I head towards the sign in area with Shiori following closely. The registration table could pass as a festival booth – folding metal legs that wobble under any kind of pressure, stacks of lists with candidates’ names, waiting to be marked as present, and a black cash box that’s labelled: “Trial Donations: ￥2,000,000 target.” The whole area looks like it could pass as a local fundraiser, not a state mass murder.

  The sorcerer that mans the desk couldn’t be much older than me, nineteen is my guess. Based on the softness that still clings to his jaw. I glance at his name tag. “Kitagawa” is written in neat lettering and when his friendly brown eyes flick over Shiori they widen in recognition and he becomes almost manic with excitement. His glasses gleam in the winter sun.

  “Sazama-sama!” he half rises from the plastic folding chair, sending stacks of paper fluttering everywhere. “You’re the Shiori Sazama! The Grade One who managed to exorcise three Grade One curses solo in Okinawa?!” His voice cracks on the last word.

  His excitement ripples through the line of candidates. Heads whip towards us and conversations halt. Whispers break out like a wildfire among the group. I can feel every set on eyes on us. It makes heat flood to my cheeks. I hate being stared at.

  “Yes,” Shiori replies, ignoring everyone else around us. “I’m here to watch my sister in the trials.” She tilts her chin towards me. Kitagawa’s eyes flick between me and Shiori and his smile drops a fraction. His enthusiasm switched into quick analysis in a heartbeat. I can almost see the thoughts swirling around his head: Principals daughter, Shiori Sazama is her sister, unranked herself.

  “Well,” he clears his throat awkwardly. “We expect you’ll live up to your family name then.” His smile is cheerful and bright. How the fuck is this person so happy about teenagers being sent to die?

  I scoff quietly as I grimace. Live up to. Not good luck or you know – don’t die. I’m expected to perform for the family name, that’s more important than surviving. My lips part to respond but a voice from behind cuts me off mid-breath.

  “If she survives at all.” I feel his gaze boring into the back of my head. “Which, judging by the looks of her, that seems unlikely.” Keep your eyes forward Ren. Do not give him the satisfaction. His face isn’t worth remembering. My stomach flips. I’m a target now, and it’ll only get worse until I’m ranked.

  “Ren Sazama.” I say clearly with my chin tilted upwards to Kitagawa. He marks my name off the list with an exaggerated smile. Gods. I’m surprised he’s survived this long with that cheerful attitude.

  Fushiguro-sensei marches over from the sidelines with his arms crossed. A light breeze plays through his black spiked hair. He catches my eye and gives me a curt nod. At least I have one ally in this shitshow. “Kitagawa-kun.” He says in a stern tone. “Is there a problem here? There’s a line forming.” The young sorcerer shakes his head so vigorously his glasses slide down his nose.

  Shiori guides me away from the chaos with a hand at the small of my back, leading us to a gap between candidates. She glances over her shoulder at Fushiguro with gratitude. We settle into a comfortable silence and my attention drifts to the boy on my left, standing with his family. He looks young, seventeen maybe? He’s rail thin and I barely reach his shoulders. But his uniform isn’t tightly fitted like most around. It’s baggy in areas that should be full, and shorter in the sleeves. He’s probably here as a means for his family to get extra money since even the lowest rank sorcerers make a decent wage.

  His mother stands beside him, her hands are twisted together and her hair is scraped into a tight bun the same jet-black shade as her sons. A few sliver strands weaving through hers is the only difference between the two. She reaches up to touch her sons face and I notice the dryness of her hands. Worker hands, likely from something simple like cleaning.

  “Even if you only reach Grade Four,” she murmurs to him, “I’ll be proud. I’d rather have you alive than buried.” Her voice cracks as her eyes brim with tears. She swipes her cheek briefly before the moment is shattered by an older man standing with them - grandfather probably.

  “If the curses take you, then perhaps that was always your role. Do not shame us by hesitating boy.” His face is hard like granite and shows no sign of any emotion. A pang of sympathy tugs at my stomach. Another teenager trying to live up to unreachable standards.

  The boy bows low, but I notice his fingers curling into fists at his side, held tight enough to turn his knuckles white. He stays bowed low, not saying a word. What could he possibly say? It’s clear to anyone in these grounds that he’s a hero or a sacrifice. And from the sag of his shoulders, I think he knows which one his grandfather has decided for him.

