Jujutsu Kaisen: Cursed Times

The plan had worked.

Shingen Genichi successfully led the Cursed Spirit out of the collapsing veil—a protective screen initially meant to block ordinary people from perceiving what lay within. However, it had little effect on actual Sorcerers or Cursed Spirits.

The bad news? The barrier had been punctured and was now disintegrating.

The good news? The battlefield they now found themselves in was surrounded by nothing but rolling forest and wilderness. No roads. No homes. No civilians.

"Absorbing fear, huh? Yeah, it's strong—terrifying, even," Shingen Genichi muttered, wiping a crust of dried blood from his face. He gazed at the bloated, twitching body of the Cursed Spirit that now loomed in the middle of the grassland like a fallen deity.

"But there's no fear out here for you to suck on. Should've been born an anger-feeder. Unfortunately for you, this is where it ends."

He raised his right hand, fingers flexing as if grasping something in the air.

Pale blue Cursed Energy surged like wind-tossed ocean spray, condensing in his palm. In an instant, the churning sphere twisted, elongated, then formed into a shape somewhere between a spear and a lightning bolt—a weapon of pure technique and force.

Its radiance intensified as it rotated.

The glow shifted from azure to white. To the untrained eye, it looked like he was holding a sliver of storm cloud—constantly billowing, constantly alive, yet contained within his grip.

This wasn't just another display of Cursed Energy. This was experimentation—a new way to weaponize his inherited Time Technique.

Until now, Shingen's "Time Wheel" had mostly been used to accelerate movement and perception. Effective and Lethal, certainly. But it still required him to engage directly.

But what if time could be weaponized in projectile form?

That was the question he'd posed to Gojo-sensei weeks ago.

Directly accelerating an enemy's time would, theoretically, burn through their lifespan. But that kind of aggressive temporal interference was inherently unstable. It couldn't be maintained. The moment the effect passed, the residual feedback could cause chaos—even to the caster. Shingen could use Reverse Technique to protect himself, but applying time acceleration to an opponent still came with dangerous side effects he couldn't fully control.

So, he tried something new.

He didn't aim to accelerate them.

He aimed to accelerate damage.

To use his Technique to forcibly spread the structural collapse caused by a single strike—to turn each injury into a self-replicating failure cascade within the enemy's body.

And now… it was time to test it again.

Shingen shifted his weight into a throwing stance. His breath steadied. His mind narrowed.

Then he moved.

Reality fractured for a moment as he spun forward, and the glowing "spear" in his hand sliced through space. The dice-like Cursed Spirit, already in a partially regenerated state, had no time to react.

Boom.

The "Time Arrow" exploded against its flesh. At first, the impact seemed ordinary. But then, chunks of its massive body began to wilt—flesh turning dry, rotted, brittle. Entire sections collapsed into dust, refusing to regenerate.

Shingen watched closely.

"Not regenerating?" he muttered. "That's more effective than I thought."

The Curse's cellular structure had been compromised. It was as if his arrow had struck the center of a house of cards—once the destruction began, the entire structure folded in on itself. A chain reaction. No time for regeneration. No room for correction.

And all of it enforced by time acceleration, focused entirely on the consequence of damage.

Its immense form howled, spasming as black ichor gushed from newly split seams. Dozens of twitching eyes opened along its swollen sides—some fractured, others blind—and launched chaotic black beams in every direction.

Shingen blocked one blast with a raised arm. The Cursed Energy backlash made his nerves scream. He vanished into the smoke.

Then reappeared.

Another Time Arrow already formed in his palm.

He hurled it.

Crack.

Another explosion. Another wound that refused to heal. The Curse shrieked again.

"Time Arrow," he thought. Yeah… that name fits. It's a spear. Can also be a blade. But ultimately it was a timed rupture.

He shifted his stance, left hand forming a bowstring posture while his right hand summoned three thin, shimmering arrows—slender, glowing bolts of compressed time-energy.

[Release] (∆)

The arrows struck home, embedding deep into the Cursed Spirit's core. Before it could process the impact, another barrage arrived.

Two more Time Arrows carved across the battlefield, leaving trails of glowing white that lingered in the air like comet tails.

The Curse panicked.

Its beams fired in every direction, but Shingen's constant motion rendered them ineffective. The forest behind them was now shredded. Trees lay broken like fallen dominoes.

And yet, Shingen kept pressing forward.

The Cursed Spirit stumbled—one arm shattered, another dragging. Each step it took sent tremors through the earth. Its regeneration slowed, halted, and eventually stopped entirely.

