Chapter 5: The Strongest
It goes by many names.
Augury, Divination, VooDoo, Sangoma, Magic, Sorcery, Jujutsu.
The strange phenomenon known as cursed energy has mystified the likes of humans for millennia. To the frustration of most, there is no consensus regarding how and when people first began casting spells. Though, a popular theory attests that spell-casting first appeared when Neanderthals began burying their dead some 130,000 years ago. Fear and evil began corrupting human minds, bringing about the emergence of fearsome creatures, commonly known as curses. Various religious beliefs of an afterlife coincide with this theory, including the "exorcising" of demons.
Once humanity began to evolve and migrate across the globe, the effects and capabilities of cursed energy also mutated, giving rise to the emergence of "sorcerer families."
Only a handful of these families exist today, primarily divided amongst the Western families of Europe. And the Eastern families of Japan. With exception to the Voodoo, Sangoma, and Nyongo practitioners throughout Africa, the Navajo and First Nations of North America, and various other sects throughout the Assam district of India. However, it should be noted that these factions have voluntarily chosen to stay out of Western affairs; colonialism mostly to blame for the mistrust.
Having been formally recognized within the Vatican after years of conspiracies and brutal witch hunts, The International Association of Exorcists aligned itself with the Western families, while the jujutsu clans of the East managed their own affairs. During the great battle to end Ryomen Sukuna in the 11th century, both continents fought admirably together, but lost contact years later. When Pope Clement VIII sent missionaries to Japan in the beginning of the 17th century, dialogue was attempted, but with the rise of the Tokugawa's Shogunate, and calls for isolationism against the "barbarians," and stubborn ignorance on behalf of the Jesuits, these attempts were soon thwarted. Feudal Japan was labeled a swamp where foreigners weren't welcome and Christianity went to die, despite having fought alongside each other as equals years ago.
But times were changing.
As Japan entered the modern era and was no longer ravaged by war and conquest, the country started opening its borders, becoming the cultural and economic powerhub it is today. Little by little, the sorcerer classes began communicating with each other once more, due to the overabundance of curses and scarcity of sorcerers. And when rumors began circulating about Lord Thames' niece, who was said to have The Sight, action was swiftly taken. Now with the marriage of Gojo Satoru and Hannah Thames made official, the first of its kind, a bridge was finally established. Relations between the jujutsu and Western factions practically improved overnight, bringing hope that Ryomen Sukuna would be exorcized at last. However, not everyone was pleased with the arrangement. News of yesterday's incident spread rapidly and an impromptu meeting was summoned.
The Association's fury was palpable.
"Outrageous." A heavy fist slammed atop a wooden table. "Simply outrageous. You promised us the girl would be safe once we relinquished her in your care."
"Do sit down, Bishop Matteo," a bald man wearing Buddhist vestments said appeasingly. "We are carefully looking into the matter, rest assured. Jujutsu High remains the safest place for the seer. Unless you honestly believe those old convents with no protective charms whatsoever would serve better?"
Bishop Matteo scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous. We've been closely monitoring the child since her sixth year. She's never left our watchful eye."
Another voice, a man, spoke from the jujutsu sorcerers. "Your eyes are useless these days, Bishop," he spat. "If it weren't for your inquisitions and witch hunts, the number of Western sorcerers wouldn't be reduced to the sham it is now. You have your precious Vatican to thank for that." His voice twisted. "Or perhaps it's too busy housing pedophiles to concern itself with curses." Several of his comrades jeered and nodded their heads approvingly.
If there was any politeness to be had, it was quickly fading. The sex abuse scandals plaguing the Church had reached shores far and wide, calling the Vatican's credibility into question. It was a painful topic for everyone involved, victim and faithful parishioner alike, but at the mention of pedophiles, blades slid from tethered sheaths and cassocks. A wave of veiled threats whispered amongst The Association, their anger bubbling beneath the surface. What business was it of theirs to talk of such things?
A nun with cat-like frames stood from her whispering colleagues, hands folded in her scapular. A small hourglass hung on a chain along her white kerchief. "You should know better than to cast stones, Kamo Ryoichi," she quipped. "We're more than aware of jujutsu's own moral failings, particularly within your bloodline. Word has it you named your progeny Naritoshi. My, how scandalous. Any human experiments we should know about?"
It was the jujutsu sorcerers' turn to hiss. Like a homing pigeon, the Christian nun knew just where to strike, re-splitting an old wound.
"You old hag," Ryiochi growled. "It's been well over a century. The Kamo family has atoned for its sins."
The nun grinned wryly. "Tell that to the dead."
The airy whispers reached a fever pitch. Wooden chairs scraped along stony flooring and cups filled with tea spilled to the ground. East and West rose to do battle.
"Jujutsu skum."
"Barbarians."
"ENOUGH!"
The ferrule of a golden staff struck the ground in a cacophony of blinding light. Bolts of lightning sputtered across slabs of gray, channeled by a powerful wind. Swords and various other armaments abandoned their wielders. The lanterns lining the walls were extinguished, covering the room in total darkness. Soon the bedlam decrescendoed into heavy fits of gagging and confusion. The dust settled.
Cardinal Xavier Wrath lifted the hooked crosier from the ground and with a flick of his wrist the lanterns relit themselves. His beady eyes shone in the flaming embers.
"Sit," he commanded.
All sorcerers acrimoniously returned to their seats, hiding insults under their breath, but obeying the cardinalate's order, nonetheless.
Cardinal Wrath surveyed the room, making sure knives weren't hidden under cloaks. His heart saddened at the perfectly good tea spilled on the floor. Such a waste, he thought bitterly. Had centuries of war taught these people nothing? He turned to his companion.
"Yoshinobu, my old friend. It's been too long."
