The delicate balance of Tokyo Jujutsu High, a volatile mix of strict training and Gojo's eccentric teaching, was shattered on a seemingly ordinary Tuesday morning. The air, already thick with the unspoken tension of a coming storm, suddenly crackled with a different kind of energy—the cold, unyielding weight of ancient politics pressing down like a physical force.
Arata was in the training hall, practicing Kusakabe's intricate footwork with meticulous precision. Minazuki moved through the air in practiced arcs, a blur of motion that spoke to countless hours of repetition. The rhythmic swish of the blade and the quiet hum of its stored blood formed a meditative rhythm, a comfort he had grown to rely upon. His mind, for once, was entirely on the precision of his movements, momentarily free from the gnawing obsession with Crimson Erosion and its terrifying potential—that dangerous power he had yet to fully understand or control. Across the hall, Maki moved with fierce grace, her polearm singing through the air as it cut invisible arcs. Her usual scowl was fixed in deep concentration, her body language radiating the kind of focused intensity that few could match.
The doors to the training hall slid open with a sharp thwack that cut through the rhythm of their practice, startling them both and breaking the temporary peace they had cultivated. Standing there, formal and rigid as statues, were two figures Arata knew intimately, though intimacy with them had always been marked more by obligation than affection: his father, Kamo Kiyotaka, the current head of the Kamo clan, a man whose very presence commanded authority; and beside him, the grim-faced Zen'in Naobito, head of the powerful Zen'in clan. Behind them stood a retinue of stern-faced elders, their expressions carved from stone by generations of political maneuvering. Their presence alone was enough to chill the air, transforming the training hall from a place of personal growth into a stage for something far more sinister.
Silence descended, heavy and absolute—the kind of silence that pressed against the ears. Even Kusakabe, usually unflappable despite his years of experience with the eccentric world of jujutsu, straightened visibly. His eyes narrowed as he assessed the situation with the careful precision of a veteran warrior.
"Arata," his father's voice cut through the silence, measured and controlled, devoid of any warmth or paternal affection. "And Maki."
Maki, her instincts honed by years of conflict and survival, immediately sensed the fundamental shift in the room's energy. She lowered her polearm slowly, deliberately, her eyes narrowing with deep suspicion. Arata, watching his father's composed expression, felt a cold dread creeping into his stomach like ice water through his veins. He sheathed Minazuki with careful movements, his hand unconsciously brushing the tiny scars etched across his wrist—marks of battles past and struggles internal. This wasn't a casual visit. This was something else entirely. The formality, the presence of multiple clan heads, the gathering of elders—these were signs he had learned to recognize from childhood as harbingers of significant announcements.
Kiyotaka Kamo stepped forward with measured steps, his eyes, so like Arata's own in shape but lacking any of their warmth, holding an unsettling resolve that spoke of decisions already made. "We have an announcement of great importance to the future of our respective clans, and indeed, to the Jujutsu world as a whole," he began, his voice resonating with the weight of authority passed down through generations. His gaze swept over both Arata and Maki with deliberate slowness, lingering on each of them for a fraction too long—a calculated gesture designed to convey the gravity of what was to come. "To consolidate our strength in these uncertain times, to establish a foundation upon which to build greater power, and to unite the most venerable bloodlines in accordance with ancient tradition, the Kamo and Zen'in clans have agreed upon a union. A strategic alliance sealed through marriage."
Arata felt a sudden, sickening lurch in his gut that threatened to overwhelm him entirely. A union. He knew what that meant. The implications crashed over him in a wave of horrified understanding. His eyes darted immediately to Maki, watching as her face went stark white, the color draining away as though someone had opened a valve and let it all spill out.
"Kamo Arata," Kiyotaka continued, his voice resonating with the ancient authority of his position and lineage, "you are hereby betrothed to Zen'in Maki. The ceremony will take place at the earliest auspicious date, as determined by our advisors and elders. This union has been approved by the higher-ups of the Jujutsu society, and all necessary arrangements are being finalized."
The words hit Arata like a physical blow, far harder and more devastating than any of Gojo's attacks, any cursed spirit he had faced, any technique he had struggled to master. He felt the air leave his lungs in a ragged gasp, felt his knees weaken beneath him. Betrothed. To Maki. In that single moment, all the illusions he had carefully constructed came crashing down. He was a political pawn, a piece in a game he hadn't known he was playing, a game whose rules had been written centuries before his birth. His entire life, he had been burdened by his lineage, by the expectations surrounding Sanguine Genesis, by the weight of the Kamo name. But he had always believed, held onto the fragile hope, that he could eventually forge his own path, find his own freedom, carve out some small corner of his life that belonged to him alone. That hope shattered in an instant, crystalline and irreversible. The Weight of Legacy wasn't just about power and technique—it was about ownership, about control, about being property of something larger than oneself. He was owned.