It tried to flee. It couldn't.

Each attempt was met with a time-charged attack. Its body became riddled with glowing wounds, each one festering, refusing to close. Shingen's strikes left no time for fear to be generated—no fuel for it to grow stronger.

Finally, after launching its last, desperate volley of light, the Curse staggered to a stop.

Its third limb broke. Then its fourth.

Shingen's breathing was heavy now, his bloodied face indistinguishable from the gore around him. His entire body ached from the rapid expenditure of Cursed Energy.

But he didn't pause.

"Time to end this."

Spin.

Strike.

He leapt, both fists alight with black lightning.

Black Flash.

His knuckles slammed into the exposed cluster of eyes on the Cursed Spirit's front. The sensation was sickening—like punching a vat of grapes. The pulp splattered across his arms. Another hit followed.

Black Flash – Double.

And another.

Black Flash – Triple.

The cursed body convulsed. Its mass trembled.

Then came silence.

The bloated mass that once screamed and writhed… disintegrated.

It slumped.

Then evaporated into gray-black ash.

A few twitching eyes blinked once. Then they, too, faded.

Shingen didn't move until the last trace of Cursed Energy disappeared.

Then—and only then—did he let out a long, shaky breath.

It was over.

The battle had been short. Brutal and Efficient.

Strangely, Shingen's worst injury hadn't come from the fight. It had come earlier—when he attempted to reverse the death of one of the swallowed victims. His Technique had neared its limit. The recoil had nearly torn him apart.

Everything after that—Technique Reversal, Time Arrows, Black Flash sequences—was just pushing past pain.

Now, bloody and worn, he turned his gaze toward the collapsing barrier in the distance.

He didn't walk. (TL: He call Taxi💀)

He vanished.

[Time Wheel – Spin]

He reappeared inside the compound. The building was filled with released victims—men and women of varying ages—many still crying, others staring blankly.

Shingen passed them without a word, heading upstairs.

He found Nanami Kento on the top floor. With him were thirteen bound individuals—twelve men and one woman—all gagged and bloodied.

Shingen dropped out of his Technique. Several of the captives yelped in surprise as he materialized.

Nanami turned sharply, blade half-drawn.

Seeing who it was, he exhaled.

"You dealt with the Curse?" he asked.

Shingen nodded."Uhm, it's done. Completely exorcised."

Nanami gave him a long, measured look. "Then this mission… will definitely earn you First-Grade status."

Shingen didn't smile. He looked at the restrained cultists. "And these?"

Nanami sighed, loosening his tie. "Police will handle them. Evidence will be gathered. Some will be sentenced. The rest…" he shook his head. "It depends."

Shingen's eyes narrowed. "They're monsters."

"They're humans. And humans have laws," Nanami said, voice firm. "You can't touch them, Genichi."

"I know," Shingen said coolly. "I'm not that reckless."

Still, Nanami could see it—the flicker of loathing in Shingen's eyes. The dried blood on his face only deepened the intensity of his aura.

They didn't speak further.

Shingen stepped forward, yanked the rope binding the captives, and dragged the entire line toward the stairs like a hunter bringing down game.

Their faces scraped the floor. Heads bumped down each stair. Whimpers filled the air.

He didn't slow.

On the ground floor, the rescued victims had gathered—still waiting, unable to leave due to the dissipating barrier.

When they saw the cultists—bruised, gagged, bleeding—being dragged by the blood-soaked boy, they snapped.

Whispers turned to growls. Growls to shouting. Rage. Pain. Recognition.

Shingen dropped the rope in the center of the lobby like discarded trash and stretched lazily.

"Senpai, this place is filthy," he muttered. "Let's wait outside. Our work is done, right?"

Nanami's expression didn't change. "Right," he replied. "I already notified the Police. They'll arrive in three minutes."

Behind them, screams rose. The cultists writhed on the floor. The victims edged closer, fists clenched.

Shingen and Nanami walked out of the front door.

Shingen paused just long enough to casually pull the door shut.

The screams were muffled.

Nanami exhaled.

"That... might be a problem," he said.

Shingen shrugged. "Let Gojo-sensei deal with the aftermath. I'm hungry right now. Senpai, shall we get dinner? Maybe a drink?"

Nanami stared at him.

"You're not of age."

"...Juice?"

Nanami adjusted his tie and finally, finally allowed himself a slight smirk.

"Juice it is."

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