"Oh? A Simple Domain, huh? Cute," he said, voice low and taunting. He casually stepped closer, his foot brushing the edge of the radius. "Let's see if your reflexes can keep up…"
The moment Naoya's foot brushed the edge of the Simple Domain, Hina struck — a clean, flawless slash that should've taken his head off.
Clink.
Two fingers.
He caught her blade between two fingers.
Naoya clicked his tongue, gripping the edge of the katana between his fingers like it was nothing more than a twig. "Tch. Women and swords… you people just don't mix, do you?"
"Tch," she muttered, returning her katana to its scabbard in one smooth, practiced motion. Then, with a sharp step back and a surge of cursed energy that cracked the earth beneath her, she shouted:
"New Shadow Style: Battō!"
Her blade vanished in a blinding flash—faster than the eye could track. A radiant arc of cursed energy ripped through the air, her precision fueled by raw anger. Nearly 80% of her cursed energy was poured into the strike. This wasn't just a technique—it was personal.
But Naoya didn't even blink.
He caught the sword.
With his bare hand.
The cursed energy howled around them, the force enough to snap trees nearby—yet his grip held steady, fingers closed around the blade like it was a toy.
"If I had your level of skill," he said flatly, not even looking at her, "I'd kill myself just to respawn with better stats."
Then, without breaking eye contact, he forced the sword back into its scabbard. One sharp, humiliating click.
Hina stood frozen, unable to react—unable to stop it.
The most disrespectful thing she had ever experienced in her life.
Naoya tilted his head, almost bored.
"Now comes your punishment for thinking you could challenge me."
In one fluid motion, he drove his foot into her stomach. The impact was brutal—a sickening thud as her body was launched backward, crashing into a nearby tree. Bark splintered. Air ripped from her lungs.
She collapsed at the base of the tree, stunned and breathless, her vision spinning.
Naoya dusted off his hands like he'd just taken out the trash. Calmly, he walked toward her and crouched, lifting her chin with one finger—deceptively gentle, in contrast to the brutal violence moments before.
He studied her face with a detached, almost curious look, then let out a quiet scoff.
"There are people watching," he muttered, his eyes flicking to the nearby tree. A single crow sat perched among the branches, silent and still.
"Lucky for you," he added, straightening up. "Though honestly, that doesn't matter too much to me."
With that, he turned his back on her and walked away, leaving the silence—and her pride—shattered in his wake.
Hina stayed where she was, slumped against the tree, her fingers digging into the dirt beneath her. Her jaw clenched as the sharp pain in her ribs reminded her of the hit. But it wasn't the kick that hurt the most.
It was him.
That smug, dismissive look. The way he held her chin like she was nothing.
It burned deeper than the bruises.
Her breath trembled as she slowly wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth. Tears welled in her eyes—not from the pain, but from something far worse. Rage. Shame. Humiliation.
She had believed… that if she performed well in this event—especially against someone like Naoya Zenin—maybe someone would finally take notice.
Maybe the higher-ups would see her.
Maybe she'd earn that promotion.
That respect.
That life she'd been clawing her way toward for years.
But she hadn't realized…
The gap was this big.
She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to stand. Her legs trembled under her, but she didn't fall. She wouldn't let herself. Not again.
…
Elsewhere in the forest…
Geto exorcised two second grade curses with ease, The ground steamed from residual cursed energy as he turned a corner—and came face-to-face with Kanzaki.
What followed wasn't a fight. It was a lesson.
A brutal, one-sided beatdown.
Geto didn't say a word until Kanzaki was barely conscious, slumped against a tree with a shattered arm and a look of disbelief frozen on his face.
Not far away, Gojo's signature smirk lit up the forest clearing as he effortlessly overwhelmed Ren, Haruki, and Airi all at once.
"I'll give you credit," he said, adjusting his sunglasses mid-fight, "you guys didn't run away. That's gotta count for something, right?"
Seconds later, the Kyoto team was down, groaning in the dirt, completely outmatched.
Only one person was unaccounted for: Naraku.
Gone.
Nowhere to be seen.
...
Watching the chaos unfold Mei Mei crossed her arms and tilted her head slightly, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
"That's very unfortunate for the Kyoto students," she said coolly.