  My face flushes hot and something twists in my chest. I want to tell him don’t try to brave. Brave gets you killed and smart gets you home. Shiori’s warning rings through my head: no alliances before ranking. I avert my eyes before I do something stupid like care about someone who could die within the hour.

  “If someone can’t handle this,” a voice from my right cuts through my thoughts like a knife. “They shouldn’t be here.” I know that voice – it’s the same person from earlier who said I wouldn’t survive at sign in. I turn my head slowly and Shiori follows my sight. The boy is broad-shouldered, pale skinned and has spiked honey-blonde hair. The faint smell of citrus drifts towards me. That smell – the same hair product Fushiguro-sensei uses, I’d know it anywhere, from the amount of times he’s thrown me over his shoulder in training. A thin white scar mars his right cheek. Scars are common in sorcerers, we get thrown around like rag dolls more often than not.

  His grey eyes scan over the crowd and an arrogant smirk crosses over his face. His jacket is tailored to fit his shoulders perfectly, and his trousers sit neatly over his polished boots. If anyone here screamed I’m a clan heir its him. I have to fight the urge to roll my eyes. Smug pricks like this guy and the two that flank him, wearing the same smirks, and radiating confidence, are the reason that the system didn’t improve after Satoru Gojo’s death.

  The scarred boys gaze locks onto me. “Others should quit before they start.” His lips curl into a menacing smile. “Or don’t – either way works out for me.” The boys either side of him snicker at the blatant jab. I keep my head high, ignoring him pointedly. Don’t give him the ammunition. He probably won’t survive the trials anyway. The arrogant ones rarely do.

  I catch Shiori’s eye and she mimes gagging with an exaggerated eye roll. “Ignore that shit. We survive when others don’t.” I shove down any feelings that stir inside me at the boys words. But that doesn’t stop the bile that rises up my throat. It works out for me. He’s never had to fight for anything in his life. If he’s smart he’ll head for Zone Three. If he’s cocky he’ll aim for Zone Four. I hope the curses take him, one less stuck up clan heir in this shitty world wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen.

  The rail-thin boy hovers near me, shifting uncertainly before finally stepping closer.

  "You're a Sazama?" He fidgets with his jacket buttons. "They said—at orientation—sticking together helps survival rates."

  Shiori cuts across my response with a murmur only I hear:

  "No formal alliances before ranking. Don't make promises you can't keep if he dies and you don't."

  Her eyes lock on mine. A single subtle shake of her head.

  I exhale sharply and turn back to the field, giving the boy what I hope is an apologetic look. He retreats to his family, shoulders hunched.

  "If someone needs permission to survive," the scarred boy remarks, "they've already lost."

  The rail-thin boy's spine goes rigid. Shoulders drawing inward.

  Shiori's hand tightens on my back before she pulls me into a sudden hug.

  "Try not to die," she breathes into my ear. "I don't want to deal with Dad alone."

  She releases me as quickly as she grabbed me and starts toward the observation area.

  "Stay grounded," she calls back. "Quick thinking keeps you alive."

  I lose sight of her in the crowd.

  The cold metal railing bites into my palms when I grip it for balance. Ahead, the barrier curtains shimmer with barely-suppressed violence.

  "No pressure or anything."

  A voice from my left. Dark humour.

  I turn. A woman approximately my age leans against the railing, arms crossed. Built like a boxer—broad shoulders, visible muscle in her forearms where her sleeves are rolled up. Her dark hair is pulled into a braid so tight not a single strand escapes. Olive-green eyes track the barriers with focused intensity.

  Old scars crisscross her forearms. Cursed tool training accidents. A smaller scar cuts across her jawline.

  Survivor.

  "Oh, absolutely none," I respond before my brain catches up.

  Shit. I've broken my own rule.

  She snorts and turns to face me properly. Sizing me up—threat or ally, hasn't decided yet.

  "I wonder how many candidates made Grade One last year." Her gaze drifts to the training field. "The statistics are probably nightmare fuel."

  Fuck it. I've already broken the rule—might as well commit.