Beside him, Maki let out a low, guttural growl that seemed to come from somewhere primal and untamed within her, a sound of pure, unadulterated fury that echoed through the hall. "What did you say?" Her voice was low, deceptively calm, but it trembled with a contained rage that threatened to erupt like a volcano at any moment. Her body vibrated with suppressed, cursed energy, visible as a faint shimmer around her form, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides.
"It is an official decree, Maki," Naobito Zen'in stated, his voice raspy and dismissive, as though this was beneath his concern, as though her feelings were inconsequential. "A wise decision made in the interest of strengthening our houses and securing the future of jujutsu society. You, as a valuable asset with considerable combat potential, are to play your designated part in this arrangement. This is your role and your duty."
"Asset?" Maki snarled, her entire body going rigid with fury, her eyes blazing with an intensity that made even the elders shift uncomfortably. "You cast me out! You called me a failure, a disappointment to the Zen'in name! You stripped me of my position, my title, my place within the clan! And now, now that it suits your political schemes and your calculations, I'm suddenly an 'asset' to be sold off like cattle at market?!" Her hand flew to the hilt of her polearm in a movement born of instinct, her knuckles going white from the force of her grip. The temperature in the room plummeted noticeably, the air growing thick and heavy as it filled with her raw, defiant, cursed energy. It was a physical manifestation of her rage, a warning written in the very fabric of jujutsu itself.
Arata, still reeling from the shock of the announcement, felt a surge of uncharacteristic anger bloom in his chest—not just at his father's coldness, but at the sheer audacity, the breathtaking arrogance and cold calculation of it all. "Father! You can't be serious! This is… this is absurd! This is our lives you're deciding! Surely there must be another way, another solution that doesn't involve—"
Kiyotaka's gaze was unwavering, immovable as stone, cutting off his protest before he could fully voice it. "It is decided, Arata. The matter is not up for debate or negotiation. Your duty to the Kamo clan, to our bloodline, to the legacy that has been built across generations, transcends your personal preferences and emotions. Your unique abilities, the power inherent in your technique, make this union essential for the future prosperity and security of our line." He turned his gaze to Maki, his expression shifting to one of disdainful superiority. "And you, Maki. This is your chance for redemption, for a proper place within a powerful household, a true purpose beyond being a mere tool cast aside when you are deemed no longer useful. Do not disgrace your new position before you have even begun."
Maki's rage finally broke through all restraint, shattering like glass. "Disgrace?!" She lunged forward in an explosive burst of movement, not at Naobito, but past him toward the open door, a primal scream tearing from her throat that spoke to years of accumulated pain and resentment. "I'll disgrace all of you! Every single one! You think you own me?! You think you can just decide my life like I'm nothing?!"
Before she could escape through the door and flee the suffocating weight of the hall, two of the Zen'in elders, formidable sorcerers whose power was evident in the way they moved, intercepted her with surprising speed. They were powerful, their techniques honed over decades, but Maki, fueled by pure, unadulterated fury and the desperate need to break free, fought like a cornered animal backed into its final stand. Cursed energy flared wildly around her, uncontrolled and explosive. The clang of her polearm echoed through the hall as she lashed out, her strikes desperate and wild, each one carrying the weight of her rage and her refusal to be caged.
Arata, witnessing her raw, humiliated fury as she struggled against the elders' restraining techniques, felt a confusing mix of his own anger and a strange, nascent empathy begin to crystallize within him. He knew exactly how she felt—knew it in his bones, in the very marrow of his being. Trapped. Used. Owned by people who saw him as nothing more than a collection of useful traits and valuable techniques. He wanted to help her, to fight back against the suffocating power of the clans and the systems they represented, to prove that their lives were their own. His muscles tensed, ready to move, ready to act.
Suddenly, Gojo Satoru appeared in the doorway as though materializing from thin air itself, his presence commanding immediate and absolute attention—like a sudden vacuum drawing all energy toward its center. His blinding smile, usually ever-present like a second face, was gone, replaced by a cold, hard expression that Arata had only ever seen moments before a devastating attack was unleashed. His Six Eyes, though hidden behind their typical covering, radiated an intense, focused displeasure that made even the powerful clan heads visibly tense.
"And just what in the world is going on here?" Gojo's voice was dangerously quiet, cutting through the chaos like a blade, commanding silence more effectively than any shout could. His cursed energy, usually playful and seemingly harmless despite its immense power, was now a tangible pressure, visible and almost tactile, making the very air vibrate with suppressed force.
Kiyotaka bowed stiffly, a gesture that might have been respectful if it hadn't been so rigid and devoid of genuine deference. "Gojo-sensei. This is an internal clan matter. A private arrangement for the future of our traditions and the preservation of our bloodlines."
"Internal clan matter?" Gojo's voice was barely above a whisper, yet it seemed to boom through the hall, each word carrying disproportionate weight. "You're deciding the lives of my students without their consent, without even consulting them, and you think that's 'private'?" His gaze, unseen but felt by everyone present as a physical weight, pinned the clan heads in place like insects on a board. "I don't care about your ancient, dusty traditions. Maki and Arata are my students. And you do not treat them like breeding stock. Like property to be bartered and traded. That's not how things work in my classroom, and it's not how things are going to work, period."
