Cursed Eyes (Itachi in JJk)

Six years was a lot of time to grow, Jiki realized in hindsight, as he looked down at the broken figure of his latest challenger.

His perception of time and ability per age group had always been heavily skewed, considering how fast he developed in both lives. As a child, he had always been weighed down with responsibilities, forced to develop faster and mature quicker than his peers. This was the culmination of that experience.

Sweat slowly slid down his back, forcing his long bone-white hair to stick to his clothes. Spreading out his preternatural spatial awareness, he took note of the way they looked at him, even as he stood above the broken body of the supposedly strongest Gojo of his generation.

He let his eyes wander back to the older teen. There was nothing notable about him other than his white hair and green eyes, which signaled his bloodline was as pure as it could be without him being Satoru. If this was the caliber of sorcerers the Gojo clan was producing recently, he could see why his awakening was so celebrated.

Acknowledgment to where it's due, the older teen had been the most resilient he had fought so far, with fiery green eyes that spoke of some kind of grudge against him.

He could not, for the life of him, care, although Aiko had taken to giving him dossiers on the noteworthy clan members, and he recalled the older teen used to be something of a genius before his awakening.

Envy?

Envy-fueled tenacity had pushed the older teen to last for so long against cursed energy-enhanced strikes that broke bones and sundered flesh. The teen had stood indomitable. Jiki could give him that if nothing else.

Six years ago, he would not have gotten past his fourth opponent; that was how horrible his stamina used to be. He would have struggled to land a real deliberating hit if he had ever managed to get this far.

He would've left the spar with bruises and fractured bones. Now, the only bruises on his form were on his knuckles from trying to break past his defense.

"Any other challenger?" The aged voice of old man Tatsumi, the former clan head, called out. Jiki sent roving scarlet eyes out to see who would take up the challenge. Most turned away before he got to them. A few met his placid stare with furious eyes. He noted they were the people more allied with the traditionalists from Aiko's reports.

It seemed like his consistent success was grating on them. Was it because he had been vocal in his support for Satoru, despite their obvious desire to prop him against his cousin?

Had they really believed he would allow himself to be a puppet for them, fighting their narrow-minded shadow battles as a sacrificial pawn, he mused as he stared back at them. He'd had enough of that to last him ten lifetimes.

"I will exchange instructions with junior Jiki if he'll have me," an older voice called out. His eyes moved to the side, and he stared down the older man who decided to take up the challenge.

Gojo Tanaka was one of Satoru's generation. At twenty-four years old, he was believed to be one of the most talented people born of the clan in recent times.

His mastery of the inherited limitless technique was notable, even without the accompanying six eyes, and was unmatched by few save for the elders.

Old man Tatsumi gave him a look, waiting for him to approve or reject. With a ten-year age gap, he had the right to approve or disapprove of a spar against the older man. Going into this fight, he and everyone watching understood he was going to be disadvantaged, especially with the restrictions the clan had set on his usage of Amaterasu.

Yet this particular sparring ground was called The Suguwara Blood Furnace for a reason. Named after the great ancestor and for that reason, spars here were bloody, rarely turned down without bringing great dishonor, and death was never a surprising result. The supposed goal was to sharpen the younger generation in times of peace, and the heavily weathered platform was supposedly over a thousand years old.

To win nine fights simultaneously had only been done once. Aiko noted that Satoru had walked out that day laughing at the broken form of the opponents he left behind. That was the day that truly cemented his cousin's place as the greatest sorcerer in the clan.

Jiki had won eight fights so far, and he knew if he wanted to make sure his vow to Satoru was upheld, he would have to stand side by side with him. Matching his record here was just going to be the first step.

He sent his scarlet gaze down to the particular man waiting for him. His short white hair framed a strong and chiseled jaw, with a heavy-set brow and light blue eyes. His rugged features were set on the bulky frame of someone who was used to taking hits and dishing them out in return.

With his classical features of a Gojo, and his derivative of the same limitless technique as Satoru, Jiki was certain he had been groomed as Satoru's replacement in case his cousin ever fell.

Jiki tensed his muscles all at once, holding the stance for five seconds before releasing them back and enjoying the short euphoria that passed through him at the lessened tension on his body.

Shrugging off the already sweat-soaked Yakuta, he allowed it to bunch up at his waist as the sparring gi he tied on his waist held it.

Exposing a physique that had no business resting on a fourteen-year-old boy, he spread out his leg into the familiar form of the four-winged crow kata stance with one arm forward that called for his opponent.

"Come."

His opponent sent him a sharp smile before quickly moving to his feet and walking up to the stage with a sense of swagger and confidence that bordered on arrogance. Jiki stared him down, knowing this for what it was, a setup.

