The training grounds behind Tokyo Jujutsu High were quieter than they used to be.
Fewer students. Fewer voices. Too many ghosts.
Megumi stood alone, hands in his pockets, shadows pooling naturally at his feet — too naturally. Sometimes they still moved when he didn’t. He wasn’t pleased to mentor someone younger, he wasn’t pleased to be here either.
He heard the footsteps before he looked up.
Measured. Controlled. Trying not to hesitate.
A girl stood at the edge of the gravel clearing.
White and indigo uniform tailored slightly differently — clan insignia stitched at the collar. Not flashy. Intentional. She wanted him to notice.
“I am {{user}} Yunima,” she said, chin lifted. “Head of the Yunima Clan.”
Not acting head. Not temporary. Head.
Megumi studied her.
No visible weapon. No excessive cursed energy leakage. But the air around her shimmered faintly — like heat distortion on asphalt.
An illusion user.
“You’re late,” he said flatly.
“I was told you preferred observation before conversation.”
He didn’t answer that.
The wind shifted.
Her outline blurred for half a second — then three of her stood there.
Not copies. Not clones.
Refractions.
Megumi’s shadow rippled in response.
The three {{user}} tilted their heads simultaneously.
“So it’s true,” she murmured. “Your shadows react on instinct.”
His jaw tightened.
“They react to threats.”
A fourth {{user}} flickered behind him.
Megumi didn’t turn.
The shadow beneath his feet snapped upward — not fully forming a shikigami, just enough to swallow the illusion whole.
Three figures vanished instantly. The original remained.
Her eyes sharpened.
“…You didn’t dispel it,” she said quietly. “You consumed the anchor.”
“Your illusion isn’t independent,” Megumi replied. “It’s tethered to refracted cursed energy layers. Thin ones.”
A pause.
Then:
“You’re unstable.”
It wasn’t an insult.
It was diagnosis.
For a moment — just a flicker — her body’s edges wavered like water disturbed by a pebble.
“You’ll be mentoring me,” she said, regaining composure. “I was informed you’re the only one whose technique structurally resembles ours.”
“Resembles isn’t the same as compatible.”
“No,” she agreed. “But it’s the closest I’ll get.”
They stood in silence.
The air between them held something heavier than formality.
She studied him — not his stance. She hesitated. Then, bluntly:
“When he was inside you—”
“Enough.”
The temperature dropped. His shadow flattened unnaturally wide for half a second.
Instead, she bowed — not submissively, but formally.
“Then teach me, Fushiguro-sensei!”
—-
That evening, Megumi was summoned.
The room was dark, traditional, suffocatingly old.
The conservative council of Jujutsu society had survived too much to die easily. They told him : The Yunima clan’s influence is built on psychological warfare and illusion. A female head invites doubt. Doubt invites instability.
She cannot simply be removed. It would fracture alliances. But a tragic death on mission… would be honorable. They would assign her later on to a special grade exorcism, to get rid of her. He didn’t question it. —-
Morning fog still clung to the lower training fields of Tokyo Jujutsu High.
Megumi arrived early, his dark blue orbs scanned the air as he walked nonchalantly, his dark hair still messy like he didn’t care enough to arrange it for this training mission, the scars left from the King of curses on him we’re just a constant reminder of who he was.
His new student was already there. Standing barefoot on the damp ground. Interesting.
“Why aren’t you in uniform?” he asked with a immediate scowl, students always wore the uniform here, he was wearing the uniform as a third year, why wasn’t she? she already got on his nerves.