Naobito Zen'in, though a formidable sorcerer whose power had been honed and tested in countless conflicts, visibly flinched under the raw, overwhelming force of Gojo's presence and his displeasure. "This concerns the very balance of power within jujutsu society, Gojo. The unprecedented rise of Kamo Arata's unique technique, his Sanguine Genesis, makes this bond not merely desirable but imperative for the future. It will strengthen our bloodlines exponentially, provide a counterbalance to your influence, and ensure that the traditional powers remain relevant in a changing world."
The direct challenge to Gojo's influence and his role as the strongest sorcerer alive hung in the air between them, heavy with implication and barely concealed threat. Arata felt a chill run down his spine, understanding in that moment how completely he had become a piece on a board far larger than he had imagined. His power, his very existence, was being weaponized, used as leverage in a political game that operated on scales and timeframes far beyond his control or comprehension.
Gojo merely chuckled, a low, humorless sound that sent shivers down Arata's spine and made even the powerful elders seem to shrink slightly. "You think you can bind power like that? You think you can control the future by shackling two teenagers, by forcing them into a marriage that neither of them consented to? You're playing a dangerous game, old men. Very dangerous indeed. And I would strongly suggest reconsidering your approach."
His cursed energy flared then, just for a moment—a brief, overwhelming surge that made the floor tremble beneath their feet, caused dust to rain down from the ceiling, and left no doubt whatsoever as to exactly who held the true balance of power in this room, in this school, in this entire situation.
The clan elders stiffened noticeably, but their resolve, hardened by centuries of tradition, by generations of authority and unquestioned power within their domains, remained unyielding and immovable. "The arrangements have been made, Gojo-sensei," Kiyotaka stated, his voice steady and unwavering despite the obvious threat. "They are final. Beyond revision or alteration. Your objections, while noted and respected, change nothing. The decision has been made by powers and institutions far greater than any individual, regardless of their strength."
Gojo stood there for a long moment, the silent tension almost unbearable, stretching and warping time until it felt like hours had passed. Arata watched him desperately, clinging to hope, silently pleading for intervention, for a miracle that would undo this nightmare. But then, Gojo's shoulders relaxed slightly, his immense cursed energy receding like a tide going out, replaced by a subtle, weary sigh that seemed to carry the weight of frustration and the recognition of limitation. Even the strongest sorcerer alive, it seemed, could not dismantle centuries of tradition and institutional power in an instant, could not single-handedly overturn systems built on generations of precedent and reinforced by structures that extended far beyond his immediate reach.
"Fine," Gojo said, his voice returning to its more casual tone, though it was now laced with a chilling undertone that promised consequence. "It's decided. For now. But understand this, and understand it well: if either of my students comes to harm because of your archaic nonsense, if either of them suffers due to this arrangement, I will burn your 'traditions' to the ground myself. I will tear apart everything your families have built, everything you've preserved across the centuries. And you won't like the consequences of that. Not one bit." His gaze flickered to Arata and Maki, a silent promise written in that brief moment of connection. A promise of protection, of someone who would stand against the world if necessary. "You have your decree. Now get out. All of you. This discussion is over."
The clan heads, having achieved their objective and secured their political victory, exited the hall with formal bows and measured steps, leaving a lingering stench of old power and calculated cruelty hanging in the air like a miasma. Their footsteps echoed down the hallway until they faded into silence.
Maki, still trembling with barely contained fury, her entire body vibrating with residual cursed energy, slumped against the wall, her polearm clattering to the floor with a hollow metallic sound. Arata stood frozen in place, unable to move, the full impact of the announcement crashing down on him with the weight of an avalanche. He looked at Maki, her face a mask of shattered defiance and barely concealed anguish, and felt a profound sense of shared violation, of two people caught in the merciless machinery of larger forces. The engagement, that chain forged in political ambition and centuries of tradition, now bound them together whether they wished it or not—two individuals trapped by the cruel whims of their respective legacies, their futures written by hands long dead.
The Weight of Legacy had never felt so suffocating, so absolute, so inescapable.
Panda slowly approached Maki, his massive frame moving with surprising gentleness, his big hand patting her shoulder awkwardly in what he clearly intended as an attempt at comfort. Inumaki offered a soft, consoling "Salmon roe," his voice gentle despite his limited vocabulary, his eyes conveying understanding and sympathy. Arata, unable to articulate the turmoil churning within him—the anger, the helplessness, the violation, the strange and unwelcome connection suddenly forged with Maki through shared trauma—simply stood there in frozen silence, his hand clenched around the hilt of Minazuki until his knuckles turned white. The blade felt colder and heavier than ever before, as though it too was weighed down by the implications of what had just transpired, by the futures that had just been stolen from them both.