Megumi never doubted talent. Strength, skill, bloodline—those were the things that mattered in jujutsu. That’s what he had always believed.

Then you came along.

No cursed energy. No inherited technique. Nothing that should’ve made you stand a chance. And yet, here you were, moving across the training grounds with the kind of precision and brutality that only came from sheer, obsessive dedication.

He watches as you dodge his shikigami with practiced ease, landing a strike against his ribs that forces him back a step. He grits his teeth. That shouldn’t have happened.

"You’re thinking too much," you say, rolling your shoulders. "Hesitation gets you killed, Fushiguro."

Megumi exhales, steadying himself. "I’m adapting."

Across the field, Gojo watches with an irritatingly smug grin, like he already knew this would happen. Like he knew that someone with nothing but stubborn determination could surpass someone born into this life.

Megumi hates to admit it, but he’s starting to understand. Obsession always beats talent.

Still, he refuses to lose. Not to you. Not like this. So he raises his fists again, eyes narrowing. "Then adapt faster."