Divine Grace

03 These Hallowed Grounds

Chapter Three.
THESE HALLOWED GROUNDS

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Hidden deep in the mountains, Tokyo Jujutsu High is hallowed ground shrouded by viridian trees and gravel. Under the guise of a private religious high-school, Tokyo Jujutsu High serves as a training ground for to-be sorcerers as well as headquarters for its alumni. A hidden sanctuary, per se. Or, as Kiyoko crudely puts it: a breeding ground.

The breeding ground where Itadori Yūji will spend counting the days to his impending execution.

There is a gleam in said boy's eyes as he devours their surroundings. To Itadori, who spent his days in the dusty countryside studying mainstream science instead of harnessing cursed techniques, campus would probably look like something out of a fantasy manga brought to life. He looks around in child-like fascination, occasional 'ooh's and 'ah's tumbling out of his lips.

In between stone-carved deities and wooden palaces, Itadori sticks out like a sore thumb. Boys like him don't belong here. Sun bleached smiles and unguarded hearts aren't made for a world built out of shadows, where it plucks little pieces of you until there's nothing left but bones to pick. There's no place for a heart here, none that their line of work would allow.

The monster wearing his skin, however, does. Though preferably chained in the dark with hundreds of talismans. She remembers staring Death in the eye and a gallow aimed at her neck, moonlight shining upon the beginning of the end —

Itadori turns back to her, cotton-candy hair flowing in the wind, and his humanity bleeds through the painting she has so carefully forged of him. It pains Kiyoko just to see him. "You're not coming— uh..."

Kiyoko flashes him a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Yagami Kiyoko."

Itadori lights up, shooting finger-guns. "That's right! Sorry, Yagami-san! I didn't catch your name."

"I don't remember ever tossing it to you." Kiyoko shrugs. "Drop the honorifics. Just Yagami is fine."

His cheeks turn the same shade as his hair and he sputters an apology. His formality probably has something to do with the incident last night. It's not everyday that a stranger breaks your nose with a flying kick, after all.

"Right, so," Itadori's eyes are viscous pools of caramel under the sun, so unlike the ravenous red Sukuna bore last night. "Where is Fushiguro? Is he okay?"

"Megumi's fine." They ascend a flight of stone stairs and Kiyoko leers distastefully at the cracked stones (bad luck to step on a crack). "Ieiri fixed him up. He's probably taking a nap in his room now."

His smile is unguarded, loose, boyish. "That's a relief."

Itadori Yūji walks the fragile line between boyhood and monstrous — a body torn at the seam — but under the sun, Kiyoko sees all the mundane parts of him, gold-plated.

It's rare to see someone with Itadori's demeanour in this line of work, so attuned to their heart and desires. It's distracting, to say the least. Itadori is a dead man walking. A dying tree shouldn't be taking root. Attachments are dangerous things to have in their line of work and boys like Itadori are as fleeting as cherry blossoms, only beautiful while they last. To be a sorcerer means you're prepared to be devastated, to face Death's endless appetite and take their hand willingly when the time comes. Boys like Itadori should be kept at an arms-breadth because they leave indentations in the shape of them everywhere they go and when they're gone, all their maybe-s would haunt you for the rest of your life.