  "Twelve achieved Grade One or above," I say. "No Special Grades."

  Her eyebrows climb. "Twelve? That's actually decent." Her eyes sharpen. "How many died?"

  "Two hundred and seven."

  "Fuck."

  Silence. The kind that follows when statistics become bodies.

  "Misaka Tanaka." She extends her hand.

  "Ren Sazama." I grip her hand, return the pressure.

  Her eyes widen. Her grip tightens. "Sazama? As in—"

  "The Principal."

  She doesn't let go. Using the contact as an anchor.

  "Shit," she mutters. "No wonder you know the stats. You've probably been hearing body counts your whole life."

  "Something like that."

  She finally releases my hand. Her expression shifts—respect mixed with sympathy.

  "Well," she says, turning back to the barriers. "Guess we're both thoroughly fucked then."

  "Oh, absolutely."

  "At least the company's decent while it lasts."

  My lips twitch. I smooth my face back to neutral.

  The boy with too-long black hair lingers at the edge of our conversation. Trying to look casual, failing spectacularly. His hands won't stay still—buttoning and unbuttoning cuffs, adjusting his collar, fidgeting with his shirt hem.

  He never left after Shiori dismissed him. He's been orbiting us, close enough to observe but not willing to commit without permission.

  I take pity on him.

  "Hey! You with the black hair!"

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  He startles violently, nearly trips. Then tilts his head toward me, eyes wide and uncertain as I gesture him over.

  There's a pause where I think he believes I'm joking—setting him up for a cruel punchline. But after a moment's hesitation he shuffles toward us, back hunched. Someone used to being told "no."

  "Sorry about earlier," I say. "My sister can be... intense."

  "It's okay," he replies barely above a whisper. Nervousness bleeding through every syllable. "I understand."

  Misaka studies him with curiosity and concern.

  "Can I stick with you two?" He asks tentatively. Requesting permission to exist. "I'm not very strong. I thought..." He trails off, gaze drifting toward the barriers. "Maybe that would change today."

  I reach out and steady him by both shoulders.

  "Yeah. What's your name?"

  "Hajime Mori." He exhales and his shoulders slump with relief so visible it's almost painful to watch. "I'm not very strong. I thought maybe... maybe that would change today."

  He flinches. Then slowly relaxes.

  "Then do what you can," I say firmly. "And don't try to be brave. Brave gets you killed. Smart gets you home."

  The best advice I have. The only wisdom that might keep him breathing past the next few hours.

  Bravery gets praised in stories.

  Survival gets ignored.

  But only one means walking away.

  His hazel eyes search my face. Whatever he finds there satisfies him. He nods slowly.

  "Okay," he mumbles. "Okay."

  But I can still see the tremor in his hands. The rigid set of his jaw.

  Hajime, I think. His name is Hajime. I need to remember that. Need to remember him as a person, not just another candidate who might not make it.

  He doesn't believe he's leaving here alive.

  Honestly? Looking at the barriers, I'm not sure I am either.

  "I can't fucking wait," Misaka cuts through the tension with a bright smile that seems almost manic. "I've trained my whole life for this. Who doesn't want to fight evil?"

  Most people, I think while glancing at Hajime.

  Heroes aren't made. They're cornered.

  My stomach turns at how crowded the grounds still are. How many warm bodies packed in, waiting to prove they're worthy of survival.

  "So," Misaka continues, nudging me with her elbow, "are your parents cool with this? Mine are supportive—they think I'll do great since it runs in the family." She rolls one shoulder. "And if something goes wrong, they've still got my brother."

  Hajime shifts uncomfortably.

  "My parents think I'll be either a disappointment or a strong sorcerer," he says, voice shaking. "Grade Two minimum. Anything less would be... unacceptable."

  I hate this.

  Not just the system feeding teenagers into a meat grinder. The specific cruelty of parents deciding their children are either tools to sharpen or waste to discard.

  Death is a given in jujutsu sorcery. I know that. It's been drilled into me since before I could walk.

  But I don't have to like it.

  And I don't have to pretend forcing us into combat with creatures designed to kill us just to determine rank is anything other than brutality dressed as meritocracy.

  I look at Hajime, and notice how his spine has gone rigid. Skin paled several shades.

