hurriedly fired up the car, and drove Uchiha Ayato off into the night.
On the other side, Mori Minami nestled against her husband’s shoulder, yet her sidelong gaze drifted quietly toward the direction in which Ayato had departed.
In that brief exchange of glances, she had read the mockery and the lofty arrogance in him.
The keen instincts she had honed over many years kept reminding her that, amid that ground just now teeming with all manner of official personnel, that youth who looked about the same age as her own daughter was the true, absolute core of it all.
____ 👻🔥+40 ch: Walnut-chan🔥👻 🔥 New history: Uchiha Reborn in Jujutsu Kaisen: The System Thinks I’m in Konoha, but I’m Not Let’s achieve our community goals: