(Public) *Yet* Another New Story Idea (Patreon)

Y'all know the drill. I think up an idea, I give it a shot, if it's popular it continues, if it isn't, it gets dropped (cough cough, Battle Algorithm, cough cough).

This one's a crossover between JJK x DxD where both power systems are characters do exist in the same universe. Unlike the MHA idea, these are the long chapters, the first one I just wrote is already 6k+ words so uh, that should give you some perspective. Expect a week or two+ between chapters if it gets anywhere.

So yeah, that's about it. Enjoy, and let me know what you think, comments, advice, suggestions, it's all helpful.

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Chapter 1: A New ‘Me’

So it’s happened…

Reincarnation. 

No, perhaps it would be more accurate to call it transmigration? I don’t seem to recall dying after all, in fact, I can’t recall the previous ‘me’ being the victim of any kind of incident whatsoever. Physical trauma. Illness. Mugging. A perfectly timed truck collision. None of it clicks. 

There was no voice either, mechanical or ethereal, ushering me into a life that wasn’t mine. No offers, no courteous advice or introduction to prepare me for what’s to come.

I blinked.

That’s all I can remember. There I was, enjoying a pleasant afternoon on my mattress. A tablet in one hand, which provided me with yet another Netflix show to binge, and a bowl of chips in the other which I probably shouldn’t have been consuming on my bed, cleanliness and whatnot, but that’s irrelevant. What’s relevant, is the fact that a simple blink, a motion my sixteen-year-old self mathematically would’ve performed 80-110 million times before, resulted in my soul being whisked out of its mortal coil and dumped here… 

Wherever ‘here’ is supposed to be.

I know this isn’t just a dream produced by me unknowingly dozing off, because I’ve tested it every way possible. I’ve pinched myself. Slapped myself. Recited the alphabet backwards to try to stimulate my brain into snapping back to reality… 

Futile. Pointless. A moot effort.

I’m still here. My eyes fixed onto the mirror reflection of a stranger’s body. His skin, much too unblemished and well-maintained to be mine. His hair, obsidian in color, long, messy, and much too luscious to be a product of my half-assed shower routine. His eyes, light-brown, and far more vibrant than mine ever were. 

None of this, not one iota, resembles the ‘me’ I’m familiar with.

(Image)

And even that… the concept of who ‘I’m’ supposed to be has grown muddied by virtue of a sudden, migraine-inducing influx of memories that have just been crammed into my cranium. Like a hoard of Japanese salarymen boarding the metro during rush hour. 

Sixteen years worth of memories that are both foreign and homely at the same time. Happy memories, sad memories, neutral memories. The formation of friendships, the loss of friendships, the longing for friendships. Education, hobbies, aspirations. They’re all parallel between the ‘me’ I’m confident was the first me, and the me I’m staring at right now.

It hurts… 

It really. Fucking. Hurts.

Ironically enough, the blink is both the cause of this mess, and the only chronological comfort I have. For I can remember, without any struggle whatsoever, that there was a ‘me’ that existed before I shut my eyes, and a different me that came to when I opened them. It’s the only thing that reinforces the concept that I’ve transmigrated within my mind, without it, I’d probably be thinking about checking myself into a psychiatric ward at this very moment.

I took a deep breath, pressing one hand against my throbbing temple and centralizing my focus on the blink—the only reassurance I had to maintain my sense of self. Composure doesn’t settle in completely, so I take another, repeating the motion of a slow, drawn-out exhale, and an equally-timed inhale to follow-up. I have to relax, there’s no other choice. Clarity won’t bless me otherwise.

Deep breath.

I have… or rather, I had a name. Julius Smith. It’s an American name. I myself am— was American. I spoke and wrote the English language. I was sixteen years of age. I attended high school. I had two loving parents. Lucas Smith, my father who worked in middle management, and Katie Smith, my stay-at-home mother who handled everything she needed to with ease.

Deep breath.

This ‘me’... no… ‘I’ have a name. That name is ‘Shūkurō Tsukishima’. It’s a Japanese name. I myself am Japanese. I speak and write the Japanese language. I have an age: sixteen. The same as I once was. I no longer have two loving parents, both of them worked an office job, in the same office and company, because it’s how they met each other in the first place. 

Tanaka Tsukishima, my father. Amano Tsukishima, my mother. Happily married with me as their only offspring.

Deep breath.

Then, one year ago, that office caught on fire. Mismanaged city planning. Potential gas leak. A simple ill turn of fate. Excuses excuses. Pointed fingers. No real demonstration of accountability both on the company’s side, and local government officials. Just swept under the rug and destined to collect and dust and be forgotten by the legal system for the rest of time.

Deep breath.

That angers me. It really angers me, so much so that I can feel my fingers clenching the edges of my bathroom sink to the point of whitened skin and boiled blood from the mere thought of it alone. 

Of course, why wouldn’t it anger me? My parents were burned alive, alongside dozens of others simply because some dope with gelled-back hair and a crisp bespoke suit couldn’t be bothered to fork over the necessary funds to maintain an efficient sprinkler system.

Those affected, who lost their loved ones just as I did feel the same anger. Including my aunt, Shimuzo Tsukishima, the woman I’ve been living with ever since. 

She’s my mother’s older sister. A kind, compassionate soul just as she was. She does an excellent job of looking after me, she’s a good cook, attentive, exceptionally diligent, the mirror image of the former me, Julian’s mother. Granted, she can be a tad overprotective at times. Not that I blame her, I’m the last remnant of her little sister’s legacy. Her reflection.

Knock! Knock! Knock!

As I go over these newfound memories, I hear the gentle, rhythmic sound of knuckles tapping against the bathroom door.

“Shūkurō? Is everything alright in there?” Shimuzo asked me from the other side, maintaining the air of mild concern which I know to be false. Or more accurately—a grave understatement. If I don’t provide her with a satisfactory response within the next three seconds, she’s going to kick this door down military style just to make sure she has access to me.

Still, she means well.

“Yeah, I’m coming out now.” I hear an undertone of rekindled confidence in my own voice, which I imagine stems from me somewhat re-establishing who I’ve become, and who I used to be. The sensation of being comfortable within one’s own skin.

Unhurried so as not to appear out of sorts, I open the bathroom door. As long as I mentally reiterate the fact that I am now ‘Shūkurō’, I doubt she’ll notice anything. Especially since I have his memories crammed into me, serving as an exact guideline for how she expects me to carry myself, act, and react to her.

I came face-to-face with a woman in her early 40s. Though her appearance suggested she was a decade younger thanks to the wonders of Japanese dieting and skincare. Shimuzo’s hair was a dark, chestnut shade. Lengthy, and cascading over her left shoulder in a neat, uniform braid. The embodiment of a ‘refined Onee-san’ in some people’s eyes, or so I would presume.

Speaking of which, hers possessed the exact same shape and coloration as mine. The only difference being hers struck me as being heavier, more in a metaphorical sense than physical. You had to really pay attention to see them, but there were faint, layered lines underneath her lower eyelids. Like the inner lining of an oak tree. Aged and telling.

Most, even those who noticed them at all, would brush them off as the toll of a busy lifestyle. Which was true, to a degree. Shizumo works at a supermarket here in Kuoh Town as the Store Manager, a position she approaches with proactive diligence and work. But the lines under her eyes aren’t rooted in that, they’re rooted in the weight of loss hanging over her.

A mere year is not enough for her to move past the loss of her beloved little sister, perhaps even a lifetime won’t suffice. I can somewhat detach myself from it, by taking the backseat through Julian’s perspective instead of directly embodying Shūkurō’s. 

But Shimuzo? She has no such luxury.

“Are you sure everything’s alright?” To my befuddlement, she pressed further. Her cold, soft palm pushing against my face. “You look a little pale… you’re not ill, are you?” 

Her tone was light and gentle, welcoming as could be, but her posture was the polar opposite. It was stern, authoritative. Insistent that I dare not lie to her, especially in matters regarding my own well-being. Again, her intentions were good, but they came from a source of unstable, obsessive overprotectiveness of me. 

Which for all intents and purposes, was pretty damn terrifying.

I swallowed my hesitation, I know how she operates. The more disorder I show, the more panicked she’ll become. I can’t let her see any chinks in my armor, for lack of better words. Not unless I want to stress her out to the point of a fatal heart attack. 

I chuckled, my demeanor blatantly laid-back. “I’m fine, trust me. Just a little fatigued from all the studying.”

As a fresh middle school graduate, I’ve got my high school entrance examinations coming up. ‘Kuoh Academy’, I believe the name is? It used to be an all-girls school, but it just recently went co-ed, and with Shimuzo already being employed here, it made for a convenient educational destination.

She tilted her head, her eyes telling me she wasn’t entirely sold, but convinced enough to drop the matter—at least for now. “I won’t tell you your studies aren’t important, but make sure you’re eating and resting properly, alright? All that work won’t amount to much if you’re too tired to perform when the moment comes.”

I smiled and performed a childish, military salute. “Yes, Ma’am!” 

I seem to have a tendency to act this way around her, it’s almost like an instinctual defense system that prevents any inconsistencies from appearing on her radar. A means to reassure her that I was indeed happy with her, and not a fragile piece of antique pottery that’d snap into a million little pieces of flesh, blood, and bone if she didn’t watch over me 24/7 like a helicopter parent.

I won’t pretend like it’s the healthiest way to live, but it has its merits.

Thankfully, my quip managed to fish a laugh out of her. “Come, I’ve just made dinner. My little genius needs his energy, doesn’t he?”

“That he does,” I agreed. The fragrant, mouth-watering smell of freshly cooked Tonkatsu hitting my nostrils with the impact of a full-speed freight train. 

Man, I love food.

---

Four days later.

It’s been some time since I awoke as Shūkurō, the rhythm of existing as the person I am now has become significantly more natural to me than before. Second nature even. I know what I need to do, I know how to do it, and I know exactly why I’m doing so.

Moreover, I’m much more organized than I was in my old life, meaning that I actually have a schedule to live by rather than deciding the tasks I decide to tackle each day based solely on ‘feeling’. In other words, the modus operandi of coming up with countless excuses not to do anything I don’t want to do.

6:00. I wake up, bright and early. Make my bed, brush my teeth, morning shower, all that good stuff. 

6:30. Shimuzo prepares breakfast before she heads to work.

7:00 - 9:00. First study session of the day, primarily to work on Japanese Language and Mathematics. 

A bit frustrating at times, but thankfully, my parents knew better than to let me slack off earlier on in life. So I had a good foundation of pre-existing knowledge, and habitual studying tactics with proven effectiveness to rely on. And thank heavens for that, the American educational system is a complete walk in the park compared to this. 

Hell, the middle school version of me could make the high school version of my old self look like he had yet to even grasp the very concept of education itself—effortlessly.

Hallelujah for that, I don’t even want to consider what it’d do to Shimuzo’s mental state if I didn’t get into high school.

9:00 - 11:00. Recreational time. I mainly use it to wander around Kuoh Town, sightseeing and whatnot, giving my eyes a chance to get used to the world around me. The walking alone serves as a nice bit of exercise, which I know I’ll need for a fact if I want to maintain a respectable level of body fat while being subjected to Shimuzo’s level of culinary expertise.

12:00. Lunch. I either eat something Shimuzo prepares for me in advance, or go eat out somewhere with the weekly allowance I’m alloted: ¥5,000. The average for a high school age Japanese citizen such as myself, and enough to enjoy myself so long as I practiced proper financial management habits. 

Albeit, self-control is proving a tall task when I have to fight the urge to try out all the delicacies of a new country. 

But I must persist, for wallet-kun’s sake!

1:00 - 3:00. Study session number two, an hour longer than the last. I mostly work on Science and Social Studies, which again, isn’t hard to keep up with my firm academic background and experience. It’s a bit tedious, sure, but not wanting to disappoint or worry Shimuzo happens to be an excellent source of motivation. 

Everyone has that ‘thing’ that keeps them going, and Lord knows neither Shūkurō nor Julian are the type to study solely because they enjoy studying itself.

4:00 - 6:00. Again, more time to chill, which I make sure to savour. It’s a privilege that’s bound to vanish into thin air, destined to be mounted once I’m enrolled about a month from now. The entrance examinations take place in ten days, the results are listed a week after, and inauguration happens one more week after that. 

Honestly, I’m still a little on-edge about the school I’m applying to being newly-minted as co-ed. At first, I thought that meant the arrangement was made a year or two ago. But nope, as fate would have it, this year, as in the year I’ll be enrolling, is the first year where co-ed will be practiced.

In other words, there’s a very real chance I’ll be amongst less-than-a-handful of boys, or perhaps even the only boy in the coming semester. Which is a situation to be envied if you’re watching a world through the screen of an Anime, but in reality? It’s bound to be mind numbingly awkward.

Speaking of Anime…

I swear the name Kuoh Town rings a bell somewhere in this head of mine. I mean, I was transmigrated, transmigration itself is a fantasy-based occurrence. Thus, it stands to reason that I could be ushered into a fantasy-based world, perhaps one I’ve even read or watched before. 

However, I can’t ascertain that claim for certain since I wasn’t given any introduction in advance, or shown a holographic screen that popped up before my very eyes, despite me shouting the word “System!” into the air like a borderline schizophrenic.

As far as I can tell, I haven’t ‘awakened’ anything. However… I have felt something. Though I don’t know if it’s truly worth paying attention to since there’s a good chance it could just be an aftereffect of my formerly shaky mental state before I found my footing. 

There’s this… cold I can feel inside me at times, almost like a phantom limb of sorts. I haven’t manifested anything physical to prove its existence, but a deep—very deep recess of my mind swears there’s something there to be uncovered. 

Admittedly, the sensation can be quite frustrating at times. It’s as if I’m a fisherman, whose rod cries wolf that it's caught onto something only for me to reel it in and come up empty-handed. Every. Single. Time. Nonetheless, no matter how many times I try to convince myself nothing’s there, the unwelcome feelings pop right back up. Happy for me to repeat the cycle.

Honestly, maybe I’m the one at fault. Maybe I’m the one desperately hoping to fish something out of the ocean of my own body, I mean, who wouldn't? As a concept, power’s impossibly attractive. Especially the supernatural kind that ‘elevates’ you from other people. 

However, it’s a bit different for me. 

I’ve been fed proof that supernatural occurrences are in fact, real. My transmigration alone is irrefutable evidence.

I, myself, am a supernatural occurrence. That must be why this feeling won’t leave. 

The only question is whether or not there’s any truth to it? 

I suppose the only way to answer that, at least in my current situation, is to keep digging. To continue searching within until my hand finally latches onto something worth pulling up into the surface.

Anywho, back to the topic of my schedule.

7:00 - 7:30. Usually the time Shimuzo gets home and prepares dinner where we chat and socialize over, going through how our days went and what have you.

8:00 - 9:00. Final study session of the day, this slot used to be dedicated purely for English, but thanks to my extraordinary circumstances, I barely need to spend any time on it at all. I just feign concentration in my room for that period to not alert Shimuzo. 

10:30. I hit the hay, a healthy body needs a healthy sleep schedule.

That’s about it for my day-to-day life. I doubt there’ll be any alterations in my schedule until I’m officially a high school student, so until then, I’ve decided to just relax as much as possible. 

That said…

I do find myself feeling rather melancholic at times, it’s hard not to when I think back on the life I had a few days ago. An entirely different one, with different friends, a different family, and a different upbringing. 

I can’t help but feel homesick, and frankly, terrified. What are my parents going through right now? What do they think happened to me? Is my face up on a missing poster somewhere? Or has ‘Shūkurō’ also switched with me? Does he now possess my former flesh?

I want answers, but I don’t know how to get them. I don’t even know if it’s possible to.

Sometimes, it’s easier for me not to think about them at all. To pretend like that life was just a passing, distant memory of mine. To tunnel-vision myself onto my current surroundings. If I don’t think about my old parents, I don’t have to think about the immense pain and distress they could be experiencing.

But that’s cowardice, I know it is.

Truthfully, I have no idea how to approach this life, besides going through the set template Shūkurō’s memories have provided me. It’s not a second chance, how could it be? I never lost the first, I was just forced out of my body and put into this one. I don’t know who, or what’s responsible for it, and most importantly, why they even did it at all.

Why me? What makes me special?

I hate how clueless I am.

If I don’t learn something soon, I fear what it’ll do to my mind. 

---

Ten days later.

The base of my sneaker’s synthetic material tapped against the hardwood floor of Kuoh Academy’s exam hall. A hall, which I was now leaving after finishing a long, grueling day of entrance examinations. 

The test papers were split into multiple, sixty-minute sessions for each subject: Japanese, Math, English, Social Studies, and Science. One hour breaks wedged in between to give us test-takers time to cool down and prepare for the next paper.

Honestly, I think I did just fine. At no point did I feel stumped or blocked during the questions, my ballpoint pen flowed nicely, and my brain rarely found itself stressed out by any of the topics or particulars. 

Well, at least in terms of academics…

From what I have observed thus far, I am the only boy that’s stepped foot into this exam hall since morning, and unsurprisingly, that resulted in me receiving an onslaught of odd stares from everyone else looking to get in this semester. A grim indicator for the kind of social life I’m going to have once I’m actually donning the school’s uniform.

I could hear them whisper to each other nonstop. “Do you think he’s a pervert?” “He must be, he’s the only boy who applied. You know what they’re like when they hear the word ‘all-girls’.” “Do you think he has a girlfriend?” “He doesn’t look concerned. You think he actually knows what he’s doing, or he’s just trying to look cool in front of everyone else?” “Hey, do you think I should try hit on him?”

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg. In fairness, not all the comments were negative, most were just a product of justified, morbid curiosity. More neutral in nature. 

But still, their stares made it feel like I had a thousand needles brushing up millimeters away from my skin at all times. Enough to make my stomach churn—and this is when they all have the pressure of the examinations weighing down on their shoulders.

What’ll it be like when school actually begins?

Maybe it’s best I cross that bridge when I get to it.

Post-exam, I wasted no time high-tailing it back to the comfort of my own home. I could see some of my future peers working up the courage to approach me directly, either to satisfy their intrigue or to make a forward jab at me because someone else dared them to. 

Ill intentions or not, I really can’t bring myself to deal with that right now. Interactions are inevitable, but they can wait until I’m in uniform.

I find myself back within the confines of my bedroom, Shimuzo still hours away from finishing today’s shift. 

Huh…

What now?

Usually, this would be time for me to focus on my studies, but there’s obviously no need for me to do so. 

Honestly… I should be glad that the entrance examinations are finally over, for anyone, that’d be a relief. But somehow, it’s the complete opposite for me. It’s a burden.

Why?

I’m not sure what to distract myself with for the next two weeks. Since I transmigrated, I’ve used the inevitable exams, and the studying that preluded to it as a means not to think about the things I don’t want to think about: my cluelessness, my constant efforts to keep Shimuzo calm, my struggle to get used to a world with regressed technology. 

It’s 2005, the air fryer hasn’t even been invented—and we don’t even have macbooks yet.

Pain. Unending pain.

I breathed a resigned exhale, sauntering over to my bed and leaping upwards, planting my back firmly onto the mattress. My eyes fixed onto my bedroom ceiling and my hands folded over my stomach, one finger rhythmically tapping against the back of my hand. 

I can already feel it returning, the unwelcome stress, the unwanted confusion, the desperate yearning for knowledge. Focusing on my exams was just a stopgap, a half-measure. The root of the problem has very much persisted, and I’m still just as helpless to do anything about it as I was fourteen days ago.

Is this really all there is? A supernatural occurrence that birthed me into a completely natural life? No wonder? No excitement? No fantasy to be delved into head-first?

Seconds passed, and I felt my face begin to warp. “I don’t accept that,” I muttered aloud. The corners of my mouth downturned into a foul, ugly scowl. A face I’d never dare to wear in front of Shimuzo, no matter how disgruntled I became.

I’ve tried telling myself that I’m alright with this, that I didn’t need anything crazy to add color to my life. That simply living as Shūkurō Tsukishima is enough of a blessing in and of itself.

Bullshit.

It’s complete bullshit. 

I’m not willing to accept things as they are. I’m not willing to stop looking up at the sky with dreamy, wishful eyes. I don’t know who, or what’s responsible, but it robbed me of my old, mundane, ordinary life. It took that from me, it stole my peace and tranquility.

