"With me here, this will be over in no time!"
The man summoned to undo the Soul Control Curse on Uchiha Jun'ei was Uchiha Toritama, around thirty years old. He carried himself with the pride of someone who had unraveled countless seals in his career. In his eyes, Natsume Yō's jutsu was child's play—what kind of terrifying curse could a ten-year-old possibly craft?
He'd seen his share of nightmare seals and still broken them without fail. This one? Just another bug under his sandal.
"Then I'll trouble you," Kangaku said coldly. His lips curled in a cruel smile. "Once this curse is gone, I'll take my time grinding that brat into the dirt. To think someone dared to threaten me, Uchiha Kangaku… does he take me for clay to be molded?"
Kangaku placed all his trust in Toritama. If the man said he could break it, then it was as good as done. The thought that failure might backfire—strengthening the curse instead, forcing him to beg Yō—never once crossed his mind.
Toritama snorted, eyes flashing with disdain. "A brat managed to make you this pathetic? Truly the pride of the Uchiha. If not for clan ties, I wouldn't waste my time."
With a cold laugh, he pressed his palm over Jun'ei's head and focused, diving into the seal. He was arrogant, yes—but in this field, he did have the right to be arrogant.
And then… his expression froze.
Every seal he'd ever broken had a rhythm, a logic—a thread that could be followed back to its source. But the curse inside Jun'ei's mind was chaos incarnate, a tangled ball of living threads, constantly twisting, shifting, mutating. There was no "source" to find. No weakness to pull.
It was… alive.
Sweat began to bead on Toritama's brow. For the first time, he realized this wasn't some child's trick. This curse mark was… sophisticated. Terrifyingly sophisticated.
"Impossible… no kid could—" His pride flared, snapping the thought in half. "No. I refuse to believe it. A little brat's curse won't defeat me!"
He'd already sworn he could solve it. To back down now would be public humiliation, a blow to his name that would never heal.
Minutes stretched into an hour. Toritama sat rigid, face slick with sweat, yet his hands hadn't moved an inch closer to unraveling the curse.
Kangaku's gaze sharpened. Even without words, the truth was obvious."…Any progress?" he asked, polite only because he needed the man.
"Give me more time," Toritama rasped, forcing a steady tone. "Just a bit longer. Trust in my skill."
But as he closed his eyes again, his pride cracked. This Natsume Yō… this brat… he's a monster. With a single jutsu, he's created a curse that could stump the greatest fūinjutsu masters in the shinobi world.
Another hour bled away. When Toritama finally pulled his hand back, his robes clung to him, soaked through. His body trembled like he'd just crawled out of a river, and his sigh was the sound of defeat.