A Strange Crossover

Age: 8 Years, 0 Months – Abandoned Rail District, West of Kyoto

First-Person POV – Arata Gojo

I turned eight today.

The past years were nothing but hard work and grind to increase my stats and level as much as possible because I wanted to have revenge.

Against a few of my clan members who made the original host's

body life miserable and whose heavy contribution caused him to end his life.

Money was the initial challenge, which I overcame by hunting

weak curses and completing quick quests for easy rewards. My stats and level I gained, 5 levels and 20 usable stats points, during that was insignificant but money I earn around 1 million in a year.

The rich client gave quite a heavy amount of money.

In the second year I gained another 5 levels, in the third year 5 levels, and in the fourth and fifth years combined 10, which was quite a bit of progress and made me a 1st-class jujutsu sorcerer by now and slightly above peak humans.

My total usable stats points was around 124, and I've used more than half of them already. There were 2 powers missing; one was magic or mana, along with Stand power, which was locked for an unforeseeable future.

Still, I had 50 more S.P. left to invest in my growth, which I saved for emergencies for now. The quests I received so far were quite low in notoriety as well as action, as if the system wanted me to stay low-key.

Just my speculation, but quite useful, as I'm physically a child with the strength and lethality to kill without a sweat.

I had made quite a few contacts for real-world information as I explored the world. There were many types of supernatural phenomena happening, like mutants, quirks, magicians, mafia, heroes, villains, sorcerers, etc., and many more things, which was quite a shock for me.

I was slowly learning to navigate this new world and its complexities, realizing that my unique abilities could be both a blessing and a curse. Despite the challenges, I was resolute in seizing every opportunity to unravel the mysteries that enveloped me.

Name: Arata Gojo (Reincarnated: Elias Thorne)

Age: 8 years, 5 months

Level: 113

Bloodline: Gojo / Mutant

Trait Detected: Void Aura – Active

Abilities: Stand (Locked)

Skill Tree: Fragmented – 3 paths Active

Str 9> 20

Speed 9 > 20

Int 9 > 20

End 8 > 20

Sta 10 > 21

Mag 0 (Locked)

C.Energy 38 > 128 {A/n: 1 S.P = 10}

Hamon: 40 > 130 {A/n: 1 S.P = 10}

Ki: 36 > 126 {A/n: 1 S.P = 10}

Unused points: 50 {123 (-73)}

[System Update: Quest Countdown — Last quest Day Active]

Objective: Eliminate the Enforcers. Leave only one breathing.

Reward: Location of ancient relic.]

Absolutely — here's a polished and immersively rewritten version of your scene with fluid close-combat narration, tactical focus, and sharp inner monologue from Arata's POV. The tone leans gritty, efficient, and confident — as expected from someone who's trained for this moment:

I moved before doubt could fester.

Slid down the rusted tower, boots skimming steel. Gravel crunched beneath my landing — soft, muted.

No wasted motion.

I whistled.

One of them turned. Too slow.

Typical Gojo clan. Flashy punchable face, smug expression, and nothing to show in real fights. Half of them hide behind ancient names like rats in gilded tunnels, licking inherited pride like it's enough to survive the modern battlefield.

They call themselves top three only because of what they were, not what they are.

But me?

I built my strength alone. Earned every ounce.

Back to the fight—my favorite part.

The thrill of having the upper hand. When your stats, training, and instincts align like a blade slipping through silk.

I was already moving.

He didn't even sense me. Years of learning to mute my presence — suppress cursed energy to the width of a hair. That's how you catch them of guard.

The curse mark beneath him snapped open like a trap jaw — as it was laced with Hamon and curse energy shot upward, exploding with sharp force.

CRACK.

The combo of Hamon infused with curse energy as trap was my craft for now till I have a domain or curse technique.

His shin split in two, clean through the bone. He shrieked, toppled to a knee — perfect. Right where I wanted him.

I surged forward, twisted my grip on the twin knife — polished wood reinforced grip with strong sharp steel infused with the Triple Flow Technique I'd developed from combining Ki, Hamon, and Cursed Energy in as perfect a compressed sync as possible for smooth and effortless efficiency

One thrust — smooth and efficient — rammed into his throat with full force.

The impact echoed in my bones. A sharp jolt. Like punching a steel drum filled with jelly.

His eyes rolled back instantly. He dropped, limp.

One down.

No hesitation. No wasted movement. Just clean execution.

Without him even acknowledging who finished him instantly.

The second grunt came in hot — a mess of rage, regret, and recycled moves.

He charged, swinging a cursed flail wreathed in fire and wind, the weapon spinning like a cyclone forged from rusted hatred.

This one I'd been waiting for.

He was the instigator — the mouth that poisoned the clan head's ear, the one who turned whispers into execution orders.

The one who made the original host's life a cage.

Good.

He swung — wide, high, dumb. Expecting the weight of the flail to do the work.

I didn't give him the satisfaction.

I let gravity do the talking, dropped low with a ripple of cursed energy underfoot. My heel rocketed up from the crouch, Ki-boosted and sharp as a bullet, and slammed into his ribs.

No quick kill or painless death. He deserves the worst death of all.

CRACK.

Porcelain bone. Wet breath. He gagged.

His footing faltered — and I was already inside his guard.

Both my palms slammed into his chest.

"Curse Hamon OverDrive: Internal Carnage."