And for what? For nothing? Just because it thought it was amusing?

I reached up, tracing the skin against my forehead, slightly bulged to the touch with throbbing veins of annoyance. 

Usually, I’d do everything in my power to suppress this childish disagreement of mine. The feeling that I’m ‘owed’ something, and that my situation isn’t just some random, cosmic happenstance so far beyond my comprehension that trying to make heads or tails of it is nothing but a pointless endeavor.

But that’s not how I really feel, the truth is much more pathetic and immature, but it’s the truth—it possesses infinitely more value than the facade.

I do think I’m owed. 

I do want power.

I do want to be like those figures of fantasy I’ve read and watched.

I want to be supernatural.

Is that so wrong? To want it simply because I think it’d be ‘cool’ to have it? 

Maybe, maybe it is.

I still want it nonetheless.

“Either give me that, or give me my family back. Take the memories of ‘Shūkurō’ from me and put everything back the way it was! Otherwise, what’s the point of all this? What meaning is there in me living anew when I didn’t even get to see life through the first time?” 

There’s a solid chance no one’s listening, and even if they were, what obligation would an existence capable of transmigrating me have to listen to me at all? I’m but an ant screaming at an incomprehensible heaven, a voice with no real weight, value, or purpose.

Regardless, I still want to scream at them. I’m so tired of suppressing these turbulent feelings of mine, the negativity that I’ve been trying to convince myself wasn’t real. A boogeyman born of my own imagination.

“Honestly, what do you expect me to do? Pretend I didn’t experience anything and live a normal lif—”

“Buzzzzz. Food. Food. Buzzzz.”

I stopped myself midsentence.

What did I just hea—

“Foooood! Buzz! Buzzzzz!”

I performed a set of slow, repeated blinks. The kind you did when you heard or experienced something, but weren’t quite sure whether it was real or made believe.

“Buuuzzzzz! Buzzz!”

I heard it for a third time. A voice. A heavily distorted, super high-pitched, nasally voice. Repeating the same two words, one of which was a straight-up sound effect, over and over again. A sound that’d be impossibly annoying if I wasn’t so starstruck, fascinated—

And hopeful.

“Food. Buuuuuzzzzzz!”

Slowly, I arched my slouched head backwards, towards the source of the noise which appeared to originate from the wall behind me.

And there ‘it’ was, for there was no term to describe what I saw other than ‘it’. Save for the term ‘creature’, but that’s pretty much to the same effect. 

It was crawling across my wall. Medium-sized, about the same as my backpack. Beige in color, and oddly shaped. I’d call it an insect, but it was too damn cartoonish looking for it to be a natural creature born from mother nature. Much less one that lived in urban Japan.

“Buzzz?”

Like me, it arched its head. Staring at me with its obscenely large, comical beady eyes. The small pair of white, feathery wings attached to its stubby torso fluttered a few times. As if it were preparing to pounce with all its inconsequential might.

I didn’t scream. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t stumble off my bed and scurry away as fast as my feet would allow. 

I just stared. I stared at the ‘monster’ that existed before my very eyes, the cold inside me welling up stronger than it ever had. 

And then I understood.

This creature was not a monster.

It was an answer to my prayers. A beautiful, magnificent, divine summon to my pleas, frustration, and boiling inner resentment towards my own situation.

An unapologetic, unsuppressed, unrestrained smile graced my face. 

This is really, happening isn’t it?

Yeah! It totally is!

“Buzzzz!” 

It pounced at me, but my hands were quicker, allowing me to reach out and grab it by its squishy torso, my clasp tightening within fractions of a second. It could do naught but blurt out distorted yelps and panicked screams, its helplessness no different than that of mine to my own transmigration. 

“HAH! I KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU ARE! YEP! OH YEAH I DO!” Thanks to Shizumo’s absence, I decided I might well let loose and get as vocal as I wanted to with my elation. 

I’m holding a Fly Head. A Cursed Spirit from ‘Jujutsu Kaisen’. A Cursed Spirit so weak it got its own, individual designation below Grade 4, the supposed weakest Grade a curse could be. Their only real use being to be used as a makeshift chaff grenade en masse, or the detection of other potential sorcerers. 