The eldar, Yoshinobu, bowed in greeting, his many piercings jangling from flabs of aged skin. "Likewise, Xavier," he said in a gruff voice, heavy eyebrows like Spanish moss over his eyes. "Though, I wish it were under lighter circumstances."
"Yes, quite so," replied the Cardinal. It had been twenty years since the two men last saw each other, before Xavier donned the red cassock, and Yoshinobu was initiated as an elder. For various reasons, they were unable to meet at the wedding. Happy to see his friend in good health, the Cardinal looked around the room and saw the Gojo seat vacant. He pressed his lips together. "My friend, perhaps I misread your letter, but wasn't the husband invited to join us? It appears he's not here."
Yoshinobu grumbled in agitation. "I told you, Wrath. It's like herding cats with that boy."
"Can you really call him a boy now that he's married, Yoshi?" The Cardinal said, releasing a sigh.
"Marriage has little to do with it. He's a boy until he learns to take responsibility for his actions. We're fortunate the seer's injuries weren't severe."
The Cardinal made a sound of agreement, though he was fairly certain broken ribs counted as 'severe injuries' under any opinion. "Where is she being kept, you say?"
"She was transferred to her dorm early this morning."
Cardinal Wrath raised his hands in exaltation. "Praise Jesus."
Yoshinobu grunted in opposition. "I wouldn't thank your god just yet, Cardinal," he warned cooly. "When, and if, the boy arrives, there'll be much to discuss. It seems some ground rules will need to be reestablished. He'd do well to listen this time."
The Cardinal could only nod at his companion. "Yes. I share your sentiments entirely, my friend. But, while we wait," he picked up his cup of unspilled matcha, "might we finish our tea before it gets cold?"
Quiet returned to the room. Westerners prayed the rosary, while the jujutsu sorcerers meditated silently, and Cardinal Wrath and Yoshinobu drank their tea, waiting for the Six Eyes wielder to turn up.
The doors closed shut.
...
Hannah blew out the match stick and allowed the aroma of melting beeswax to fill her nostrils.
It was 1 pm. The pews were empty.
Chevrons of dim sunlight cascaded from high windows, bathing the sanctuary in natural light. Sekiguchi Cathedral looked like something out of a Frank Herbert novel. Its wooden architecture, once gothic, was bombed during World War II, and reforged into Tange Kenzo's steel and concrete masterpiece in 1964. It was ahead of its time, a precursor to Vatican II, which meant there was little iconography and almost no decoration, except a honeyed glass waterfall flowing behind a large wooden cross with a halo in the center. Red candles burned at the base of the rood, but the tabernacle was obscured by a long Carrara marble altar draped in a white and gold Easter cloth. A bed of lilies skirted the bottom. Hannah clutched her chapel veil, rosary beads in hand, and listened to the thrumming rainfall drench the metal bastion in noise like a requiem.
An ambulance zoomed past, siren fading in and out as it hurled down the street. She could hear a taxi horn blaring; rubber tires trundling on wet pavement; the splashing of shoes. The rain tuned most of it out. The air-conditioning kept whirring off and on at odd intervals. She shivered, her dress and sandals still damp from the rain. How unsettling to see a cathedral so empty. Where was everybody?
In an alcove, down the left hallway, Hannah knelt amidst twenty-six candles. A statue of St. Jude smiled down at her, holding a medallion and walking stick as it shepherded the burning votives encased in red glass. Each newly lit flame representing a lost life. Hannah wasn't permitted to attend their funerals, so this was the closest she came to paying her respects.
Tobiishi Elementary was a little known school located south of the Namidabashi intersection in Tokyo, famous, or rather infamous, for its raucous Trivia Nights and parent fundraisers, and its (occasional) dedication to school curriculum. The primary source of income for most households came from day labor jobs; the neighborhood was poorer than most.
Yesterday, as the evening came to a close, three rows of first graders sat behind their desks, waiting eagerly for Nishikawa-sensei to dismiss them. Their backpacks zipped with homework. Play dates established. Stolen cafeteria snacks passed around and shared. Tiny eyes glued to the clock for that final, freedom inducing bell. But the dismissal never came. In less than 3.4 seconds, a cursed womb manifested outside the classroom, possibly the fastest gestation ever recorded, and birthed an unholy creature so evil, it must've spawned from the pits of Hell.
When the carnage ceased, twenty-five little carcasses, their flesh whittled down to splintered bone, lay atop each other in a mortem sacrifice. The curse managed to escape through a crater it made above the ceiling, leaving the classroom in shambles, save the four walls circumferencing it. Nishikawa-sensei was the lone survivor, barely breathing.
However, the twenty-sixth body wasn't recovered until late last night from a strange religious school outside the city limits. Face mangled beyond recognition, the little girl could only be identified from her school I.D. badge, pinned to the torn rags of her uniform.
Her name was Nakamura Ami, four days shy of her seventh birthday. That tender age when it's still cool to hang out with Mom and Dad, and begin wondering whether the boy that sits next to you in class has a crush. The six year old was known for her long ebony hair, often festooned in ribbons and bows. She enjoyed picnics in the park, playing football with her friends, and beating boys twice her age at the one game she cherished more than anything in the world; chess. Her total winnings? A full 15,677.89, which her parents kept safely for her in a pickle jar, and an impressive collection of Pokémon cards, including a shiny Charizard that hung in a picture frame overlooking her bedroom. She won it from a seventeen year old who liked bullying the younger kids for lunch money. As the old saying goes; All is fair in love and war.
A chess prodigy, the FIDE would've hailed Ami a Grandmaster by the time she entered her teens, but that dream was laid to rest alongside her cremated bones. A shining star, lost to the ether. Few would know she ever existed.
The last of her obituary read the following line, "Survived by her loving mother and father," but that wasn't entirely true. After all, here was Hannah, standing in a church, alive, still breathing, a bonafide survivor. Had the curse not been busy devouring Ami's lifeless body, Hannah's presence would've been discovered a lot sooner. It was ultimately the clattering of a hair clip, ironically shaped as a butterfly, a quiet and unassuming creature, that betrayed her. Nonetheless, Hannah's heart was beating and Ami's was not.