  "Remember what I said," I tell him quietly. "Smart, not brave."

  We drift toward the crowd forming near the trial zones.

  The difference in posture is staggering.

  Those from established families stand tall, relaxed. Heading into an exciting sparring session rather than mortal combat.

  The rest—kids in ill-fitting uniforms, nervous eyes, white-knuckled grips on talismans—have shoulders hunched, spines curved. Already bracing for impact.

  Dark hair and navy uniforms blur together. Nervous energy ripples like electrical current.

  Hundreds of us.

  Every person fighting alone.

  The trial grounds stretch out—vast and claustrophobic simultaneously. Mud crunches under my boots as we tread toward the four distinct zones marked by barrier curtains that shimmer like oil on water.

  Each curtain secured with binding vows. Only sorcerers pass through. Cursed spirits stay trapped until someone exorcises them.

  Or they exorcise the someone instead.

  Each zone radiates different intensities. The more experienced can distinguish by the faint purple glow—stronger curse, more violent pulse.

  The barriers hum with suppressed violence. A frequency I feel in my back teeth.

  Even from here, nausea washes over me when I focus on Zone Four.

  A sorcerer in a crisp blue shirt adjusts his tie, flips through papers on his clipboard, produces a megaphone that crackles with feedback.

  "Candidates will test for the rank of their choosing based on faculty assessment." His amplified voice booms with bureaucratic efficiency. "Grade Four candidates will exorcise a Grade Three curse. Grade Three candidates will face a Grade Two. Grade Two will face a Grade One. Grade One candidates will face multiple Grade One curses simultaneously."

  Weight settles over the crowd. Hundreds of eyes fixed on the speaker.

  "Special Grade rank cannot be tested for directly," he continues, monotone. "It will be determined by demonstrated ability and destructive potential during your trial. If you exhibit the necessary criteria, you will be evaluated accordingly."

  He pauses. Takes a breath. His tone becomes even more detached.

  "Once you enter a barrier, faculty will not intervene under any circumstances. Medical sorcerers will retrieve bodies after trial conclusion. You may forfeit at any time by exiting the barrier—this will result in immediate disqualification and removal from Jujutsu High."

  Bodies.

  Not "the injured." Not "casualties."

  Bodies.

  Around me, reactions vary wildly. Some steel themselves, square shoulders. Others go deathly pale, hands drifting to cursed tools with trembling fingers.

  A girl near the front doubles over. Empties her stomach into the grass with violent heaving.

  Not a single person looks at her.

  We all understand that could be any of us in ten minutes.

  "Testing will commence in ten minutes," the sorcerer announces. "Candidates for Grade Four trials, form a line at Zone One."

  The crowd fractures like a dropped mirror.

  The majority surge toward Zone One—the safest option, most likely to result in some rank rather than dying for glory.

  Others hang back, eyes darting between Zones Two and Three. Calculating odds.

  A small group—very brave or very stupid—heads directly for Zone Four.

  The cursed energy bleeding from that barrier sends cold fingers up my spine.

  "Well," Misaka exhales slowly. "That's clear enough."

  The boy looks pale enough I'm genuinely concerned he might faint before we reach the barriers.

  The megaphone announcement echoes: medical sorcerers will retrieve bodies.

  "What are you testing for?" Misaka asks, turning to me.

  "Grade Two," I say. The words come out steady despite the anxiety churning my gut. "That's what my assessment recommended based on cursed energy levels and technique potential."

  Shiori's voice fills my head: survive first, impress never.

  Grade Two offers a path that might actually get me home.

  "Ren Sazama."

  My father's voice cuts through every conversation—sudden, clean, impossible to ignore.

  Every head whips toward the sound. Faculty freeze. Even candidates already lined up at Zone One turn to stare.

  Dad stands at the edge of the faculty section, arms crossed. His gaze fixed not on me but on the crowd. Making absolutely certain everyone hears.

  Principal Sazama. Not my father.

  "You'll test for Grade One."

  Reactions ripple outward:

  Misaka's eyes widen. Her mouth opens, snaps shut. Her hand finds mine in a grip tight enough to hurt.

  The boy beside me goes rigid. His breath hitches.