Cough cough. A category I now qualify for, based on my ability to actually perceive and grab the Fly Head as I’m doing.

I possess Cursed Energy!

I have power!

I’m supernatural!

“Food! Buzzz!” It continued to panic, spewing mindless nonsense it probably didn’t even understand fully. The weaker the curse, the weaker the intelligence, with a few exceptions here and there. 

“Oh no buddy, you’re not going anywhere. Either I’m going to figure out something to do with you, or kil— I mean, ‘exorcise’ you, there’s no two ways about it.” 

I observed it closely, it took some serious concentration to notice, but notice I did. There was a faint, oh-so-subtle drain on my body, caused by none other than this adorable little Fly Head over here. The conclusion was obvious: it was feeding of my Cursed Energy, which all humans possessed, but only few had enough of to actually see Cursed Spirits with their own eyes.

I snickered. “That’s fine by me, feed all you want lil’ guy. I doubt you’ll ever be able to consume enough to have any meaningful impact on me whatsoever.”

Now it all made sense to me, the ‘cold’ I felt flare up every now and then? That was Cursed Energy, and it wasn’t just popping up at random. No. It only showed itself when my stress, frustration, and denial seriously started to stir. That’s how Cursed Energy works after all, it’s a source of power tied to humanity’s negative emotions. Non-sorcerers give birth to Cursed Spirits with their negativity, and sorcerers channel it into their Jujutsu to make sure that doesn’t happen.

“Buzzz! Buzzzz! Buzzzz!”

I bonked the Fly Head on its scalp. “Save the ‘buzz’ for later, will ya? I’m trying to think here.” Contemplative, I sat up, my legs dangling over my bedside.

So, I’ve been transmigrated into Jujutsu Kaisen…

Or am I in a different verse with powers from Jujutsu Kaisen? No, but even if that’s true, there’s still Cursed Spirits in this world. So wouldn’t Jujutsu Sorcerers still exist one way or another? They have to, otherwise this town, which I believe is situated in Tokyo, would have descended into complete Cursed Spirit catastrophe. 

Unless it’s a mix of two? The name ‘Kuoh Town’ still sounds familiar to the old me somehow, I just don’t have any way to confirm my suspicions.

Oh well, no use brooding over what I don’t know, instead I'll focus on what I do know, the Jujutsu Kaisen part of my life. Assuming the timelines are the same, and I live in the same world of Jujutsu Sorcery as canon, Hidden Inventory’s set to happen in 2006. A year from now. 

But those events have nothing to do with me, and nothing good’s going to come from an insect like me trying to force myself into those events. I’d be no different then this Fly Head that found its way into my bedroom, wouldn’t I?

Instead, I should focus on myself. Awakening Cursed Energy’s just the first step, there’s still a thousand other things you have to do to make that mean something. To make your existence, as a sorcerer, mean something to the powers that be.

“BUZZZ! FOOD!”

I bonked it again, much harder than before. “Oi, didn’t I tell you to shush?” I exhaled. “If only you weren’t so dumb, maybe you’d actually understand that closing that mouth hole of yours would save you from my fis—”

A change occurred, completely random and out of the blue.

Thoroughly stupefied, I watched as a shimmering, pure white chain shot straight out of my chest, right where my heart was, and rammed itself directly into the Fly Head’s brain. A hot, biting jolt hit my brain in tandem, like the sparks of an electrical plug. As if a ‘message’ had been delivered straight into my hypothalamus, informing me that a ‘connection’ had been formed between myself and the Fly Head. Delivered solely by my passing, thoughtless wish to make it ‘understand’ me.

Haltingly, my eyes trailed down until I was looking directly at the chain. My free-hand reaching out to try feel its touch against my pores, only for it to pass straight through the appendage. Proof it’s non-physical, ethereal existence.

Withal, it didn’t take much for me to hypothesize its true nature. 

“Is this… my Cursed Technique?” 

The initial shock contesting with justified ecstatic joy, just because someone had enough Cursed Energy to be considered a sorcerer, didn’t necessarily mean they’d awaken a Cursed Technique. In fact, Cursed Techniques themselves were a rather rare occurrence. It didn’t seem that way through the lens of the story’s narration, but most ended up in Kusakabe’s situation. Though few made it as far as he did without a technique backing them up.