"Suppose I'm to tell you it's all part of 'God's plan,' and we should rejoice that they're in a better place…"
Startled, Hannah whipped around to see Fr. O'Malley's soft brown eyes striding closer towards her, his sandals squeaking atop the marbled floor, Fransciscan robes swishing. In one hand, he held a large black umbrella, dripping behind a scant trail of rainwater. He stopped beside her, leveraging the umbrella like a cane. "But, frankly, I feel for any parent who is told to 'rejoice' in the loss of a child." He shook his head and bestowed a sad smile. "Apologies, lass. I couldn't help myself. Spotted Kiyotaka's car outside on my way to see the archbishop. Doubt he's here for Confession, so thought I'd better have a look inside."
Her heart jolted as she stood from the kneeler.
"I-I won't be much longer, Father," she said tremulously, turning for the exit. "He's probably wondering where I am."
"Nonsense," quelled the priest. "Kiyotaka is used to waiting. A few more minutes won't hurt him." He lowered his voice. "Besides, the poor lad's had it up to ninety with all the work Masamichi's been dealing him. He could use a break."
Hannah began gnawing her lower lip, afraid to meet his gaze. Technically, she wasn't permitted to leave the school. Convincing Mr. Ijichi to chauffeur proved rather difficult and left her feeling a tad guilty. In ensuring her escape, she had placed it upon herself to "educate" the deputy director, albeit with embellishment, the importance of Christian funeral prayers as they relate to unbaptized persons, and the urgency that such prayers be performed quickly and solemnly in a holy place of worship, lest the unbaptized be damned, which was ludicrous given that no amount of intervention had the power to send souls to Heaven, or Hell (excluding the teachings on Purgatory, which were largely misunderstood). Either way, she doubted the director, a staunch Buddhist as she recently learned, would correct her bad soteriology. And using his own ignorance against him, her only serious lie involved Principal Yaga's behest that she leave immediately, provided Mr. Ijichi be her escort. And to her gobsmacked, hardly thought possible astonishment, it worked. Mr. Ijichi believed her. However, looking at Fr. O'Malley, clothed in his humble brown habit and cincture, it was unlikely he'd find her argument equally compelling. Hannah didn't think herself so clever.
"Was it wrong of me?" she asked, gauging him for a reaction. "To come here, you think?"
The priest melted into a half-pitying smile. "There's nothing wrong with praying for the dead, Hannah. You've done these children a kindness few strangers would think to do. Except, next time you decide to sneak out," he flashed her a look, "might I suggest actually asking permission first." When Hannah didn't say anything, he added, "The jig is up, lass. Kiyotaka started squawking the moment he saw me. Now, what's this I hear about funeral prayers and unbaptized persons burning in Hell? Mind you, it's a sin to bear false witness against your neighbor. Perhaps, I should have you apologize to him right now as penance."
An uncomfortable warmth flanked down her neck. Hannah couldn't hide her shame for having been caught, and judging by the priest's expression, he knew it, but he instead turned around, and with an outstretched hand made a cross over the candles, saying. "May the Lord grant them eternal rest and let perpetual light shine upon them. May their souls, and all the souls of the faithful departed, rest in peace. In the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost."
"Amen," Hannah whispered, crossing herself. For the next few minutes, the two pilgrims silently watched the red votives dance in the invisible wind, their little flaming tongues lapping up whatever oxygen they could. Heavy raindrops continued their bombardment on the ceiling as another car horn blared outside. Fr. O'Malley exhaled deeply.
"I'm sorry this happened, Hannah," he finally said. "We should've sent someone to fetch you when you weren't at dinner."
Hannah didn't break from the candles. "Please. Don't apologize for my sake," she murmured, tiny infernos reflected in her downcast eyes. "I'm sorry it happened too. Those kids deserved better." Then her face slightly withdrew. "Although, there's something I don't understand." She looked up at the priest perplexedly. "I thought curses can't leave their point of origin. How was this one able to break free?"
Given his faint surprise, the priest hadn't expected her to make such a sensible and otherwise excellent observation, but he quickly composed himself. "Oh, uh, don't you worry about that, lass. The higher-ups are conducting a full investigation as we speak. They'll have it sorted out in no time. You have my word."
"But I was a key witness. Won't they want me for questioning?"
He paused. Shy though she was, it was wrong to label Hannah a simpleton. She was asking all the right questions, taking things seriously. And if her escape from campus had anything to show, she could be fairly cunning with enough nerve. The Irishman shook his head.
"No, my dear, that won't be necessary. Satoru debriefed the higher-ups last night while you were recovering, much to everyone's surprise." He nudged her with a wink. "Guess he's not such a useless eejit after all. Who knew?"
Hannah continued biting her lower lip and fingered the crucifix on her rosary. "Yeah," she squeaked. "Who knew?"
She saw the hope bud in his eyes. "Does this mean the two of you have reconciled, perchance?"
In an instant, Hannah felt her heart drop through her stomach and onto the marbled floor. He'd misinterpreted her. "No," she conceded flatly. "We haven't." The words were dry in her mouth.
"Oh." The Capuchin's posture slouched. "I'm sad to hear that, lass. Truly, I am." He gazed up at the ceiling as if forfeiting a long running argument. "Well, I guess there's no point keeping it a secret then. Someone's bound to tell you sooner or later."
Hannah opened her mouth, but when Fr. O'Malley gestured for her to sit in one of the vacant pews, she fell silent and quickly slid herself between the nearest row to sit down. The priest soon joined her, setting his umbrella along the back cap and crossing his legs, which were hidden under his long woolen robes. He fussed with the troublesome fabric a moment, grumbling irritably to himself, then leaned back into the polished bench, his hands folded in his lap. "But before we delve into that little fiasco, I find it pertinent to ask. Did anyone ever explain to you how that Sukuna finger found its way to France?"
