The following journals were recovered from Jujutsu High’s forbidden vault.

  30th October 2049

  Enrolment trials start tomorrow. I can only hope that this year’s candidates survive. Last year was a bloodbath. I still hear the screams of the loved ones. They haunt my nightmares.

  Noboru Sazama should never have authorised these fucking tests. The ranking system before wasn’t this brutal. When I was ranked, students generally started at Grade Four upon enrolment to the school, but if you had experience you may have been ranked higher. I started as a Grade Two. I’m glad I didn’t have to do these trials, although I empathise with the candidates and their families. They choose to partake in them. That’s what I tell myself when I can’t sleep.

  Ren Sazama takes her trial tomorrow. The principal’s daughter. She’s an incredible sorcerer. I’ve trained her for a year now, and somewhere along the line she became someone I’d protect until my last breath. Itadori thinks she’s good for my mental state. He’s probably right, not that I’d ever admit that to either of them.

  Her father is cold and heartless, especially since his wife died. Okkotsu swears the Gojo clan had nothing to do with Akari’s death. The Sazamas don’t believe him. At least they haven’t started a clan war over it. Thank Izanami.

  Chapter One

  Enrolment trials—the newest brutality to hit jujutsu society. I’m here to find out if I can make it.

  Storm clouds gather above Jujutsu High, their darkness reflecting off the polished floors. I glance up at the blackened sky. My stomach twists into knots. A bad omen. How many unranked sorcerers won’t make it out alive?

  The trials are deadly. In the new jujutsu world, you’re only rewarded if you survive long enough to be recognised, or show an impressive amount of strength so that the Higher-ups claim you as their personal weapon. Good fucking luck there.

  The stench of cursed energy hangs in the air—rotting flesh. Bile rises in my throat.

  My rubber-soled black combat boots squeak against the wooden floors as I carefully step around a puddle of vomit. Lovely. Everyone’s nerves are showing. I’m glad I chose the reinforced toes that my sister suggested for these trials.

  Most aspiring sorcerers won’t be leaving here alive—they’ll be another number in the ever growing godscursed reports that end up in the vault miles beneath the surface of the school. It could be my last day too. I shove that thought into the depths of hell where it belongs.

  I roll my shoulders as I stride along the halls, my chocolate brown hair tickles my lower spine, swaying with each step. I’ll need to tie my hair up before I enter the trials. Loose hair gets you killed. The advice from my older sister echoes through my mind.

  The top of my head barely reaches the chins of most faculty members lining the halls. I’m shorter than most of the students. But what I lack in height I make up for in agility and stamina. I’ve spent years sparring with cursed corpses, courtesy of a sensei assigned to me during training.

  I used to run the campus’s “Tengen Memorial Course”—five kilometres uphill with a weighted backpack that gets heavier each month. Now lean strength carves my frame. My thighs no longer burn on the two-hundred-and-twenty-six steps leading to one of the main dojos. I’ve stopped nearly throwing up my lungs after the final sprint, and I can actually finish without faceplanting into the grass.

  The endless corridors are quieter today, my ears ring from the silence. Normally the open walkways are filled with the echoes of ranked sorcerers running drills in the training rooms—fists cracking against wooden planks, shattering of ice, groans of beaten students—but today the only sound is the distant rumble of thunder and hushed conversations. The buildings have been cleared, only the faculty and a selection of graduates remain.

  My training has paid off at least, because I make it to Principal Sazama’s office without my breath stuttering once. A year ago this climb would’ve left me winded and gasping, but the combination of the memorial course and Fushiguro-Sensei’s brutal conditioning regimen have ensured that I can at bare minimum survive the walk to my potential death.

  Thank Izanami.

  I pass a bulletin board plastered with trial notices—hundreds of candidate names listed in dense columns. My sister warned me that the numbers would be high this year. The existence of cursed spirits went public in 2018—Shibuya Incident, mass panic, fucking calamity. More fear meant stronger curses and more than the Higher-ups could handle. Then Satoru Gojo died during the Culling Game, and sorcerers lost their shit. Without the world’s strongest sorcerer keeping curses in check, the doors to Jujutsu High opened to anyone stupid enough to pick up a cursed tool.

  Most die. The thought sends my heart rate skittering. Innocent people dying. Being dragged into a war they can’t even see without specialised glasses or contact lenses.

  "What if she dies?!" A familiar voice rings out from behind the principal's office door, and my lips curve into a sly grin. There's only one person with the balls to speak to Principal Sazama like that. Shiori, my sister, Grade One sorcerer and the only person in this entire cursed place who doesn't treat Dad like a military officer.