  Candidates nearby step backward. Creating distance. Like failure might be contagious.

  The scarred blonde boy, actually laughs. The sound vibrates through my bones, setting my teeth on edge.

  Faculty exchange glances—shocked to grimly satisfied.

  Even the Higher-ups behind their elevated screens stop murmuring to watch.

  My stomach twists into knots and I swallow back the vomit that coats the back of my throat.

  I want to live.

  But Dad's face is carved from stone—cold and unwavering. Principal Sazama doesn't negotiate.

  "I was assessed for Grade Two this morning," I say, trying to hide the slight shake in my voice. "The evaluation recommended—"

  "I'm aware of your assessment." He interrupts. His voice carries across the grounds, loud enough for everyone to hear. Publicly overruling the official recommendation. "You'll test for Grade One. Or you'll leave Jujutsu High immediately."

  My heart slams against my ribs, it’s the only sound I hear as every person stands still.

  Misaka's hand tightens around mine to almost bone-breaking.

  Dad holds my gaze for one long moment. I search his face for concern, doubt, acknowledgment that he's sentencing his daughter to near-certain death.

  Nothing. Just ice and expectation and the unspoken command: prove your worth or die trying.

  I straighten my spine, but my shoulders draw inwards.

  "Yes, Dad.”

  He nods once—curt acknowledgment—then turns back to his conversation like he hasn't just publicly humiliated me in the worst possible way.

  Whispering starts immediately, spreading like a disease:

  "Sazama, of course—"

  "Clan pressure—"

  "She's fucked—"

  "Stone cold, doesn't even care—"

  "Eighteen years old and her own father—"

  I tune it out and focus on my breathing, in through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t you dare have a panic attack here. You stand strong in the face of danger. That includes Dad.

  A large calloused hand shoves me forward from behind. I stumble as I catch my balance using Misaka as a weight.

  The scarred blonde boy. Again. I suppress the groan that threatens to rip from my throat.

  "Move it, Sazama. You're in my way."

  "Not worth it," I mutter to myself.

  The humid October air presses down. The crowd for Zone Four is significantly smaller—maybe twenty candidates willing to risk multiple Grade One curses.

  The barrier looms ahead and a sharp whistle slices through the noise. The candidate at the start of the line disappears through the dark barrier curtain.

  I wonder how many bodies they'll drag out today.

  Statistics: roughly sixty percent attempting Grade One trials don't survive. Most survivors don't last a year before a mission kills them anyway.

  Dad's voice rings through my skull: If you can't handle a curse above your assessed grade, you're not worthy.

  I'm not here for glory.

  I'm here because the alternative is proving Dad right—that I'm not strong enough to be a Sazama.

  Survival isn't noble.

  It's just all I've got.

  Bile rises. I breathe carefully through my nose, shift my weight. Dry ground shifts under my boots.

  Misaka stands beside me, shoulders squared, eyes burning with almost feverish determination.

  Four ranked sorcerers stand at Zone Four's entrance, maintaining perimeter control:

  The first wears a hood sewn into his jacket—barrier maintenance specialist. Cursed energy radiates off him in steady waves, keeping the curtain stable. The metallic taste intensifies as we get closer, coating my tongue.

  The second has long black hair covering half her face. She monitors a tablet—live feed from inside. Her expression stays perfectly blank. Watching someone fight for their life in real time.

  The third keeps their jacket zipped over their mouth—cursed speech user. Hands loose at their sides, ready for rapid deployment.

  The fourth turns slightly.

  My breath catches.

  Tall—easily over six feet. White hair catches the afternoon light, seems to glow against bruised purple storm clouds. His stance radiates relaxed confidence. Like violence is an abstract concept rather than real danger.

  Which, knowing who he is, probably reflects accurate experience.

  As he shifts I catch the tell-tale shimmer—Infinity active. Faint distortion like heat waves. An invisible barrier between him and reality.

  His jacket hangs open despite the October chill, revealing a black shirt underneath. Strong shoulders. Fighter's build despite probably never being hit thanks to Infinity.

  His round sunglasses have slid halfway down his nose.

  Blue eyes. Electric, striking blue that cuts through everything.

  Six Eyes. The Gojo clan's inherited technique.