The seer shook her head. "You said the Louvre was still looking into it, last time we talked."
"Ah, yes, that I did," exclaimed the friar, appearing to have remembered the very conversation in Principal Yaga's office a few days prior. He clapped his hands together. "In that case, you'll be happy to hear that the mystery has been solved. Turns out the finger was smuggled into Europe long ago, during the early 1600s. A thieving missionary, 'Padre Leroux,' brought it back with him to Paris, where he buried it underneath the Wall of Philip Augustus just outside the Louvre Palace — How do we know this, you might ask? — Well, it's because the bleedin' fool confessed to the deed in his journal entries we found hidden in the museum's archives. Apparently, he was aiming to harness the cursed object's power for himself." The priest snorted. "Those Jesuits were really something."
Hannah raised her eyebrows, "But, Father," she started. "If that's true, how do we know the other fingers haven't been smuggled out of Japan? Who's to say there isn't one frozen at the top of Mount Everest, or another below the Mariana Trench, eighty fathoms deep?" She mentally pictured a puce colored finger, swimming with the fishes.
Fr. O'Malley merely shrugged. "Your guess is as good as mine, lass, but given the sharp influx of curse outbreaks, it's unlikely the other fingers have fled the country. Only an immense disturbance could trigger such a phenomenon, say the unsealing of nineteen special-grade cursed objects, for instance." He craned his neck to peer back at the red candles. Hannah's gaze followed. "I just hope The Sight shows us where they are, and soon. The death of one child is one death too many."
Hannah's insides felt as though they were stiff clumps of dirt, stuck together. With a heavy heart, her eyes returned to the rosary beads bunched in her lap. She would pray an extra Hail Mary for each child when she returned to the school. "So, why're you upset that Satoru and I haven't reconciled?" she sighed.
Hastily, the Capuchin roved through his pockets for a silver chained watch, an old Glashütte by the looks of it, his one secret indulgence, and pressed a thumb to its crown, squinting. "Hmm, yes, about that." He closed the heirloom gingerly, placing it back into his pocket. "You're aware it took six high-level sorcerers to exorcize that curse in Paris, correct?"
"Yes, and I heard what happened," Hannah said, her voice carrying a somber note. "Two of them couldn't be saved and died before making it to hospital."
"Indeed, very tragic." Fr. O'Malley lamented, bowing his head mournfully. "Ivan Leibowitz and Vera Avery, two of The Association's finest, gone," he snapped his fingers, "just like that."
One of those names caught the seer's attention. "Sorry, did you say Vera Avery? As in Lady Vera Avery, daughter of the late Viscount Belgaven?"
"Why, yes." The priest raised an inquisitive brow. "I assume you knew her?"
Hannah pressed her lips together. "No," she said a little too quickly. "Just surprised, is all. Forgive me for interrupting. Please continue."
The priest sensed there was more to the story, but it would have to wait another day. He cleared his throat to continue. "Anyway, as I was saying, you can imagine the incident now has everyone concerned. A normal cursed womb normally takes two or three sorcerers to properly excorcize, but Sukuna is a completely different beast, and it's uncertain whether his remaining fingers will spawn cursed wombs. Therefore, to mitigate fatalities, the higher-ups have decided that only one person should venture forth to retrieve them for us; A partner to work alongside you, if you will." He eyed her down purposely. "And I'm sure you know who they have in mind, lass."
Hannah wilted in the pew like a sunless flower. Unfortunately for her, she knew exactly who the priest was referring to. It's why he asked whether they'd reconciled. "Please, tell me there's someone else," she softly begged, the words tasting like dirt. "Anyone." But the priest shook his head.
"I'm afraid not, my dear," he said sympathetically. "While you may have reason to disagree, the higher-ups are right to choose Satoru for the job. He's probably the only sorcerer who can return to us in one piece, should anything go awry — And, besides, the two of you are married, no? Why it makes sense for you to work together. I can see it now; Husband and Wife, The Dynamic Duo." He started throwing fake punches in the air, woolen sleeves folding over his fists as he took a few jabs, but Hannah didn't share his enthusiasm.
"How is that possible?" she murmured.
His punches halted in mid air. "Pardon?"
She raised her head. "I mean, how is it that he's the only person who can return to us unharmed? Are cursed objects his specialty?"
A heavy silence fell between them. Rain continued pouring outside like buckets, roaring in both their ears. The friar measured her cooly, searching for behavioral cues that would indicate she was lying, but found none. Hannah's question was sincere and she hadn't a bull's notion regarding the answer. A slight simmer roiled in his gut at the implications, Jacob Thames, he seethed silently to himself. What have you done?
The priest's fists dropped to his knees. Closing his eyes, he prayed the Heavenly Father would grant him wisdom for what he was about to impart. It was of vital importance that she knew. He leaned back into the bench with his hands interlocked.
"Hannah," he said, opening his eyes serenely. "If you don't mind me asking, what exactly do you know about the Gojo family?"
The seer's grip tightened around her rosary beads, along with the fabrics of her skirt. She didn't like the way he asked the question, the austerity in his eyes.
"Everything I know? she asked. The priest nodded once. Nervously, she swallowed. "W-Well, I know they're one of the Three Sorcerer Families of Japan and, um…" she stopped to think, "their lineage dates back to the Heian period and up until the Meiji period they served as imperial historians and clerical workers and, uh…" She ciphered her brain for anything useful, trying to remember Sister Edith's lessons. "I think I read somewhere that they're the most prominent of the Three Sorcerer Families, but…" She paused again, coming up blank. "Other than that, I know little else."
"I see." The priest lined his mouth. "So, you don't know why they're the most prominent then?"
