The sun was sinking low behind the mountains, casting golden light through the tall windows of Jujutsu High, at least through the ones where the heavy curtains hadn’t been drawn shut. Dust particles floated lazily in the warm light, suspended like wandering spirits, flickering and dancing in the silence of the office.

Hiromi Higuruma sat at his desk, sleeves rolled up, a red pen in hand. He marked paper after paper with sharp, controlled strokes, precise check marks, methodical underlines, the occasional slash through a flawed argument. The stack of exams didn’t seem to shrink, no matter how long he worked through them. A cold cup of coffee sat near the edge of the desk, untouched for hours. On the windowsill, a once-bright sunflower had begun to wither, its head bowed, petals curling in on themselves like it had given up.

Strands of black hair hung over the man’s forehead as he leaned closer to the page in front of him. He paused, blinked once, then sighed heavily and leaned back, dragging a hand down his face. Fatigue clung to his frame like a second skin, not just from the grading, but from everything that had come before.

He turned his head toward the window, eyes unfocused, searching for something far beyond the fading light. And as always, they came, the echoes. Faint voices, fragments of memory. A judge’s gavel. The cold logic of a verdict. The sharp sting of injustice, uncorrected. He used to believe in law, in order. In justice. But that was before the lies. Before the truth was buried deeper than any artifact he’d ever recovered.

He exhaled through his nose, bitterly. That world was behind him now, replaced by ruins, relics, and the quiet hum of ancient cursed energy still clinging to long-dead things.

His left eyebrow twitched slightly as he reached for the drawer beneath the desk. It slid open with a familiar creak.

Inside, coiled neatly, lay the whip. His whip. Infused with old cursed energy, and with his own. A weapon, a tool, a lifeline. It had never let him down. Not once.

He stared at it for a long moment.

He never thought he’d become this. A scavenger of forgotten power. A hunter of cursed history. A man chasing legends across continents.

He scoffed softly at the thought, not in regret, but at how absurd it sounded to those who had never seen what he’d seen. They didn’t understand. The clans would hoard power. The higher-ups would silence truth. And the curses… the curses never sleep.

Someone had to stop it. Someone had to know what to look for.

His thumb ran over the worn edge of the desk. He was tired. But the work wasn’t done.

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, trying to refocus, when suddenly, a knock echoed from the door, sharp and hesitant.

His brow furrowed. He didn’t expect anyone.

With a low breath and eyes half-lidded, he answered:

“Come in.”