  A muffled response sounds from the office and I reach for the door handle, steeling myself for whatever I’m about to walk into.

  “She’s eighteen!” Shiori screams as I push the wooden door open—her voice laced with fury that would make even the most seasoned sorcerers take a step back. “She doesn’t need to be dragged into your fucking trials, or this bullshit world.”

  “She is a Sazama,” Noboru Sazama clips in that dead tone he’s perfected since Mum died seven years ago. “She is more than capable of surviving. If she doesn’t, then she was never worthy to carry our name.”

  I trip over my own feet, my hand snaps out and grasps the brown leather couch next to the door, steadying myself. Shit. Fucking idiot. The principal swears under his breath from behind his desk.

  Shiori’s fingernails dig into her palms and the muscle in her jaw ticks as she fights the urge to argue further with Dad. She whirls on me and crosses the bare office, passing the dead zone maps that cover the walls, the worst zones circled in red marker.

  “For fuck’s sake, Dad, she can barely stand.” Shiori snaps as she rushes to my side.

  “I’m fine,” my cheeks burn. She’s been back from her dead zone sweep for a day and she’s already trying to save me. Not that I need saving. I can pass these trials and I will survive.

  I don’t want to carry this family legacy shit. I don’t have a death wish. I should’ve sabotaged my zone recommendation. Maybe I’d be walking to a normal job like a librarian if I had.

  “Oh, Ren,” panicked green eyes look down at me as strong hands brace my shoulders.

  “Hey Shiori,” my lips twitch. I get to see my sister before my potential death. Not everything has gone to shit.

  Her eyes soften and her fingers slide to my cheeks, thumbs brushing over the high bones of my face. I don’t miss the way her hands tremble before they fall back to her sides and she straightens, shifting to stand next to me. Shiori Sazama—Grade One sorcerer, survivor of one-hundred-and-forty-six missions, the woman who singlehandedly exorcised three Grade One curses whilst leading a civilian evacuation in Osaka—is shaking because of me.

  “You don’t have to do this,” she murmurs.

  “Yes she does.” Dad shrugs, the lines of his tailored black suit folding with the motion.

  The folders labeled with cursed spirit sightings flutter in the icy breeze that sprints through the office. Not a single hint of a family appears in this room. Like we don’t exist since Mum died.

  “She deserves a better life!” Shiori shouts.

  “She will be a Jujutsu Sorcerer.” Dad’s gaze darkens.

  “Do you want to lose another family member?!” Dad braces his hands against the smooth surface of the bare desk and leans in slightly as he stands, eyes narrowing, darting over us—looking eerily similar to the images of the curse users pinned to the wall behind him.

  Oh shit.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  A knot forms in my chest at the mention of our mother. Nobody has dared to bring up Akari Sazama in the seven years since she died to a Special Grade curse in Sendai's dead zone whilst on a solo mission she insisted she could handle alone.

  Dad rarely spoke of her even when she was alive, but he loved her once in whatever capacity someone like him is capable of love. After she died he changed. The enrolment trials he’d created became stricter, harsher—embracing a single belief: only the strongest survive, and everyone else is just taking up space until a curse ends their life.

  Dad’s posture shifts and I don’t need to be able to read minds to know exactly what he sees when his eyes fix on Shiori.

  At twenty-eight years old, Shiori is a younger version of our mother. Tall—the top of my head reaches the bottom of her nose. Strong, powerful muscles fill out her frame. Shoulder-length dark brown hair worn in the same style as Mum’s. But more than her looks, she carries the same stubbornness and protective stance, body angled, weight balanced on the balls of her feet, readying herself to strike. She is a sorcerer through and through.

  She’s everything I’m not, and the disapproving shake of dad’s head tells me he agrees. I’m so much shorter than girls my age. Not that height makes much of a difference when you’re fighting for your fucking life.

  Dad walks towards us, his polished black boots gleam under the overhead strip lights. He tuts as he reaches out and flicks the ends of my hair through his fingers, where the dark brown fades into a lighter brown, and then drops it.

  “Tie it up.”

  His gaze unravels any confidence I built on the way here. “Your mother had the right idea, cutting it short.”

  It isn’t the first time he’s criticised my hair length, comparing me to Mum or Shiori. Short hair didn’t save Mum and it certainly won’t save me.

  “I love my hair,” I counter. It’s been growing since Mum died. She always liked to braid it or work the tangles out with a brush. I made a vow that I wouldn’t cut it. For her.

  “Spoken like Akari’s daughter,” he mumbles, and I see it then—the man he was when I was a child. Kinder, softer.