Hannah could only shake her head. "No, Father." she said. "I haven't a clue. Most knowledge outside of Japan is limited."
The priest gave out another long winded sigh and looked up to the ceiling for guidance. Then, to the best of his ability, on that rainy April afternoon in the church, he proceeded to tell her all he knew about the Gojo family. About the legends relating to the brilliant scholar, Sugawara no Michizane, and the emergence of the Six Eyes and the bloodshed that ensued between the Gojo and Zen'in families throughout the centuries. He told her about the secret inherited curse technique known as the Limitless, the abilities to repel and attract, and how Satoru had been the first Gojo born with both the Six Eyes and the Limitless in over 400 years. "Subservient to only God and His angels," Fr. O'Malley declared. "He is the strongest sorcerer known to Man. People even claim him to be a bodhisattva of some kind. Though naturally I'm skeptical…" And all the while, the Capuchin watched the color drain from the young woman's face as he prattled on. When his sermon concluded, Hannah looked as though she'd downed an entire bottle of gin in one sitting and was about to hurl it back up, her complexion so pale, she could've blended with the Carrera marble.
"The strongest?" she whispered. "Y-You're telling me he's…that I'm his…" Her tongue was like a wet leaf on dry clay.
Westerners cowered at the name of Gojo, never uttered it aloud for fear they'd be struck dead, or turn to pillars of salt. The Six Eyes? The Limitless? The fact no one, not even Sister Edith, inclined to tell that Satoru wasn't only a clan leader from the Three Sorcerer Families of Japan, but the strongest sorcerer alive, meant her duties would entail far greater challenges than tea culture and donning evening gloves for the opera.
While the jujutsu aristocracy played a pivotal role in maintaining order, it wasn't solely based on blood and ancestry alone. Rank was also determined by a meritocratic system. The stronger the sorcerer, the more influence they imbued over the other families, a privilege which extended to spouses, particularly wives, since noble women were seldom allowed to hold power in their own right, and often relied on the status of their grandfathers, fathers, or husbands. Should Satoru be indisposed for any reason, Hannah, as his wife, would be obligated to take his seat at table, placing herself at the epicenter of jujutsu politics, rather than orbiting around it, something her foreign brain was having difficulty processing. Sure, her reihō wasn't terrible and her Japanese, fairly decent, but would it be enough to navigate the jujutsu social elite? Could a bastard from overseas, who rammed her knees into bed-posts, and stuttered when nervous, accomplish such a thing?
They'll tear you to pieces, said a voice from someplace dark. You're already a failure as it is. The gold around her finger felt as though it were burning, grafting onto her skin, a permanence that could not be undone. There's nowhere to run, it hissed. Nowhere to hide. She felt a hand grip her shoulder.
"Mea culpa, Hannah," Fr. O'Malley said. "It's just…we thought you knew."
Hannah hadn't realized tears were streaming down her cheeks until she tasted salt on her tongue, nor had she noticed the clean handkerchief held out in front of her. She politely took the linen from the priest's hand and brought it to her eyes.
"I'm cursed, Father," she blubbered, wiping the drainage from her nose. "Cursed with The Sight, my mixed blood, and now a husband who utterly loathes me."
The priest couldn't help but let out a breathy laugh.
"Nah, he doesn't loathe you, my dear. Quite the opposite, actually."
"The opposite?" Hannah lowered the handkerchief from her face in disbelief. "You of all people should know better than to joke. This isn't funny."
"I never said it was, lass," the priest parried with a grin. "Only that there's a fatal flaw in your character assassination, I mean, assessment."
She glowered, not appreciating his tongue and cheek. "Oh, really? And what might that be?"
There was a glint in his eyes as the friar leaned forward, the pews creaking under them. "He saved your life, Hannah," he said carefully, lifting his brows. "Tell me, does that sound like 'utter loathing' to you, or does he perhaps care a great deal more than you give him credit for?"
Hannah's rebuttal dissolved on her tongue like powdered snow. She couldn't think of an argument against that, for he spoke the unvarnished truth. By all means, Fr. O'Malley should be presiding over her funeral today. They were only having this discussion because she'd been rescued from the jaws of death. Swallowing, she lingered on the priest's brown eyes momentarily, until her own eyes glided to her hand. Contemplation flitted across her pale features as she traced the gold ring on her finger. She stared at it, thoughts channeling through sluice gates holding back recesses of memory.
She could still hear the healthy rhythm of his blood sloshing from one heart ventricle to the other, lulling her to sleep as she stared into his eyes, beautiful and nacreous. Those colourless collagen fibers, scattering light away from the irises, giving them their blue appearance, where God forgot to separate the sea and sky. He was so warm, so present. She wanted to bury her nose in his jacket and smell the coffee and incense clinging to the threads and remain in his arms forever. Allow the Six Eyes to fill her, every crevice, every vessel.
It left her wondering how someone could be so terrifying and at the same time a shelter. Wasn't it only yesterday she was sifting through weeds in the hot sun, trying everything in her power not to think about him? Trying not to remind herself that she would never see her mother's portrait again? That he was the reason for it. Now, every preconceived notion she ever concocted about the sorcerer was circling the bottom of a drain. She couldn't be mad at him, at least, not anymore. Not when he saved her life. Whether it was genuine, or not, she owed him a great debt.
"Don't worry, Princess. You can thank me later."
She waited for Sekiguchi's gray walls to replace the sea of turquoise blue before turning to face the priest, her voice small. "You really think that?" she said. "After everything he said to me, you really think he cares?" The friar made a dismissive gesture with his hand.
"Satoru says a lot of things, lass. My advice would be to ignore 90% of what you hear and instead focus on what he does. With him, actions speak louder than words ever could."
"Actions." Hannah's eyes returned to her wedding ring. She continued brushing it absentmindedly with her thumb. "Has he always been that way?"
