The mission was complete.
Though this exorcism had been especially dangerous, neither Sōjun Minamoto nor Shiko Mishima suffered any major injuries.
Aside from being completely drained of Cursed Energy.
After thoroughly sweeping the school to ensure no spirits remained, Sōjun Minamoto dispelled the Curtain, and the two returned to the car.
Shiko Mishima had already bounced back to normal and, once again, extended an invitation.
"Mission accomplished. How about we go celebrate?"
Sōjun Minamoto hesitated.
"Last time, I said it was on me, but you ended up paying. This time, I'm treating, no matter what!" She patted her chest confidently, producing two solid thumps.
Sōjun Minamoto's mouth twitched as he looked at her.
Noticing this, she immediately raised three fingers skyward in a solemn vow.
"This time, I swear I won't get drunk!"
Only then did Sōjun Minamoto nod in agreement.
...
Why did I agree to come drink again?
She didn't even mention the price of breaking that so-called vow.
Once again, he found himself in an awkward situation—but this time, he was at least a little more used to it.
Shiko Mishima got drunk off the tiniest sip. That promise? Just another lie.
Same as last time—rambling nonstop, venting all her negative emotions. Having gone through it once, Sōjun Minamoto didn't bother intervening.
She might be crying like her life's over now, but come tomorrow, she'll be full of energy again, like nothing ever happened.
Wait.
Something wasn't right.
Was that her plan all along?
He was underage, couldn't drink, didn't like to drink—was she just using this as an excuse to yell at him and blow off steam?
Sōjun Minamoto studied her closely but gave up quickly. With her face flushed from alcohol, it was impossible to tell.
"Alcohol reveals the truth?" Nonsense. All she ever "revealed" was emotional garbage.
...
The next morning, Shiko Mishima woke up on a familiar couch.
The breakfast on the coffee table was still steaming, but Sōjun Minamoto was nowhere to be found.
He was at Masamichi Yaga's house.
"You think someone's targeting you?" Yaga mused.
Sōjun Minamoto's routine had always been simple—training and missions. He barely interacted with other sorcerers and kept a low profile. If he really was being targeted, the cause likely wasn't him.
He recounted everything that had happened on the latest mission.
Yaga fell into thought, then nodded. "That's a 'normal' form of competition."
"Normal?"
"Yeah," Yaga said. "The mission was Grade 1—within your range. But there 'just happened' to be a Cursed Womb hidden inside. 'Just happened' that the Window staff missed it. 'Just happened' that you still had one compulsory mission left. So they 'just happened' to assign it to you."
Sōjun Minamoto understood. That many coincidences? It was no coincidence.
Yaga was a candidate for the principal's seat now. Naturally, that meant clashing with certain interests.
And as his student—and nephew—Sōjun Minamoto would inevitably attract unwanted attention. He had prepared himself mentally for this long before entering Jujutsu High.
He had come to inform Yaga so he'd be aware. But seeing how calmly Yaga responded, how well he understood the behind-the-scenes maneuvering, Sōjun Minamoto finally relaxed.
He really had been worrying too much.
He stood and stretched, lifting his head to hide his expression. He was still a little irritated by it all—
Eventually, they'd all pay.
Yaga suddenly clapped a hand on his shoulder, serious.
"Leave this to me. From now on, you have the right to refuse any forced mission."
"..."
Watching Sōjun Minamoto leave with visible reluctance, Yaga sighed silently.
He had plenty of experience handling these shady tactics and never lost sleep over them.
What he did worry about—was Sōjun Minamoto. That the boy might snap and go too far. Look up and you still can't read his face? That killing intent was blinding.
He really was worried sick.
...
When Sōjun Minamoto returned home, Shiko Mishima was still there—still tearing up the garden with her sword practice.
His figure blurred, then reappeared right in front of her—and without a word, he threw a punch.
She hastily raised her blade to block. Fist and tachi collided. The blade bent with a creak. The moment the fist withdrew, the blade rebounded with a shrill hum.
Shiko Mishima staggered back a few steps, face twisted in confusion.
"What are you—"
She didn't get to finish.
His blood was already boiling. What was he doing?
She'd find out soon enough.
He glided toward her like drifting willow fluff—seemingly slow, but impossibly fast.
Before she could react, he was already in her space. His footwork was elusive, bizarre, making her feel like she was being surrounded by a dozen of him.
At any moment, an attack could come from any direction. She swung her sword, but her strikes kept missing—just barely.
Just that tiny distance—but she could never close it.
"Too slow!"
Sōjun Minamoto's dodges were always perfectly timed, no wasted movement.
He even had time to talk.
"This is it?"
"All those years swinging that sword and you can't even land a hit?"
Shiko Mishima twitched. She knew he was provoking her—but it still got under her skin. She exploded with full force, her blade speeding up drastically.
Still not enough.
She lacked a sense of danger.
Sōjun Minamoto suddenly accelerated, bypassed her swing, and drove his elbow into the side of her neck.
Her mind went blank. Darkness crept in, and her ears rang. She nearly blacked out.
She tried to fight back—but it was useless.
Then she felt a strong jolt—her tachi was knocked from her hands. The memory of that cursed spirit batting it away came rushing back, fueling her rage.
She lunged at him in a blind grab—but of course, she missed.
"See? When the tools you rely on fail, you lose your composure. Charging in with a 'might as well die' attitude just makes you a brute."
Sōjun Minamoto swept her leg. She dropped to one knee immediately.
"Ahh—ahh—!"
Shiko Mishima forced herself to stand, swaying.
Another punch slammed into her back.
"Gah—"
She spat out blood. The rest, she swallowed by sheer will. The pain sharpened her focus.
She felt like a boat, lost in a stormy sea, battered by waves—about to capsize.
What else could she do?
Could she do anything?
A fist stopped right in front of her face. The wind trailing behind it whipped her hair back, tugging at her scalp.
She gritted her teeth and locked onto the fist. If she was going to die, she wanted to see how.
That's when she realized—she was afraid of death.
But even more than that, she feared hitting her limit and staying there forever.
The fist opened.
A finger pressed against her forehead.
"Boom."
"You're dead," he said.
Shiko Mishima froze.
Then an unnamable fury surged inside her.
She wanted to say something—then noticed a nine-square grid etched into the ground. She had stood in the center the whole time. Never moved. Surrounded by eight boxed-in zones.
She recognized the pattern—standard grid footwork.
"You rushed too much."
"No matter what happens, you must stay calm. Even when facing death—especially then. That's how you seize the slimmest chance to break through your limit."
Sōjun Minamoto reached out and closed his hand around nothing.
"..."
Shiko Mishima clenched her jaw. Her face twisted.
She understood the logic. She wouldn't let it break her.
But why the hell did he have to beat her up like that?
"Thanks... for teaching me all this. As a thank-you, how about I buy you a drink?"
...?
Sōjun Minamoto stared at her, speechless.
Confirmed.
She used drinks to vent. He used her as a sparring dummy.
Hard to say who got the better deal.
...
As they walked down the road together—
Shiko Mishima asked, "Why are you helping me so much?"
"Because… you're my first friend!"
Shiko Mishima was moved. Actually, you're my only friend...
"I'm joking. You do the work, I get paid. Where else would I find a deal this good?" he added.