It seems I'm not very talented in this crap. I can feel some progress, sure, but without that cursed doll Gojo gave Itadori, I'm crawling compared to him.
Even using my technique requires basic cursed energy control—something I clearly don't have. The power's there, somewhere inside me, but it's like owning a car without the keys.
And I still have no clue how big my cursed energy pool actually is. Is it huge? Average? Pathetic? No way to tell yet. And knowing it's fixed from birth… that's a terrifying thought. It's like running a race without knowing how long the track is—or if I even have the stamina to finish.
The information about my technique appeared in my mind after killing that curse, fully formed, like I'd always known it:
Seisei-jutsu (再生術) – The Art of Rebirth.My cursed energy manifests as blue, spectral flames a living embodiment of life force itself. Unlike normal fire, these flames destroy and reconstruct at the same time, allowing me to heal, revive, and purify. When I'm injured, I don't bleed; I simply turn into living flame, rebuilding myself from the inside out.
…
The problem with having a fancy, self-healing body, I quickly realized, is that it doesn't stop you from getting your ass kicked. It just means you can get it kicked over and over again.
My little "incident" with the curse in the hallway was a fluke a surge of panic and instinct. In a real fight against anything with a brain, I'd be a glorified punching bag that occasionally burst into pretty blue flames.
So, after school, I found myself standing in front of a nondescript building with a sign that read "Kouzan Dojo." It looked… legit. And cheap. Two things that suited my current identity as a broke delinquent.
I slid the door open and was hit with the smell of old wood and sweat. A few people were sparring on the mats, their movements sharp and practiced. A grizzled man in his fifties, who I assumed was the sensei, turned to me with a scrutinizing gaze.
"Can I help you?"
I put on my best "troubled youth seeking discipline" face. It wasn't hard. "I want to learn how to fight."
He looked me up and down, taking in the uniform and the defiant slouch I hadn't bothered to correct. "Martial arts are not for causing trouble."
"Wouldn't dream of it," I said, the picture of false sincerity. "I just want to… defend myself."
He grunted, clearly not believing a word, but gestured me inside.
For the next hour, I watched. And I realized something terrifying: I was utterly, completely out of my depth. My previous life's "fighting" experience consisted of shoving someone in a crowd before sprinting away with their wallet. This was a different world for me.
When it was my turn to try a basic stance and punch, I was clumsy. My body, while young and healthy, had no muscle memory for this. My punches were wild, my feet tangled, and the sensei's corrections were blunt and frequent.
"Your center is weak! You're all arms, no core! Again!"
Sweat dripped into my eyes. My muscles burned with a foreign ache. This was exhausting, and worse—it was humiliating.
This was the foundation. Without it, my cursed technique was just a flashy party trick. I needed to learn how to hit, how to take a hit, and how to move. The flames could put me back together, but they couldn't throw a punch.
As I drove my fist into the heavy bag again, a spark of blue fire flickered unseen over my knuckles for a split second, soothing a nascent bruise.
"Not bad for a first-timer," a voice said behind me.
I turned, half expecting the sensei, but it wasn't him.A girl stood a few meters away, maybe my age—short black hair tied up, sharp eyes, and that confident, no-nonsense posture you only get from actually knowing how to fight. Her uniform marked her as a senior student.
"Thanks," I said, catching my breath. "But you don't have to flatter me. I know I look like a prodigy."
She snorted. "Prodigy? You almost punched yourself in the face five minutes ago."
I grinned, wiping sweat from my forehead. "That's called testing my own reflexes. Very advanced technique. You wouldn't understand."
She rolled her eyes but smirked despite herself. "You're full of it, huh?"
"Only on weekdays," I shot back. "You got a name, or should I just keep calling you beautiful senpai until you kick me through the wall?"
That earned me a sharp glare—and a quick jab to my shoulder.She didn't hold back. I actually flinched.
"Ow! Physical abuse? So soon? Damn, at least buy me dinner first."
Her mouth twitched like she was fighting a smile. "You're annoying."
"Thanks. I practice." I rubbed my shoulder dramatically, then let my gaze sweep over her from head to toe in one blatantly appreciative—but not lecherous—glance. I met her eyes again with a wicked grin. "You know, for a dojo, the scenery is seriously top-tier. Way better than my last gym."
She blinked, processing the compliment-turned-insinuation. When it landed, a deep blush bloomed on her cheeks. "Are you for real right now? You're here for one day and you're already—"
"Appreciating the art?" I finished for her, my tone all innocence. "It's a gift and a curse."