"What? A stubborn gobshite?"
A ghost of a smile stretched the ends of her mouth at the Irishism. "Yes, a stubborn gobshite."
The priest draped an arm over the pew and re-crossed his legs. "Yes and no," he breathed glumly. "You have to understand, Hannah, there hasn't been anyone like him in nearly half a millennium. The higher-ups have kept Satoru on a tight leash since his first cry. Never gave him the opportunity to experience a normal childhood, or show him proper affection for that matter. As a result, he lacks basic social skills and rebels against authority whenever possible. It's only gotten worse since Sugu — " His voice faltered. "Well, it's gotten worse, let's put it that way. Masamichi and I worry that if his behavior doesn't improve, the higher-ups will inflict punishment. They're this close to washing their hands of him altogether."
"Altogether?" Hannah repeated, her brows furrowed in concentration. "Wait? You're not talking about execution, are you?"
The friar stroked his chin as if it were a reasonable possibility. "Hmm, executing him would bring about dire consequences — but, yes, something more or less of that nature."
"That's mad," she replied. "You said so yourself, he's the strongest sorcerer alive. They can't do away with him at a time like this. There's children dying."
The priest gave her an exasperated look. "My thoughts exactly, lass, but you can't always reason with these people. Satoru should thank his lucky stars that his abilities are so valuable. Otherwise, they'd have dealt with him a long time ago."
"Gosh," Hannah murmured, feeling a smidge remorse for the Gojo heir, having been quick to judge without knowing anything about him beforehand. She understood from experience what it was like to have your life overruled by someone else, wanting so desperately to break from the chains that bind. "What of his parents?" she inquired, thinking it wouldn't hurt to ask. "He won't listen to them?"
The priest's frown deepened. "No, my dear. Satoru's parents have been…absent, you could say. Though, I believe he lives with a housekeeper. A rather lovely lady if I'm not mistaken. Bollix, what was her name again? Mikasa? Momoko?..." He imitated Winnie the Pooh, knocking his knuckles on his head, listing random people under his breath.
Hannah sobered from this. It explained why neither's parents were in attendance at their wedding. They were both hostages to circumstance. "Do you know what became of them?" she said. "His family?"
The priest stopped his muttering, expression turning grim. "Afraid there's not much I could tell you, lass. I wasn't told the gory details and Satoru never speaks of it, nor would I think it wise to bring it up next time you see him." He rifled through his pockets once more, checking his watch, face lighting up like a Christmas tree. "Janey Mackers! Is it really two o'clock? — Sorry, my dear, but it seems we must part ways. Bishop Okada insisted I meet with him and I'd hate to keep the ol' prelate waiting. Send Kiyotaka my blessings, will you?" He hurriedly snatched his umbrella and rose from the pew.
"W-Wait, please," Hannah cried, blushing at how her voice carried across the cathedral, her chapel veil sliding off her plaited hair as she reached for his robes. "You haven't told me what to do about Satoru?"
The Capuchin turned sharply to look at her. "Why, nothing," he said with a simple shrug. "There's nothing you can do."
Hannah appeared taken aback. "But how am I — " The priest raised his hand.
"Patience, Hannah," he said kindly. "There is no rift, however wide, that God cannot mend. These things have a way of sorting themselves out. Satoru will likely come to you when he's ready to talk. In fact, I'm sure of it."
If this was meant to make her feel better it missed its mark. "And if he doesn't?" she implored dully. "What then?"
Fr. O'Malley chuckle was soft, brown eyes glinting. "Oh, he'll come around, lass. Trust me. If there's anything I know about Gojo Satoru," he shook his head, smiling, "the lad never ceases to amaze. All I ask for is your patience. Give him the chance to redeem himself if he hasn't already. In a fallen world like ours, a little grace can work wonders, no?"
Then, without so much as a polite bow and a wink, the Irish priest edged his way to the end of the pew, genuflected towards the altar, and padded merrily away, humming a happy tune that sounded an awful lot like St. Dallán's "Be Thou My Vision." Hannah watched him go and when it came time for her to leave, she pushed open the tall doors of Sekiguchi Cathedral, raised her eyes to the heavens, past the skyscrapers and tall buildings, and gaped.
Turquoise blue skies as far as she could see, not a rain cloud in sight.
The Six Eyes gazing down at her.
...
Later that evening, twenty minutes from Sekiguchi Cathedral on Omoide Yokocho, affectionately known as "Piss Alley" by the locals, red paper lanterns hung above university students, tourists, and corporate hawks as the smell of grilled meats, primarily fish, roused their hunger. Boisterous laughter and pleas of "Sumimasen" shouted across tables. Servers poured saké into glass goblets until their rims overflowed, a cultural custom when drinking the rice wine, and a birthday celebration began clapping in the corner. It was so clamorous in the izakaya, Shoko wagered hardly anyone heard her best friend's fist pound against the table.
"You. Did. What?!"
Oh, boy. Here we go again.
"Hey, no need to get so loud, Utahime. Yelling indoors is unladylike, ya know."
"That's Utahime-senpai to you, and don't play dumb. You idiot. The hell were you thinking, firing a curse technique that close? You're lucky you didn't blow her head off!"
"Psch, relaaax." Satoru waved his hand, nonchalant. "I had the whole situation under control. The girl's alive, isn't she? — Nanami, come help your fellow man. Tell her I did nothing wrong."
"I agree with Iori-senpai," Nanami said.
"Huh?"
"What you did was stupid." Satoru opened his mouth to object, but Nanami would hear none of it. They hadn't sat in this dank excuse of a bar for ten minutes and already the salaryman was losing patience. "Limitless or not, your first order of business is to ensure the safety and well-being of others. A rudimentary concept you seem unable to fully grasp."
