Chapter 12 – The Watchers' Window
The room was buried deep beneath Jujutsu High, sealed behind a rust-worn torii gate and stone lined with prayer charms that hadn't worked in years. No windows. No clocks. Just the hum of cursed monitors casting blue shadows over the walls—each one flickering with images of a boy they couldn't explain.
"He hasn't breached the barrier," one voice muttered, flat and low. "But something's leaking through."
On-screen, Xavier knelt beside a greenhouse cart, adjusting a supply crate while Keiko worked nearby. The surrounding flora trembled—not from the wind, but in quiet deference. Leaves tilted toward him like sunflowers. The light seemed gentler.
"It's not a curse," the second voice rasped, older, tired. "That's not what's wrong with him."
"Then what is he?"
A long pause.
"A crack," the elder voice said. "In the balance. Something slipped through, and it's wearing a boy."
The first man turned toward the monitor. "If we wait too long, it'll grow roots."
A longer pause followed.
"Kill him now," the first voice said. "Make it look like an accident."
The second voice didn't respond. But on the screen, Xavier glanced upward—like he'd heard something.
Aboveground, the world spun in slow silence.
The greenhouse smelled of soil and drying herbs. Keiko knelt beside a rusted tin cabinet, sorting medicinal packs while humming faintly to herself. Outside, Xavier moved with a slow, watchful rhythm—never still, but never rushing.
He hoisted a box and started toward the door.
"Can you come check these labels?" Keiko called.
He stepped inside, brushing dust from his sleeve. The tattoo winding down his arm—a black-ink garden—seemed to ripple slightly under the light.
"I can try," he said, voice even.
She handed him a clipboard. "Don't just guess. I'm not being responsible for some unlucky freshman overdosing on anti-curse fungus."
Xavier frowned at the kanji, squinting. "I know most of it."
"Yeah? What's this one?"
He paused. "...Wound paste?"
Keiko smirked. "That's laxative talisman ink. Try again."
Outside, a shadow passed near the greenhouse door. A student—third-year, maybe—leaned against the frame.
"You're not cleared to be here," the boy said, gaze flicking to Xavier.
"We are," Keiko said calmly. "Cleared by someone with nicer hair than you."
The boy stepped in, tone darkening. "Shouldn't get comfortable. Strays don't last long in temples."
Xavier's pencil paused mid-stroke on the clipboard. His eyes didn't rise.
But something tensed. The air thickened—almost imperceptibly. The shadows on the ground warped subtly inward.
Keiko didn't miss it. "Get lost," she said, sharper now. "Before something in here takes offense."
The student hesitated, then left.
The light returned to normal.
"People suck," Keiko said, returning to her cabinet.
"Some more than others," Xavier murmured.
Later, the rain tapped gently on the infirmary roof. Gojo stood near a window, watching the dark press in across the sky. Yaga joined him, arms crossed, his face unreadable.
"They're watching him," Yaga said.
"I know."
"They'll move soon."
"So will I."
Yaga turned to leave, then paused. "I saw him in the garden last night. Just... standing. In the rain. For almost an hour."
Gojo didn't look away. "He's listening."
"To what?"
A smile—faint and humorless. "The thing that hasn't spoken yet."
Night settled like ash.
Xavier couldn't sleep. He rose slowly, bare feet brushing cool wooden floorboards. The dorm was silent except for the gentle pulse of insects beyond the window.
He stood there a while, eyes half-lidded, watching nothing in particular.
Until something moved.
Far across the rooftops, clinging to the corner of an old shrine's silhouette—a shape. Tall. Faceless. Rippling like heat mirage. Watching.
He didn't flinch.
The room darkened—not the light, but the feeling.
And then a sound. Not spoken. Not heard. Just felt, like a hand pressed against the soul:
"Soon."
The shape vanished.
And Xavier, standing alone in that quiet, did not breathe for several seconds.