  “I am Akari’s daughter.” I curl my hands into fists, sweat slicks my palms. I take a deep breath, swallowing back the fear that coats my tongue.

  Dad’s teeth grind and the kinder man is replaced with the principal.

  “You are a Sazama. You are eighteen years old and today is enrolment trials. You will participate and become someone your mother would be proud of, Ren.”

  “Like she wouldn’t already be proud of me,” I grumble, knowing perfectly well that she wouldn’t give two shits if I was a sorcerer or not.

  “She wouldn’t. She valued strength as much as I did.” His normal composure slips. “And if you refuse to participate today then you can leave Jujutsu High and find someone who will coddle you.”

  My stomach flips.

  “Mum wouldn’t want us fighting like this,” Shiori argues, vein bulging in her forehead.

  “I loved your mother, but I highly doubt she wants anything these days. She’s dead,” Dad says matter-of-factly.

  I suck in a sharp breath, choosing to keep my mouth shut. There’s no point arguing with him. He will always put jujutsu society over his family. Today isn’t an exception.

  “Sending her into those godsforsaken trials is a death sentence.” Guess Shiori never did know when to back down, especially when it comes to Dad. The worst part is he’s always loved that about her. Never me though. “She’s not ready! You’ll end up burning her the same way you did Mum!”

  There it is. The final thing that makes Dad snap.

  “Sorcerer Sazama,” he grits through clenched teeth. “Get out of my office, before I ban you from setting foot in Jujutsu High.” It’s not an empty threat. He’s done it before—banned a Grade Two graduate from campus for three months after they questioned the brutality of the enrolment trials. He made an example out of them so thoroughly that not a single person dares to question the trials anymore. Shiori knows this too. She would’ve taken the risk into consideration before continuing to push him.

  She exhales sharply through her nose and straightens her shoulders before pivoting on her heel, marching out of the office without another word. The tension in her spine suggests she's biting back about a thousand things she wants to say. The door clicks shut behind her.

  It's just me and Dad alone in this cold room. It's been months since we've been in the same space without Shiori as a buffer between us. His green eyes fix on me.

  The temperature in the office plummets. He takes a slow breath, steeling himself after that confrontation.

  "You've trained since the moment you could walk," he says, tone warmer than normal.

  "You're an exceptional candidate for a Grade One sorcerer. You'll be outstanding. All Sazamas are."

  His eyes soften momentarily as he braces a hand on my shoulder. "So much fire and resolve."

  Then he steps back and drops his hand. The silence that follows is deafening. Guess Dad was never one for emotional availability or extended heart-to-hearts. Nothing new there.

  "You won't get special treatment from me when you pass the trials," he continues. "I'll be one of your sensei."

  He folds his arms and his gaze drifts toward the window overlooking the training grounds where hundreds of candidates are probably gathering already.

  "I know." It's not much different from how things already are between us—we barely interact outside of family debriefs, and when we do he's normally distant and cold. "I didn't expect special treatment."

  "If anything," he adds, eyes returning to mine, brow lifting in challenge, "the Special Grade sorcerers and other Grade Ones will want to test you once they learn who your father is. You'll be a target until you prove your worth to them."

  "I'm aware."

  Good thing I've trained with Fushiguro-sensei for the last year, because if anyone can prepare someone for being targeted it's a survivor of the Culling Game who's seen more death than most people can imagine. Shiori pulled strings to get me into his advanced conditioning program the moment he accepted a teaching position at Jujutsu High, cornering him after a faculty meeting and essentially not taking no for an answer.

  "Megumi Fushiguro survived the Culling Game," she'd told me when explaining why she'd enrolled me without asking first. "If anyone can teach you how to stay alive when the odds are stacked against you, it's him."

  She wasn’t wrong either. Fushiguro-Sensei has been tougher on me than anyone except Dad, pushing me through training that resulted in me bringing up what little food sat in my stomach, or bleeding from injuries that took days to heal. He never praised or encouraged me, he always corrected and expected excellence, much like Dad. Every session with Fushiguro pushed me past what I thought was my breaking point, into reserves I never knew existed.

  Last month he’d made me use my technique over and over again, changing the air pressure, using my agility to my advantage, until my reserves burned out and my nose started gushing with blood. When I did collapse he waited a heartbeat before ordering me to get up and do it again. “In the field curses don’t give a fuck if you’re recovering,” he’d said whilst crouched down to my level on the floor as I tried to remember how to bring air into my lungs.

  After that particular session he’d stopped me at the door of the training room. “Ren,” his scarred face was flat as ever. “When you get to the trials, don’t try to prove anything to your father. Survive. That’s what matters.”