Satoru squinted at his comrade behind dark colored frames. "You know what, Nanami? I think I liked it better when you weren't around. Can't tell if there's one pole up your ass, or two." He rested a palm on his cheek and sipped his club soda, annoyance maring his face. He already endured this conversation with Principal Yaga earlier today, which was lackluster compared to the earful he received from the higher-ups. Long story short, a lot of people were unhappy with him.
A lot.
Nanami scowled, eyebrows narrowing. "Believe me, I didn't want to come back, but the higher-ups insisted. I gave them three months' notice. No more, no less," He loosened the silk tie around his neck and slicked back his parted blonde hair, his glasses resting on the table. "Don't misunderstand, you're the last person on earth I'd entrust with a wife, but she's the closest we've come to excorcizing Sukuna, and in your haste, she very well could've died." Exhaustion circled the shadows under his eyes. He reached for his mojito. "So, save your breath. My sympathies are with her, not you."
Utahime chimed in, parting her lips from her beer to issue Satoru a side-eyed glance. "Yeah, and when morons like you get in trouble, so do the rest of us. You'd best remember that." She took another swig and re-positioned her legs under the booth. Her violet hair freed from its white ribbon, still wearing her miko and brown lace-up boots. With the alcohol in her bloodstream, Utahime's flushed cheeks made her scar more visible, a year old cicatrix that spanned across her right cheek to the bridge of her nose. "I'm guessing Mei's not joining us this evening?" she added.
"No," clipped Nanami. "She stayed in Osaka. Apparently, a client hadn't paid their end of the bargain. You know how it is with her."
Utahime sighed. "Yup, that's Mei Mei for you. Always thinking about money." She glowered menacingly at Gojo. "At least she's competent at her job and doesn't wait till the last moment to rescue a dying person."
A sardonic smirk lifted the corner of Satoru's mouth. "Gee, Utahime, you're right. Mei would never be so callous." He hooked his middle finger over his index. "Because unlike you, she's actually strong and a whole lot prettier — "
The white-haired sorcerer needn't dodge the pair of chopsticks aimed for his eyes. They froze in mid-air, an invisible barrier keeping them in place like a dartboard. When Satoru unhooked his fingers, the sticks fell to his lap. He laughed. "So mean. You'll never get a boyfriend with that attitude."
"I'm only like this when you're around, you prick!" Utahime spat. "Ugh, you should hear yourself sometimes. I bet your ass must be jealous of all the crap that spews outta that big mouth of yours."
Satoru slowly began clapping his hands in applause. "Wooow, congratulations, Utahime. Those are some fighting words, coming from you. Seriously, what would Gramps say?"
This time the woman reached for a knife, but Nanami forced her hand down. "While I hate to interject," he said, ignoring Utahime's death glare. "We need to talk more about last night."
Satoru clicked his tongue. "What's there left to talk about?" He placed his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair, his dark sunglasses perched on his nose. "Didn't you hear me? The girl's fine. Shoko healed her up and everything." He careened his head towards the person sitting next to him. "Right, Shoko?"
The doctor hadn't expected her name to be called. Granted, this was the first time she'd been out in days. Couldn't she just enjoy her alcohol in peace? What gives? Anyway, she didn't want to broach the subject any further because, as a matter of fact, she hadn't been the one to heal the girl.
Hannah's injuries healed on their own.
But before Shoko could craft a believable lie, the bartender jacked the television volume louder. A news reporter breached through the torrents of laughter and inebriation. The shamans heard every word.
"A tragedy unfolded yesterday as thirteen school children, ages six and seven, were killed in a gas explosion at Tobiishi Elementary, a small parochial school located in San'ya. Authorities believe the blast was triggered by faulty gas pipes, setting off a chain reaction reducing the classroom to near rubble. The third school incident in over four months, parents from all over the country are now asking themselves; 'Is my child safe?'…"
Utahime placed her beer on the coaster, her face sullen. "Those poor kids." she murmured.
The mood surrounding the table followed suit. An entire first grade class, killed by a gas explosion. At least, that's what they told the public. They'd used that cover-up before, only this time, the story went viral. #Tobiishi and #Prayfor26 trended on every social media platform imaginable. Protests and hunger strikes paraded throughout Japan. Photographs of aggrieved parents and their children, some dead, others missing, splashed on every front page newspaper. Politicians and school officials taking heat from their constituents. And gobs and gobs of online conspiracy theories spreading everywhere.
It was becoming impossible. With too many curses and not enough shamans to exorcize them, unwanted casualties were bound to fall through the cracks, with Tobiishi Elementary situated along one such fault line, including two other schools and a hospice that shared similar fates.
Satoru clenched his jaw, encasing his empty soda can with cursed energy. It shriveled in his palms. His mission following the wedding ended on a trail gone cold. A Window reported a curse sighting, level 2 or above, but when Satoru arrived at the scene he found nothing. If only he'd returned sooner. Failure didn't mesh well with his pride. Nanami's voice cut through his internal brooding.
"In this line of work, our job is to protect the living. It serves no purpose, pitying the dead. The best we can do now is ensure more won't follow in their wake, which is why the seer remains our top concern. We need her alive." He stared heatedly at Satoru, who turned away, pretending not to notice. "Whatever the cost."
Utahime pulled a face. "She's from The Association. How do we know she can be trusted?"
A fair point.
"We don't," replied Nanami. "But that's not what worries me at the moment."
His voice held a stitch of caution. Even Gojo, amused by some university students playing a drunken game of Jan-Ken-Pon, bent his ear to listen. Utahime and Shoko waited to hear what the man had to say. Kento Nanami? Worried? When was the last time that happened?
The quasi-businessman propped his elbows on the table and laced his hands under his chin. "The investigation is still ongoing. We know Master Tengen's walls aren't impervious. However, that doesn't explain why the protective charm on Hannah's ring failed to work. Cursed spirits shouldn't be able to detect her signature within a hundred meter radius." His eyes darkened. "So, how was this curse able to track her down for two whole minutes, before causing injury?"
