Chapter 68 : The Shrine of the 13 Mouths

The mission request sat on the edge of Yaga's desk for two weeks. Two teams had gone. None returned. No one else volunteered.

When Kishibe walked in, still nursing a healing cut above his collarbone, Yaga didn't even ask.

"North of Gifu," the principal said, sliding the file over. "An abandoned shrine. Locals say it sings at night."

Kishibe glanced at the report. "Grade 1?"

"Maybe. Maybe worse. We lost two second-years. Then a retired Grade 1. No signs of a curse after exorcism, so something's hiding its signature."

"Copy."

He turned to leave.

Yaga frowned. "You sure you're in shape for this?"

Kishibe stopped. Lit a cigarette.

"Doesn't matter."

---

The road to the shrine snaked through dying trees and narrow dirt paths that hadn't been walked in years. Fog pressed against the mountainside like wet breath. Branches clawed at his jacket. It wasn't just quiet—it was sterile. No insects. No birds. No cursed energy. The world here held its breath.

Kishibe moved like a phantom, slow and alert. His body still ached from the last mission—a cracked rib, bruised hip—but pain had become a rhythm, a constant percussion beneath his skin.

At the summit stood a crumbling torii gate, crooked from age. Moss had overtaken the steps. Beyond it, the shrine loomed—chained shut, the prayer rope black with mold. Paper wards flapped in windless air.

A whisper passed through the leaves.

"Kishibe…"

He paused. Not a cursed voice. Something deeper. Not real. Or too real.

No cursed energy. No life.

Still, he drew his blade.

---

Inside was rot and silence. Broken lanterns. Straw mats molded into the floor. A collapsed altar choked with dust.

And mouths.

Thirteen of them.

They were carved into the walls—each with wide, open lips, cracked teeth, dry tongues frozen in mid-scream. Uneven. Primitive. Ritualistic.

He stepped inside.

The door slammed shut behind him.

He didn't flinch.

The air shifted. Thickened.

Then the mouths began to speak.

"You're still running."

His mother's voice. Sharp. Sad.

"You think killing me made you strong?"

The man he killed in the public restroom. The first.

"You let her die."

Riko.

Each voice scraped against his mind like broken glass.

He didn't respond.

Didn't flinch.

Instead, he activated Severance.

His blade shimmered, cursed energy turning the edge razor-thin—molecular, soul-cutting.

One swing.

One mouth burst into red mist.

The others screamed in reply.

Then they melted—oozing from the cracks in the shrine's walls, pooling together, forming flesh.

---

It rose like a mass of rot: bloated, black-veined, dripping in sludge. Thirteen mouths stretched across its skin. Each one moved independently, whispering, laughing, screaming.

It lunged.

Kishibe dodged, rolled, slashed—a deep cut through one of the mouths.

It screamed. Blood sprayed—a hiss of acid mist. Kishibe hissed as it scalded his arm. His jacket smoked.

He pivoted, teeth clenched. Another swing.

Two mouths carved open.

The curse retaliated with a tail-like limb—whipping across the air. Kishibe ducked under it, slashed the limb clean off.

It regenerated instantly.

Damn.

He backed into the center of the shrine, heart pounding but face unreadable. The air thickened with hate. It wasn't just the curse—it was the voices. They spoke in perfect sync.

"No one remembers you. Not even her."

A voice like Riko's.

He surged forward. Not to answer, not to scream—

To end it.

Blade glowing, he carved through the creature—left to right, again and again. Severance began to hum, cracking his wrist from strain. His vision blurred.

Then he stabbed into the largest mouth at the creature's center.

Maximum Severance.

Cursed energy shattered like lightning through the shrine.

The curse shrieked—splitting from the inside. Flesh tore. Mouths bled.

Then silence.

Ash rained to the floor.

---

Kishibe limped down the mountain at dusk, coat torn, arm burned, blood dried across his jaw. His body screamed for rest.

He didn't call it in.

Didn't check in with Yaga.

Didn't return to Jujutsu High.

He checked into a roadside inn. Paid in cash. Sat alone on the balcony with a bottle of shōchū.

The sky turned black.

The whispers were gone.

But her voice remained.

He poured another drink. Lit a cigarette.

And didn't sleep.