  Dad scrubs a hand over his face as he closes his eyes. Then he gives me a tight smile. “I’ll see you after the trials.” He moves back behind his desk. “You will be a ranked sorcerer by sundown.”

  Or six feet under.

  “Good luck, Sazama-san. Dismissed.”

  I nod and leave his office without looking back as the door clicks softly behind me.

  "He's an asshole," Shiori quips from where she's waiting in the middle of the hallway, arms crossed over her chest, foot tapping.

  "He would've heard that," I point out whilst glancing back.

  "Good. It's not exactly new information." A muscle in her jaw tics and she exhales sharply before gesturing down the corridor with one hand. "Come on. You've got about an hour before all potential sorcerers have to report to the training grounds. I passed by there earlier and there are already hundreds gathering."

  She turns and starts walking, leading me towards my temporary room within Jujutsu High where I've been staying for the past week during final preparations.

  The sliding door rattles softly as she pushes it open and I step inside, my gaze immediately catching on the neatly stacked boxes lining one wall—everything I own packed and ready for either my death or my official enrolment.

  "Well," Shiori snorts whilst surveying the boxes. "That's fucking ominous.” Her eyes sweep over me, worry etched into her features.

  "I was hoping I could stop you from joining," she mumbles. "I really thought talking to Dad might actually do something, might make him see reason for once in his life."

  She glances away, jaw working. "Listen, don't try to be impressive out there, you don’t need to prove anything."

  My brow knits together. That contradicts everything Dad has drilled into me.

  “Survive. That’s all I ask.” She brings her eyes back to my face. “Don’t let Dad turn you into something you’re not.”

  Ash coats my tongue and I swallow, chest tightening. Survive. Prove yourself. Fight. Make Mum proud. The expectations sit like a stone in my stomach.

  Shiori lets out a deep sigh and laughs. “If you decide to fuck someone after all this.” She gestures in the direction of the trials. “Don’t go for the bad-boy. Being heartbroken and trying to survive never goes hand in hand.”

  A snort bubbles up my throat. Of course Shiori is giving me terrible dating advice whilst my life hangs on the edge of a knife.

  She saunters over to the bed and taps the floor in front of her with her foot.

  "Sit."

  I cock a brow at her, but drop to the floor anyway, crossing my legs and settling between her knees as she plants herself on the mattress.

  Her fingers gather my hair into what will undoubtedly be a punishingly tight ponytail, threading through strands whilst tugging hard. My bangs fall loose at first, soft and feathered framing my face, but she sweeps them back with an impatient huff.

  "Ow, asshole," I mutter. "You don't have to be so aggressive about it."

  "Loose hair gets you killed," she replies, giving my ponytail a harsh pull, making my scalp burn. “One more thing.”

  I tilt my head back and look up to her, brow raising.

  “If you hear the name Satoshi Gojo…” her mouth twists into a grimace.

  My eyes widen. Everyone knows that name.

  “As in—Satoru Gojo’s successor?”

  “How many other Gojos do you know of?” She replies dryly. “Run, Ren. Don’t try to challenge him. I don’t care that his clan killed Mum. Do. Not. Talk. To. Him.”

  I dip my head, knowing full well that if I see a Gojo hatred will coil tight in my core and my mouth will run before I do.

  Shiori glances at her phone beside her.

  "Twenty minutes," she slides off the bed. "You ready?"

  "As ready as I'll ever be," I reply taking her offered hand and letting her pull me to my feet.

  I loop my uniform jacket through my arms and test the fit—flexible and non-restrictive, designed by someone who actually understands what survival in combat requires.

  We head into the halls, boots echoing against the wood, faculty studying us and muttering between themselves.

  The training grounds are unrecognisable, I’ve passed them hundreds of times on the way to my training sessions with Fushiguro. They’ve never looked like this.

  Broken concrete, packed dirt and barriers dark as night. Set into four distinct zones.

  Shiori and I match paces in silence, our shoulders brushing. So many people are marching towards their death today. Their bodies will barely be spared a glance before being cremated. Families will be divided. Brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, all lost to a system that replaces you before your body is cold.

  "Breathe," she murmurs.

  I inhale deeply and my mouth goes dry, tasting like I’ve chewed on a rust nail. Cursed energy.

  "Fuck," I whisper. "This is brutal."

  "I know."

  "People are going to die today."

  "I know," she says again, hand flying to grasp mine tightly. "But not you."

  I squeeze her hand in acknowledgement.

  "Once it starts," Shiori adds, "no one steps in. No matter what we hear. No matter what we see. You'll be completely alone in there."