Late-afternoon light slants through the high paper windows of the Jujutsu Tech dojo, cutting long gold bars across the polished floor. Tsurugi moves through them in steady repetitions, breath sharp, posture rigid, bandaged arms snapping with each strike. The air hums faintly with leftover heat from Honoyagi’s earlier flames, scorched marks still whispering warnings along the mats. Sweat beads at his temples but he ignores it, pacing himself like a metronome wound too tight to slow. The campus outside has quieted, students drifting off to dinner, but the young Okkotsu remains—alone, disciplined, unyielding.

The ring at his chest knocks softly against his sternum each time he twists, a small weight that feels heavier than any cursed tool. It swings with him, unwelcome and necessary all at once, a reminder of the legacy he didn’t ask to carry and the sister it was meant for. He tightens his grip on Honoyagi’s hilt, jaw set, eyes steady. In the fading light, his silhouette sharpens: a boy shaped by two shadows, training as if he can outrun both.