“What?” The Fly Head ‘spoke’.

For the umpteenth time, I paused, stunned in perplexity. To me, all that ‘food’ and ‘buzz’ nonsense it was doing earlier wasn’t really it speaking. 

It was more akin to the random gurgling and vocality of some lower-intellect animal, all it did was prove an inconsequential level of ‘awareness’, and even that label was an overexaggeration if you ask me. It didn’t know why it made the sounds it did, it just made them. Blind to its own existence. Blissful in its own ignorance.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” I held it closer towards me, my eyes sharpened and narrowed with intense scrutinization.

“What?” It asked again.

I took a moment to ponder, it’s completely stopped using ‘food’ and ‘buzz’, but it doesn’t actually understand my words. Odd. My Cursed Technique’s clearly the catalyst for that change, but that change isn’t powerful enough to transmit my words completely.

“What if I use the words ‘food’ and ‘buzz’, do you understand me now?”

“What?”

Ugh, I might need to dumb it down a little more.

“Food. You. Want?” I utilized the same verbal expertise of a neanderthal.

“Food! Food! Food! Food! Food! Food! Food! Food!” Frantically, it started to cheer that word over and over again. Its lower eyelids pushed up a little as if it wanted me to see how happy my words made it. Primitive, but effective. 

Hmm…

I think I understand, I can convey my words to it on a level where I’m actually ‘speaking’ to it, as if it’s a hidden language unique to a Cursed Spirit, but I cannot expect it to respond to words that it does not understand. A Fly Head only understands its desire to consume Cursed Energy, all other concepts are foreign to it. Like a toddler raised around that sole notion with no other education. A complete monkey.

Is that what my Cursed Technique is? The ability to speak the ‘language’ of Cursed Spirits, if such a thing even exists?

Strange, how very strange. But also interesting in a strange way, it doesn’t strike me as a particularly powerful technique, but making such a conclusion now seems rushed and ill-informed. I haven’t even begun to explore its depths, who am I to pass judgement on its worth now? 

I wonder, would it be possible for me to ‘negotiate’ with Cursed Spirits in a way? 

I guess there’s only one way to know for sure.

“You. Want. Food. Yes?” 

“Yes?” It pauses for a moment, as if trying to make sense of the word. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!”

Holy crap.

I just taught a Cursed Spirit a new word! A Fly Head no less, the literal weakest, dumbest form of Cursed Spirit in existence!

There has to be something special about the ‘connection’ I’ve formed with it, it’s not just about exchanging words, it’s much deeper. I mean, the chain’s literally connected to my heart for crying out loud. If that’s not a clear indicator, then I don’t know what is.

Wait a minute.

If I can teach a Cursed Spirit, doesn’t it stand to reason that I might be able to ‘tame’ it? Not like Geto can, but in my own, unique, messy way?

“You. Want. Food. Yes? You. Stay. Here. Get. Food.” I tapped my shoulder with my free-hand, trying to add body language into the equation as I communicated. My thoughts picturing exactly what I wanted to do in hopes that the image would be transmitted through the Cursed Technique, assuming that’s how the technique even works in the first place.

“Yes! Food! Food! Yes!” It maintained its erratic fashion of answering.

Mildly reluctant, I started to loosen my grip on its torso. Praying that it wouldn’t just fly away and make myself look like a creature so idiotic that even a Fly Head could fool me. A feat so embarrassing that I’d rather have Sukuna just smite me down right here and now.

Fortunately, that wasn’t the case.

Its stubby little feet pit-patted their way up my arm until it reached my shoulder and perched itself there, still, and looking me dead in the eye with complete obedience. Like a dutiful parrot ready to do whatever it took for me to extend a palmful of seeds towards its beak.

“Heh. Aren’t you a little cutie-patootie?” Gently, I rubbed its scalp with my finger, though I doubt it understood what the gesture meant. “I think I’ll name you ‘Trooper’, I don’t really know why, but I think it suits you. Wouldn’t you agree?”

“What?”

Yep. That’s about what I expected.