A dead quiet hung over the exorcists. It was a good question, possibly the most consequential. Yes, how was the curse able to bypass the charm? How was it able to see her? Did the ring reject the magic? No, highly improbable. The spell was an extremely old incantation, and magic didn't expire the way food and medicine did. Nor was it the first time curses managed to slip through Master Tengen's walls.
Unless…
Unless…
Shoko's saké glass clattered to the table at the sudden thought, her heart racing. The words planted themselves in her brain before she could take them back, rolling off her tongue like hot oil.
"Unless, it was being…manipulated," she rasped, scarcely above a whisper.
Bingo.
Immediately, beer siphoned up Utahime's nose, causing her to erupt into violent coughing, while Satoru's neck whirled around like a snowy owl, his widened blue pupils scrutinizing the doctor for the barest trace of a lie. It can't be.
Nanami's expression remained stoic.
"Hold on — cough, cough — Let's think about this for a second," wheezed Utahime, hacking the booze from her lungs. "Say the curse didn't wander in by accident, and..." she chose her words carefully, "he's to blame for it — cough — Why would he want her dead? — cough — That makes no sense."
"Perhaps, assasination wasn't the goal." Nanami looked entirely unperturbed, anticipating this would be the group's reaction, but Gojo's stare couldn't be overlooked. He could feel the arctic chill crystallizing from across the table. He sighed through his nose. "Anything you'd like to say, Satoru?" he asked, tone steady.
"Yeah. As a matter of fact, I would," he seethed, voice matching the temperature in his eyes. His muscles coiled like metal springs, ready to pounce at the slightest upset. "What makes you think he's the culprit and not someone else?" It sounded more like a threat than a question.
Nanami crossed his legs and brought his hands to his lap, calm as a monk. "Residuals don't lie, and I fail to think of another user possessing the Cursed Manipulation Technique. Hardly a coincidence."
"Bullshit!" The table shook. "There's hundreds of unregistered curse users running around. I would know if my best friend — "
"That psychopath isn't your friend, Satoru." Nanami's voice was like the slicing of a guillotine. "He's a traitor. A murderer. Whatever feelings you still harbor for him are grossly misplaced." His fingers brushed the handle of his cleaver knife near his foot. "So too are your antics."
"My…antics?" Satoru scoffed. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"You know exactly what it means." Namami hissed, his eyes gunmetal grey. "You had direct orders to report back once your mission was complete. Not dick around and go sightseeing."
Satoru slouched, exhaling a heavy sigh. "Ah, crap, not you too — Look, I already explained this — There was no curse. I searched everywhere. Someone must've gotten confused and rang a false alarm. Happens all the time."
"Sure it does." Nanami shrugged. "Too bad the higher-ups didn't see it that way. Once again, your gift for pissing off the wrong people has everyone riled up, including The Association. I hear they're asking for your head right about now."
"Oh, yeah? Well, then they'll have to get in line," Satoru growled and threw his head back, arms crossed. "Dammit. Why is everyone acting like this is my fault?"
"Because it is your fault." Nanami's lips curled. He shifted his oxfords so they were square on the floor. The pub became still. "She's your responsibility. Your charge to protect. Your — "
"She's a political pawn. The higher-ups should've never brought her here. This is Tokyo, for fuck's sake, the curse capitol of the world."
"Except they didn't bring her here, Satoru." Nanami countered, jabbing a finger. "You did. You had every opportunity to decline the marriage, and you didn't. You're the reason she's here. So quit bitching, and start acting like an adult for once in your — "
In a quarter of a second, Satoru was on his feet, seizing the collar of Nanami's shirt with a clad-iron fist, glass and tableware crashing to the floor. His bared teeth warped into a sinister smile. A crazed look mirrored his eyes, encroaching on pure delight. He welcomed the blood pounding in his ears, the cursed energy coursing through his veins. Gone was the jester from moments ago. The world's strongest sorcerer stood in his place, Six Eyes on wicked display.
"Careful, Nanami," he warned, voice like shards of serrated glass, "Or else we'll see just how 'misplaced' my antics really are." He felt a roll of satisfaction as a bead of sweat trickled down Nanami's brow, focused fear in his eyes. The business man reached for his cleaver knife in self defense, but Satoru apprehended his wrist, preventing him from taking a slice at his torso. For what felt like hours, the two sorcerers sized each other up, neither one backing down, waiting for the other to make the first move, until a third hand intervened.
"Let him go, Satoru." Satoru looked behind to see Shoko, her expression full of concern for her friends. "They're watching us."
He blinked and quickly spun his head to find several pairs of eyes trained on him, chopsticks not reaching their agape mouths. The entire pub, so stunned by the altercation that one waiter, who'd been refilling a customer's drink, had yet to stop pouring and was spilling alcohol every which way but the cup. Mired in silence, none of them uttered a peep, or moved a muscle. All wondering what the heck was going on, and why some tall albino dude was borderline strangling his friend with a look of murderous intent.
Feeling rarely self-conscious, Satoru shielded his eyes under his bangs and forcefully shoved Nanami back in his seat, releasing him from the chokehold. The salaryman broke into coughing, massaging his throat to reopen his strained airways. The white haired sorcerer wasted no time grabbing for his jacket on the chair.
"H-Hey, you idiot. Where do you think you're going?" accused Utahime, recovering from her own shock.
"Out," Satoru snarled through locked teeth. He procured a wad of cash from his pocket, more than enough to cover the tab (and mess) and dropped it on the table, glaring menacingly at Nanami, who somehow managed to glare right back. He then gave Shoko an apologetic look. "Catch you guys later."
And off he went, stepping outside the izakaya, into the busy nightlife of Tokyo.
The strongest sorcerer on Earth.
AUTHOR'S NOTES
For this chapter's notes, please visit AO3 (Same name).
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