  White hair, blue eyes, Infinity shimmering like a second skin.

  Definitely a Gojo.

  Not just any Gojo.

  "Ready for this shitshow, Gojo?" the hooded sorcerer calls with casual familiarity.

  Satoshi Gojo.

  My stomach drops through the ground.

  Why did Shiori tell me to run?

  Doesn't matter—I'm already in line for Zone Four. Nowhere left to run.

  He's the kind of beautiful that makes you forget to breathe, then remember exactly why that's dangerous. Sharp features, elegant bones, casual power of someone who's never lost because fights require the possibility of losing.

  Everything about him screams dangerous.

  So why can't I look away?

  He's supervising my trial.

  Fuck.

  "I'll see you after, yeah?!" A voice calls from Zone Two.

  I turn. Hajime waves at me before stepping through the barrier. Disappears.

  I manage a nod. You'd better make it out, Hajime.

  A knot forms in my stomach watching him go. I gave him advice—smart, not brave—but will it be enough? He was so nervous, so uncertain, fidgeting with his jacket buttons like his hands couldn't stay still.

  I push the thought away. Can't afford to think about that right now.

  "You ready to kick some curses into next week, Sazama?" Misaka asks, moving forward in line. Forced enthusiasm doesn't quite mask underlying tension.

  Satoshi Gojo's head snaps toward me at the mention of my name.

  Not casual. Predator identifying prey. Every muscle tensing. Full attention locking on with laser focus.

  He turns fully. Fluid, controlled. Nothing like Satoru Gojo—playful, charming, approachable.

  This Gojo moves like you'd expect if you stripped away soft emotions. Left only cold efficiency.

  His Six Eyes track me with unnerving precision. I know he's seeing things I can't conceptualize—how my cursed energy coils, how my heart rate spiked, probably the exact chemical composition of anxiety flooding my system.

  "Oh, fuck," I whisper.

  "Sazama?"

  His voice is cold, flat. Like my name physically pains him.

  He steps toward me with deliberate intent. Closes the distance faster than I'd like.

  I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Five-foot-five means I spend a lot of time looking up. But standing this close to Satoshi Gojo with Infinity shimmering between us and his Six Eyes dissecting every micro-expression makes me feel less like a person, more like an insect under glass.

  Small. Breakable. Insignificant.

  But I force myself to nod. Hold his gaze.

  For just a split second, I watch his pupils dilate before his expression goes cold.

  I can taste his resentment in the air—bitter like burnt coffee, mixing with ambient cursed energy.

  "You're Principal Sazama's daughter?" An accusation.

  "You're Satoshi Gojo." I tilt my chin up, meet his eyes directly.

  Refusing to back down.

  If he's going to hate me for my father's policies, he can do it to my face.

  A muscle in his jaw ticks. His hands—loose a moment ago—curl into tight fists.

  "Your father sends kids to die and calls it training."

  I raise one eyebrow.

  So he hates me because of the trials? Like this is my fault?

  What a dick.

  My nostrils flare. Anger courses through my veins hot enough to override fear.

  "Your clan is the reason my mother died."

  "Not really." His eyes rake over me. Assessing as threat, cataloguing every detail. "Your sister is one of the top Grade Ones. I suppose that explains the fire."

  "I suppose so."

  We hold eye contact. My hands twitch with the urge to form hand signs, to do something.

  But I force myself still.

  Fighting Satoshi Gojo would be suicide. Infinity would stop any attack. Besides, I need every ounce of cursed energy for the trial.

  Be smart, Ren. Not brave.

  "Everything good here?" Misaka's voice cuts across the tension. Her eyes flick between us, reading the hostility.

  Satoshi glances at her briefly. His attention returns to me.

  "You made friends before the trial?" His eyebrows rise slightly.

  "We met before trials started," Misaka replies, chin lifted in subtle challenge.

  He looks at both of us. Something flickers across his features—curiosity or pity, gone too fast to identify.

  "Zone Four." His gaze bores into mine. "You're sure?"

  I lift my chin higher. "Are you?"

  Something dangerous flashes across his face. The corner of his mouth twitches.

  Not quite a smile.

  Not quite a threat.

  "We'll see, Sazama."