It was a plan to reduce his standing in the clan, and he was certain his opponents before now had all been curated to tire him out, reduce his cursed energy output, and then send in someone he would struggle with.

He had been prepared for it and sprung the trap carelessly after he decided to undergo his forging. He had a plan of his own after all, and it all hinged on a technique that required little cursed energy and immense control. Immense control that he had refined and focused on over the past six years.

"Begin."

The spar started with a blistering pace; his opponent ran at him full tilt before lashing out with a low kick aimed at his legs to cripple. His eyes predicted it for what it truly was, a feint. So he ignored it and leaned back to dodge the real attack, an uppercut that went for his jaw.

Noting his ability to predict and dodge, the older man immediately transitioned from strikes to grabs. Moving closer and taking hold of his arm. Jiki moved even closer, planting a foot on his opponent's front knee, putting a stop to the forward motion. Before whipping out with another kick to the man's side.

A kick that stopped six inches away from his ribs by the man's application of the limitless technique.

He forced his sweat-slicked arm out of his opponent's grip just as a palm strike was thrown at his chest, a palm strike he dodged by spinning around it and burying two solid blows into the man's rib and leg, both of which were stopped by limitless.

The man was slow and careless, Jiki observed as he ducked past another wide blow and a desperate grab at his hair forcing him to twist his neck to the side.

His false infinity festered an unwarranted pride in him that made him ignore the use of blocks and dodges and focus solely on heavy blows and feints.

Their plan was simplistic. He was notably the fastest in the clan, factor in the way his eyes could predict his opponents and he was easily faster than Satoru even. So they had tired him out with consecutive fights, then set him up against a bruiser.

Jiki had to admit that he never had much expectation about hitting the older man. His blows and attacks were probing to see just how good his limitless actually was. A limitless he found wanting.

When he had gotten all the data he needed, He jumped back. Despite the way he paced himself, he had never been built for endurance. In his past life and this. After eight consecutive fights, he was undeniably tired, and his heavy breaths were noticed, judging by the even sharper grin the man sent his way.

"Tired already?"

He ignored the older man's taunt and allowed him his false confidence. His usage of the neutral form of limitless was good, very good in fact, especially without the aid of the six eyes. But it was not perfect.

There was only so much space his limitless could divide without the superhuman perception granted by the six eyes. Which meant there was only so much force his seemingly invulnerable barrier could disperse and slow down before something got past.

He relaxed his form, sinking his cursed energy into his body in a way that he had not done often. He felt his cursed energy snake past skin and blood, to reinforce his muscles and tendons, the way it streaked around his bones and nerves soothed him, bracing them against what was to come.

He had enhanced his physical form in a way that few could match, yet that was just in preparation for his actual plan. The man walked towards him casually. Content in his belief that without his Mangyeko, he could not break past limitless.

So Jiki sank into an even lower stance, bracing himself against the ground. The older man's reply at his turtling up was a charge and another telegraphed wide haymaker aimed to bash his head in.

This focused, his Sharingan predicted the movement and he ducked under the blow with little effort. In one smooth movement, he sent his left foot forward and felt the force of the step crack the sparing ground, before twisting his hips and putting all his coiled momentum from his legs to his bruised knuckles inside the single most impressive punch he had ever thrown in this life.

The blow landed on the flawed infinity between them, stopping short a few inches away from his chest; his opponent's reply was a grin down at him. The pinpoint explosion of cursed energy that landed at the exact same second the blow landed changed everything.

He could feel the monstrous force of the blow hit the limitless space between him and his opponent, sense the way the flawed limitless struggled to divide space continuously till it just couldn't anymore.

The moment limitless had a limit to how much space it could divide.

It broke.

The recoil hit Jiki, but he was braced for it. He was forced to take only a step back, further cratering the ground while his hair was blasted back by the wind. His opponent had no option but to take the remaining half of the dispersed force of the enhanced blow to his chest with his eyes wide.

The conical force that blasted out of the blow decimated and destroyed everything in its. The arena was obliterated from a few inches away from him, and only the hastily deployed barrier of old man Tatsumi had stopped the spectators from becoming a casualty of his feat of strength.

He let out a heavy breath and straightened his posture before watching the result of his work. The building the spar was occurring in was missing a full section, having caved inwardly while a full half of the arena itself was nothing but sand and debris.

A slight trembling from his limbs drew his attention down to his right fist. "It was not perfect, huh," he muttered to himself as his right hand shook with pain from torn muscles and strained bones. Even with the reinforcement he applied, the enhanced strength technique he used required a level of conditioning that he never bothered with.

His hair finally settled in the wind, before falling and spreading out his back. He looked back up and noted the fear and horror that the spectators looked back at him with; he let his eyes search and found the broken and still form half-buried into the wall, and he felt nothing.

