A sleek black limousine rolled to a quiet stop beside a nondescript building in Tokyo's older district. The engine hummed low before cutting off entirely. Moments later, the driver stepped out in a tailored suit and respectfully opened the back door.
From the dark interior, a figure emerged—dressed head to toe in all black, a high-collared coat flowing with each step. Their face was obscured by a matte black mask that gave no hint of identity.
But beneath the mask, it was Naoya.
He moved with the same precision and arrogance he always had, but his silhouette had changed—slimmer now, curves sharpened beneath the fabric of his custom-tailored suit. The long silence in the air gave his presence weight, each footstep echoing slightly as he approached the building entrance.
Naobito was sitting just inside, lounging with a sake cup in hand. He glanced at Naoya—took in the black mask, the outfit, the changed figure—but said nothing. Not a word. Just a single grunt.
As Naoya stepped further into the building, the air shifted. The space felt quiet, almost forgotten—cheap wood floors, yellowing wallpaper, and the stale smell of beer in the air.
On a couch slouched a man who didn't look like he belonged to the world of elite sorcerers at all. Hair dishevelled, shirt half-buttoned, an open can of beer in one hand. He looked more like a homeless man than the walking disaster he actually was.
Zenin Toji—or Fushiguro, now.
He looked up lazily, his sharp eyes locking onto the figure in black. His brow furrowed.
A woman? he thought, narrowing his gaze, scanning Naoya's posture, the shape of his body beneath the suit. There was something off. Familiar, even. But he didn't comment.
Naoya didn't offer a greeting, didn't speak a single word. He simply extended one gloved hand toward Toji, palm open, a silent demand clear in the motion:
Give me the Inverted Spear of Heaven.
"Hey, hey, no need for hurrying me up," Toji said lazily, rolling his shoulder with a grin that never quite reached his eyes.
Then, with a low grunt, he leaned back and opened his mouth and spitted a purple ball.
the cursed spirit he'd been hiding twitched—a writhing, grotesque creature shaped like a bloated purple worm slithered halfway out . With a sickening gawk-gawk sound, the Inverted Spear of Heaven dropped from its gaping maw, clattering to the floor at Naoya's feet.
Toji didn't even flinch.
Was he worried they might steal it? Run off and vanish with a weapon that could nullify any cursed technique?
No.
He wasn't worried. He didn't need to be worried. Anyone who crossed him knew exactly who he was—and what he could do. If someone dared run off with the weapon, they'd better hope reincarnation was real.
Besides, the Zenin clan had paid him very well to let them borrow the weapon for a single day. Use it, return it. Simple.
And if they didn't? Well… there wouldn't be a next day.
Naoya knelt, picked the weapon up carefully, his fingers tightening around the handle. He didn't speak. Didn't thank him.
He simply turned and left.
Not in a rush. No wasted movement. But he was focused now. The hum of cursed energy in the air almost seemed to bend around him.
Hours later—far away from the dilapidated place Toji called home—Naoya stood alone under the dull glow of a streetlamp on a deserted stretch of land.
He stared at the weapon.
"This is the moment," he said, his voice low. His expression unreadable behind the mask.
Without hesitating, he plunged the blade into his own leg.
The cursed tool bit through flesh instantly, and Naoya gritted his teeth as cursed energy flared—and shattered. The lingering effect of Naraku's cursed technique, the hormonal nightmare warping his body, cracked at its core.
A jolt ran through him.
Muscle. Bone. Nerve.
And then—
Cursed energy had always thrived on negativity, and the amount coursing through Naoya after weeks in this altered form was ridiculous. Shame, rage, humiliation, defiance—every conflicting emotion became fuel. His cursed energy didn't just rise—it surged.
It grew wild, raw, untamed.
The internal war within him—the refusal to accept this body, the fight to reclaim his identity—supercharged his cursed energy, making it rough, aggressive, and terrifyingly potent.
The surge hit its peak.
Naoya stumbled back, eyes wide as his body convulsed—first in pain, then in something far more violent. The air around him cracked with cursed energy.
And slowly… it began.
Fingers lengthened. Voice deepened. The body Naraku had cursed him into began unraveling from the inside out. Not cleanly—not without cost—but undeniably.
He dropped to one knee, the Inverted Spear of Heaven still embedded in his thigh, blood pouring down his leg. But the pain didn't matter. The world spun, warped, and shifted.
And in the reflection of a shattered mirror nearby, Naoya saw it:
His old face. His true face.
Sweat-drenched, bloodied, breathing hard—but there.
A low, cold chuckle escaped his throat, deep again.
"Funny thing about being forced into someone else's skin—you see things. Feel things. You start to realize just how fragile identity really is."
Feeling his cursed energy flow, Naoya was surprised. His golden cursed energy, once wild and rigid, was now far easier to control. It moved like liquid fire through his body—dense, steady, heavy in a way that grounded him rather than weighed him down.
He flexed his fingers, watching golden threads of cursed energy dance along his skin.
"That was unexpected," Naoya muttered, eyes narrowing with a calculating glint.
The level of refinement was something he hadn't reached before—not even close. With this level of cursed energy flow, he realized something—something almost absurd.
"I might be able to open my Domain… twice a day. Maybe even three."
He laughed under his breath, a bitter, satisfied sound.
"Guess getting turned into a woman wasn't a total loss after all."
It's not far-fetched for someone who's gone through a massive psychological shift especially something body-related to gain better control, as their perception and self-awareness evolve. This could plausibly lead to greater finesse or stability in cursed energy output—especially for someone like Naoya who already had high potential.
Naoya didn't know whether to be disgusted or impressed by the growth. Probably both.
…
The next day, Naoya entered the school, clearly annoyed. His steps were sharp, jaw tense, and his eyes full of cold fire.
Naraku had escaped.
The report said he vanished right before the Zenin clan began their search, and odds were high he'd used his cursed technique—twisting his face, his body—to become someone entirely unrecognizable. Slippery bastard.
Naoya clicked his tongue, the echo of it sharp against the hallway walls.
When he slid the classroom door open, all eyes snapped to him.
"Well, well. Look who decided to rejoin the sausage party," Geto said with a grin, leaning back in his chair like he'd been waiting for that line all week.
Gojo looked up from his seat, pushed his sunglasses up just slightly to see Naoya better—and then smirked.
"Wow, you really looked better as a woman. Like, a lot better. Is it too late to turn back? Asking for my eyes."
Shoko didn't even flinch. She just took a drag from her cigarette and deadpanned,
"So you backtracked evolution. Congrats."
Naoya just stood there, hands in his pockets, deadpan.
"Funny. You'd think with all the jokes you're making, one of them would actually be funny."
Geto smirked and stepped forward first, lifting a hand—Naoya met it with a clean dab-up.
Gojo was right behind, dramatic as ever. "My man's back from his magical girl arc," he said, dabbing Naoya up with a loud slap of palms and a shoulder tap.
Even Shoko, cigarette still hanging from her lips, gave a subtle nod and bumped fists with him.
"Welcome back," they all said, in their own way.
Naoya snorted. ""Nice to see the fan club still remembers who the main character is."