Yaga sitting beside her, his expression unreadable. "Those three… Gojo, Geto, and Naoya—they're already operating at the peak of Grade 1. Naoya, in particular, is arguably past it."
Mei Mei raised an eyebrow. "You think Naoya's reached Special Grade already?"
Yaga nodded slightly. "In terms of technique, combat efficiency, and the scale of destruction he can cause? Yes. He's pushing the limits of what a Grade 1 sorcerer is supposed to be. If he keeps this up, a Special Grade promotion is inevitable."
"And the other two?" she asked, casually tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"They're not there yet," Yaga said, his tone calm and certain. "But it's only a matter of time."
There was a beat of silence before Mei Mei turned slightly, her gaze shifting to the silent figure standing behind them.
"How do you feel about this, Principal Gakuganji?" she asked, her voice dipped in teasing curiosity.
The elderly Kyoto principal scowled, arms tucked behind his back. "Strength alone isn't what makes a sorcerer. Reckless power with no discipline is a recipe for disaster."
Mei Mei smiled faintly. "Ah… but unfortunately, the world doesn't care about that when power decides the outcome."
Gakuganji said nothing.
Yaga, without turning, added quietly, "You're not wrong… but neither is he."
…
Deeper in the forest—
A twisted curse let out a shriek before it was split clean through by a flash of motion.
Purple flames licked across its body as it crumbled into ash and vanished, the only trace of it left in the air a faint, acrid scent.
Naoya stood still, his hand casually lowering as the last ember faded. "Tch. So boring."
He pulled out his crumpled magazine again, flipping it open like he hadn't just erased a lifeform from existence. His eyes skimmed the page, disinterested.
"Now where was I..."
Suddenly, a gust of wind kicked up, followed by the violent crack of something massive crashing down.
A gigantic hand—gnarled, veined, and brimming with cursed energy—slammed into the ground where Naoya stood.
But he was already gone.
A soft thud announced his landing a few meters away, one hand still holding his magazine, the other now tucked in his pocket.
He clicked his tongue, his expression irritated.
"You really just tried to pancake me mid-article? How rude."
The massive hand retracted, shrinking and reshaping until it reformed into the arm of a man—muscles smoothing out, fingers curling.
From the shadows stepped Naraku, his form now fully visible. Silent. Steady. Staring.
Naoya raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
"Let me guess," Naoya drawled, tilting his head slightly. "You're the type that thinks if you don't speak, you'll seem more dangerous."
He shut the magazine with a soft snap and let it fall to the grass beside him like it was more valuable than his opponent.
"Fucking commoners."
Naraku didn't respond at first. He stood still—unnervingly calm. Then, almost like a whisper carried by wind, he spoke.
"You just talk a lot, Zenin," Naraku muttered
Naoya raised an eyebrow.
Without another word, Naraku lunged forward.
In that moment, the air shifted.
His skin flushed unnaturally red, and his muscles swelled beneath his uniform. Blackened veins crawled across his forearms like ink under the skin. His cursed technique—Hormonal Curse: Fleshcraft—had activated.
Fleshcraft wasn't flashy at first glance. It didn't summon elemental powers or bend space. It worked inside—hijacking the body's biology using cursed energy. By manipulating internal systems like hormones, nerves, and organs, Naraku could force his body—or even someone else's—into altered states.
Right now, he was using a technique called Adrenaline Overdrive, forcing his adrenal glands to flood his bloodstream with energy-enhancing chemicals. His strength, reflexes, and stamina surged inhumanly—but only for a short window. The side effects were brutal if overused.
His punch cracked the ground beside Naoya, sending dirt and stone flying.
Naoya sidestepped effortlessly, his hand lazily brushing away a pebble that grazed his jacket.
"You are very predictable."
Naraku didn't reply. His body began shifting again—this time more subtly. His posture tightened, shoulders broadening as Puppet Skin, a secondary application of his technique, restructured the muscle fibers in his arms. It allowed him to manipulate flesh and appearance on a fine scale: increase density, alter bone shape, even change his facial features if needed.
He launched another attack, his arms twisting unnaturally mid-swing, reshaping themselves into a sharper, more brutal angle.
Naoya blocked it easily, barely flinching, his face still bored.
"Tch. That's it?"
Even with the grotesque enhancements Naraku had forced upon himself—his limbs changing shape, his speed increasing, his cursed energy flaring—it was nothing in the face of Naoya's overwhelming power.
