Naoya groaned. "Right, fine—think of cursed energy like electricity, and cursed techniques like appliances."
Makima's eyes narrowed slightly. "Appliances?"
"Yeah. Electricity on its own? Kinda useless. Hard to control. But you run it through a machine—bam. Results. Lights, toasters, murder beams. Whatever." He jabbed a finger toward the first spot. "That one? Raw and pure cursed energy."
Then he pointed at the second. ""here I channelled cursed energy into a cursed technique and activated it"."
"In other words…" Makima tilted her head. "I'm about to learn a really good cursed technique?"
Naoya stared at her like she just asked if she could become a rocket. "No."
"…"
Makima narrowed her eyes. "It's not because I'm a girl, right?"
Naoya clicked his tongue. "Tch. No. Though that would've been a good reason."
She glared.
"Relax," he said, waving a hand. "Setting aside basic stuff like shikigami or barrier techniques, most cursed techniques are etched into your body at birth. You either have one, or you don't."
She considered that. "So it's genetic."
"Exactly."
"I see." Her expression turned oddly blank. "So I just need to be born again. With better blood."
Naoya smirked. "Welcome to the Jujutsu world, bra—what did you say??"
Makima pov:
I'm four now.
That means a lot of things.
It means I can open doors whenever I want—no more waiting for someone to do it for me.
It means I can turn the faucet on and off by myself, even if I still need a little help washing my hands properly.
And most importantly—it means Naoya Zenin has run out of excuses.
I marched up to Naoya like I owned the entire estate.
Because I would. Eventually.
I found him mid-insult, rice halfway to his mouth, mocking some elder whose name I never bothered to remember.
I waited exactly three seconds after my birthday to confront him.
He looked like he was about to laugh at his own joke when I spoke.
He choked on rice. Idiot.
He pretended not to remember. Of course he did. He thought I'd forget.
That's his pattern.
When he asked if I'd awakened my cursed technique, I tilted my head.
I knew what a technique was, in theory, but he never explained anything properly.
He assumed I'd learn it naturally, through blood.
Or maybe he thought someone else would teach me.
Either way, he looked annoyed.
But instead of mocking me, he said he'd show me.
I thought he was bluffing.
Then he did that thing with his hand. That golden light—like lightning, but thicker. Angrier.
It cracked the bottle into nothing. Not shattered—erased.
The floor creaked from the pressure, like even the wood was scared.
So that's cursed energy.
He used it like it cost nothing.
I just stood there, thinking: So you can use cursed energy like that, huh?
Then came the second one.
That tiny frame he made—it was beautiful. Like something from a movie.
I didn't know energy could freeze like that. It didn't look violent at first.
It looked… delicate. Controlled.
Then he shattered it.
The explosion was worse this time—louder, sharper, deliberate.
The other bottle didn't even explode. It simply ceased to exist.
And the wall behind it? Torn open like paper.
Cold air rushed in. My hair lifted with the wind. My skin tingled.
He wanted to show off. Probably just to feel superior.
But if he can do that...
And I came from him...
I should be able to do it too.
He asked if I understood.
"Not at all."
I understood more than I'd ever admit.
But if I played dumb, he'd keep explaining.
People love their own voices.
He groaned—his aura even vibrated with it.
"Think of cursed energy like electricity," he said. "And cursed techniques like appliances."
Simple. Purposefully simple.
He's not dumbing it down for me—he genuinely thinks in metaphors like that.
"Appliances?" I echoed.
"Yeah. Electricity on its own? Useless. But run it through a machine—bam. Results. Lights, toasters, murder beams. Whatever."
He pointed to the first trick.
"That one? Raw cursed energy."
Then the second.
"This? I channeled cursed energy into a cursed technique and activated it."
So cursed techniques are just advanced filters.
Refinements.
I asked if I was about to learn mine. It was a childish question—I knew that.
I asked anyway.
He said no.
Just… no.
The word stung more than I expected.
Is this why the clan hates women?
Is it because we're born without power?
I felt my smile crack slightly at the corners.
So I asked the next obvious question:
"It's not because I'm a girl, right?"
He said it wasn't. But I heard the smirk in his voice when he added that it would've been a good reason.
Jerk.
Still… not the worst answer.
That's a relief I think.
He said cursed techniques are etched into you at birth.
So it's fate. Blood. Genetics.
I nodded.
"So I just need to be born again. With better blood."
He smirked, cocky and cruel.
"Welcome to the Jujutsu world, bra—wait, what did you just say??"
By now, I understand my father well enough to see how he works.
Submission won't make him like me.
Obedience won't earn his respect.
I've seen how he treats Maki and Mai—two girls he pretends to despise, but never truly ignores.
He likes them. He'll never admit it, but it's obvious.
Not because they're nice. Not because they please him.
I concluded the way to make Naoya like you requires three conditions:
First, be female.
Second, annoy and provoke him.
Third, be related to him by blood.
Fortunately, I'm all three.
Manipulating him is difficult—he's not emotionally complex, but he's dangerously instinctual.
Being his daughter gives me an advantage. But it's not enough.
The only way to make him see me differently...
Is to act like him.
Unhinged. Blunt. Unafraid.
.........................................
Give me your power stones 🔫