"Winner, Jiki," Old man Tatsumi noted with a bored tone and barely perceptible smile on his straight visage. His unruffled form stood out against the multitude of people that were coated with dust.

Jiki sent a respectful nod his way before turning his gaze towards the elder's seat. They were the only other people fully spared from the damage he caused. Where the majority of them had a respectful or thoughtful look on their face. One older woman, in particular, sent him a hate-filled glare.

He shrugged the look off and started walking off the cracked platform. He had wiped out one clan before; If he was forced to once more… maybe Satoru would even celebrate it.

XXXX

Knock, knock.

"Jiki, come in and take a seat," he called out as he kept on serving the tea that he just finished making.

The door opened, and Jiki walked in. He was losing the soft features that came with childhood, Tatsumi noted. Truly growing into his mother's sharper features.

White long hair flowed down his back in a ponytail and a tranquil look. If he was not present, he would have found it hard to believe he was the same person who had shaken the foundations of the clan barely twelve hours ago.

He was dressed in a baggy long-sleeved sweater that covered his newly bandaged right hand and a matching pair of black shorts, with a pair of black slides he left at the door.

Following behind him was the soft black-haired and amber-eyed form of his maid-turned-seneschal. Few would dare treat her like a true maid in the clan, despite how she made sure to wear the black and white maid outfit every day.

It was what she carried in her hands that interested him.

"You managed to finish it then?" He asked as he finally sat down opposite the kid, before taking a cup and sipping his own tea.

"The night before the forging, forgive me for not bringing it earlier."

"Enough with the overly formal pleasantries, brat," he said as he dropped his teacup and looked at the now smiling young teen. "I'm no longer the clan head; we don't have to bother with that facade. I assume Aiko is the one carrying it because of your hand?"

The boy's smile slowly transitioned into a frown as he brought up the arm to stare at it.

"It's temporary, the technique still needs a bit of work." The slight movement made his arm tremble for a moment, and his frown deepened before smoothing out into his regular look.

Another technique the boy had created in his off time—it was a technique that let Jiki display a strength of arms even he found it hard to wrap his head around. At this rate, the boy would be showing his teachers new ways to apply cursed energy by the time he started Jujutsu High.

"I'll give Shoko a call be-"

He cleared his throat and gave the brat the stink eye before speaking. "You would go to her, even when I'm here?"

"Unfortunately, I do not have any more 6-year-olds to offer up as payment for your specific brand of healing."

He almost broke the cup in his hand at the accusing tone the boy lashed him with. He instead gave him a flat look that forced the normally calm teen to look away and focus back on his tea. Puberty.

If he was being honest, he didn't blame the brat. "I do not regret it, you know," he replied as he lessened his grip on the teacup, before giving a glance at the frozen woman behind Jiki.

"If we had to do it over again, I would make the same offer. And I know you will accept it once more. Hate me for that if you will."

He returned to taking a sip of his tea. He did not blame the brat for holding a grudge for this long. For all his maturity, what did he know of leadership, of watching his storied bloodline degenerate?

Watching a clan that was known to be descended from Michizane Sugawara himself suddenly decline in a generation with only one pillar to prop it up.

He had seen the chance to add another pillar, and today had proven him right beyond any reasonable doubt. If by some chance something befell Satoru, Jiki would be a solid replacement. Whatever comes after that would be the burden of whoever was the new clan head. He hoped one day the boy would understand that.

"Tatsumi-San," a soft voice suddenly spoke up, cracking the built-up tension, "your package."

He looked back up and noted this was the first time the girl had ever taken the initiative in a discussion, and to interject when the mood was so low just to draw attention from Jiki. She wilted as she met his gaze, suddenly shrinking back behind the brat.

"In other news, Elder Kahori has requested you be punished for destroying a sacred heirloom of the clan," he said, shifting the conversation away from choices made in the past.

A huff and an uncharacteristic chuckle from the kid finally broke the tension. "Any relation to the recently deceased Tanaka-San?"

"He was her grandson," Tatsumi noted with an approving nod. The kid might not have liked it much, but he had a firmer grasp of clan politics. More than Satoru had ever bothered to learn or pick up.

"I should be expecting some form of retaliation then?"

"She wouldn't dare, not while I'm around, and not while Satoru is still the Clan head."

"And the punishment?" The kid asked while picking up his tea, with his left hand Tatsumi noted.

"Two days of seclusion. It'll give you the chance to contemplate your part in the death of a loyal member of that clan," he stated with an exaggerated wave.

They all knew that it was no real punishment, even the facade of it was only possible because Satoru had traveled out of the country.

"By your will then." The brat took his last sip of tea before placing it back on the table and standing up. Collecting the package from Aiko, he balanced it on a single hand before passing it on to him.

With a deferential nod, he spun about on his feet and walked out, the maid trailing behind him as an ever-constant shadow.