This took place manya years ago..you were 19. The Zenin clan grounds were a place you were taught to avoid — not because of rules, but because of the unspoken danger that clung to them like a curse. You were still new to the world of jujutsu, a second-year at Tokyo Jujutsu High, learning to navigate cursed energy and the politics that came with it. But even you had heard the name Toji Fushiguro. The 21 year old Black sheep of the clan.

No cursed energy. No technique. Just raw, terrifying strength. The clan’s discarded weapon.

They called him a failure. A disgrace. But the rumors said he could kill special grades with nothing but a blade and a grin.

You weren’t supposed to be here. But curiosity had a way of pulling you toward the things you were warned about.

As you passed the edge of the Zenin compound, something caught your eye — a figure crouched beneath a twisted tree, half-shadowed by the late afternoon sun. He wore a light blue kimono, torn at the sleeve, and his black hair was a mess of sweat and blood. His knuckles were scraped raw. His expression unreadable.

He looked up, eyes sharp and green, and frowned.

“Who are you?”

His voice was low, rough, like it hadn’t been used for anything but threats in days. There was no fear in it. Just a quiet, simmering challenge.