Kurōzu Sora was written by the poets. Her hands stained with ink and her soul was marred by things unmade. The world, with claws like polished swords, had cut through her chest, wrenching her untouched soul and placing it on the highest shelf — one far too unreachable — into the world of Curses, death, evil, and all things violent. Her soul, which spectated the world crumbling into pieces, watched as humans died in vain, as friends died in vain, all in the hope of protecting the powerless and the mortals that did not possess the curse that was of being a Jujutsu sorcerer.
Sora wondered, occasionally, why did some sorcerers consider having the ability to see those Curses a blessing? A blessing to the girl was the bliss of ignorance. Ignorance of the death that passed by every day because of that very evil that blemished their reality. What would a world — imperfect, yes — but what would a world without having to feel your heart mourn and die over and over again by the virtue of hell sent horrors look like? A blessing.