Naraku's attacks were full of weight and strategy, each one an attempt to push Naoya, but it was clear: Naoya wasn't even trying. His stance didn't change, his expression didn't flicker. He simply flicked away Naraku's strikes like they were nothing.
"Why is he so strong? " Naraku's mind screamed, the anger bubbling to the surface. "He doesn't even try... How can someone like him be so far above me?"
His next strike came fast and low, aimed directly at Naoya's ribs. It was deceptive—he'd put everything into this one, pushing his limits to make it faster, heavier.
Naoya blocked it with a single arm. The impact sent a jolt through the air, and for a brief moment, Naraku thought maybe he'd done it. Maybe he had finally landed a real hit.
But Naoya didn't even budge. His feet slid back just slightly, carving a foot of dirt from the ground, and then Naoya's grin widened.
"Oh? You hit harder than you look. That's rare for someone so… ugly."
"Why?" Naraku thought, his breath ragged. "Why? Why is he like this?"
Naraku's grip tightened, his fist trembling as his frustration erupted inside him.
"Why, why, why, why, WHY—" his whispers grew louder and louder, the words spilling out of him like an uncontrollable flood.
His voice shattered the air, filled with rage. "Why are you so strong? Why do you have everything without even trying? Why do you get to look down on people like me?!"
Naoya's grin widened further as if he were enjoying the show.
"Getting loud now, huh? Is this the part where you cry?" he taunted, stepping toward Naraku with that trademark smugness of his.
Naraku froze mid-breath. His fists clenched tighter, and for a moment, the air between them thickened with tension. He sighed heavily, letting his hair fall over his eyes, concealing the expression beneath.
"I heard that you hate women," Naraku said, his voice oddly calm—almost casual, like he was testing something.
Naoya raised an eyebrow, caught off guard. "Huh? That's not true at all." He scoffed, waving the idea off with a lazy flick of his hand. "I love women. Just… my way of showing it is a little different from everyone else's."
He smirked, completely unaware of the weight behind Naraku's words.
Then Naraku tilted his head slightly. "You're grossly underestimating me."
"Huh?" Naoya frowned.
That's when it hit him—not an attack, but the creeping realization.
There was a faint sting in his arm.
His eyes drifted downward.
Something subtle.
Almost nothing.
But it had happened—during their clash.
"You injected me… back then?" Naoya muttered, his tone shifting from smugness to suspicion.
Naraku didn't answer. His hands were lowered. No stance. No smug grin. Just calm, unsettling certainty.
"You're too fast," Naraku said quietly. "Too fast for me to land a real blow. So I didn't try. All I needed was a touch."
Naoya's face twitched. "You're bluffing."
"Am I?"
Then Naoya felt it.
Not pain.
Not impact.
But change.
A heat began to creep through his chest. His breath hitched. His limbs felt… light. Too light. Like they no longer moved quite how they should.
His pupils narrowed.
He staggered back half a step.
His voice cracked as he tried to curse, but the sound came out wrong—higher, unsteady. His torso constricted, waist cinching inward, like something inside was twisting, rearranging. Skin, muscle, bones—all subtly, grotesquely adjusting.
His cursed energy sputtered.
"What... what the hell did you do to me?" Naoya hissed, his voice no longer fully his own.
Naraku didn't blink. "something that all people that know you close or just from rumars something that you Hate.
Naoya clutched his ribs, gritting his teeth as his frame continued to shift. The change was delicate—but undeniable. Feminine muscle tone tightening. His voice dipping into something soft and breathy, a haunting contrast to his usual drawl.
"You… bastard…"
Naraku tilted his head. No emotion. No malice.
"Oh, don't worry," he said softly. "You'll still be strong."
A pause.
"Just… different."
Then, like a dagger laced with mockery, he added in a whisper:
"So… how does it feel, being a woman?"
BOOM.
A brutal punch crashed into Naraku's face, the force distorting the air around them as it connected. The impact sent him flying backward, crashing through a thick tree trunk with a violent crunch before skidding across the dirt.
Naoya stood there, shoulders heaving, His new frame betrayed none of his fury, but the cursed energy rippling off him screamed rage.
"If you don't turn me back right now…" he snarled, voice unmistakably feminine, but laced with murderous intent.
"I'll fucking kill you."