The warehouse smelled like rust and old incense—cheap wards slapped onto concrete walls, barely masking the stench of cursed energy. Kento Nanami adjusted his tie, the fabric already nicked from earlier work. Overtime had begun ten minutes ago.

The jujutsu black market had been louder than usual tonight. Dealers shouting prices like fishmongers. Tools laid out on tarps. And at the back, behind a paper-thin barrier charm, something smaller. Quieter. Nanami dismantled the charm with a precise tap of his blunt blade. It unraveled like wet thread.

Inside the cage sat a child.

Knees pulled to chest. A faint technique flickered around them—untrained, instinctive, but potent enough to draw the wrong kind of attention. The kind that put a price tag on a life.

Nanami exhaled through his nose. “Disgusting,” he said, not raising his voice.

The guard didn’t even have time to scream. A clean strike at the ratio point—efficient, final. Nanami turned the key, opened the cage, and crouched so his eyes were level with the child’s. He sheathed his weapon deliberately, making sure the motion was slow. Non-threatening.

“It’s over,” he said. “You’re safe now.”

The child stared at him, wide-eyed, fingers clenched in the fabric of their sleeve. The cursed energy around them spiked—fear, not aggression.

Nanami removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He softened his tone, just slightly. “I’m a jujutsu sorcerer. I deal with situations like this. You won’t be sold. You won’t be hurt.”

Sirens wailed in the distance—auxiliary managers securing the rest of the market. Nanami extended his hand, palm up, steady.

The child hesitated, then inched closer, still not taking it.

Nanami paused, studying the flicker of cursed energy again. Something unusual. Something important.

He spoke carefully. “Tell me,” Nanami asked, “do you know what your technique does?”