Curse energy ignited across my forearms onto his body as soon as my fist connected or came in physical contact with his skin.

Crushing his internal organ slowly.

From within. And he could do nothing.

The sound was like a melon cracking from the inside out.

He spasmed once. Then dropped.

Two down.

The third… paused.

Smart.

He was older. The leader of the group.

His hair was grey at the edges, and his cursed blade was

sheathed — not because he wasn't dangerous.

Because he didn't need to draw it.

"You've grown, Arata," he said, voice like old paper and poison.

"Your father would be... afraid. Or proud. I'm not sure which would hurt more."

I didn't answer. I just stared at him.

"You going to kill me too?"

My hands were already burning with Hamon only — but I didn't strike.

"No," I said quietly. "You're going to crawl back to the clan and tell them everything. What I've become. What I'm building."

His eyes narrowed. "You think they'll care?"

"No," I smiled faintly. "But they'll start to fear what they don't understand."

Then I stepped forward, whispered the name of the dead enforcer in his ear.

His eyes went wide.

That was the moment I saw it — the flicker of real fear. Not for

himself. But for what my return might mean.

I turned. Walked away.

Two dead. One spared.

Just like the system demanded.

[System Notification: Quest Completed – "Crush the Enforcers"]

Objective Met: Two targets eliminated. One allowed to live.

Level Up! +2 Levels

Reward: Location of ancient relic Pinned in mine map.

By the time I returned to my new apartment — my hidden base beneath the old rail station — I didn't feel triumphant.

I felt focused.

Another threshold passed.

But more importantly… I had sent a message.

The Gojo clan would stop whispering now.

==========

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==

A few hours later

Third POV

"Another case solved by the Great Fighter Association, a one-of-a-kind agency in the whole world." There wasn't much to do; Arata was to watch the news, as the world is a messy place filled with supernatural elements.

The only entertaining thing worth watching was the news.

"Lady Lara Croft, I heard recently you have 2 new recruits in the fighter association who are stronger than All Might." A reporter inquired, calling out the rumors and current speculations.

"I'm afraid I can't answer any questions related to recruitment." Lara, one of the few shareholders of F. Association, spoke with authority as the report was silent.

"Lady Cammy, Lili, and Lei Fang. The recent report related to work harassment has shown that your association, like many others, says men are lesser and sexually exploit and harass them. Your comment?"

"All pointless lies to ruin our reputation and goodwill." The press conference carries on with a multitude of inquiries and questions related to finance, recent exploits of their agency, etc.

"Now I've got the location and am done relaxing; time for some power-up." He muttered as he turned off the television.

The wind was dead by the time Arata reached the outer edge of the marked zone. No leaves rustled. No birds cried. The branches above were still, as though the trees themselves held their breath. Silently, he treaded, his boots crunching over gravel and damp roots, until the forest thinned to reveal a clearing shrouded in unnatural fog. And at its center stood the shrine.

Old, broken, and half-swallowed by time, the structure reeked of decay, with crumbling walls and mold creeping up its pillars. The once-sacred place now wore rot like a crown. Moss, like a green veil, climbed the jagged edges of the cracked stone. The torii gate marking the entrance was shattered in three places, its once-red paint faded to a sickly rust. Wooden placards dangled from nails and rotting posts, each carved with fading warnings in talismanic ink:

"Do Not Enter."

"Sealed by Order of the Five Sects."

"This Place is Death."

Arata's gaze swept across the forgotten shrine with mild curiosity, eyes narrowed beneath the growing weight of the air. Every breath he took here felt heavier—coated in the taste of old blood and burnt offerings. Yet he kept walking, undeterred.

"Dramatic," he muttered, tilting his head. "I've read worse graffiti in subway bathrooms."

As he crossed the threshold, the air shimmered—then the System screen blinked to life before him, casting an eerie glow that illuminated the cracked pathway.

[Restricted Zone Detected: Shrine of Hollow Flame]

[Minimum Entry Requirements: Level 20 | STR 30 | STA 25 | Curse Resistance B-Rank]

[Entry Denied. You do not meet the conditions.]

Arata scoffed quietly, a mix of amusement and annoyance flickering in his eyes. He opened his personal stat sheet with a flick of his fingers, glancing at the unallocated point pool that had been sitting untouched since the last two fights.

[Unallocated Stat Points: 6]

"Figures they'd gate this place like a VIP club," he muttered, before quickly distributing the points—three into Stamina, two into Strength, and the final one into Curse Resistance, nudging it into the required B-rank tier.

The system flickered once.

Then, with a soft hum and a faint green shimmer, the gate creaked open—not physically, but metaphysically. The cursed pressure folded around him like a damp, invisible curtain.

He stepped forward.

Inside the shrine grounds, the rot was deeper. What remained of the outer courtyard was little more than broken tiles and desecrated altar stones, most half-buried in cursed growths.

Statues of forgotten gods wept black moss from hollow eye sockets. Braziers were overturned, filled with ash long since cold. Glyphs carved into the walls still pulsed with decaying magic—barely holding back what festered within.

Roaming through the courtyard were twisted remnants of beings once human. Stray devils dragged malformed limbs behind them, their skin blotched with seal-burns and cursed runes. Rogue magicians with cracked staves and maddened eyes whispered incomplete incantations to shadows that didn't answer. Lesser curses, fused together like tumors, twitched and stalked the perimeter in fits of spasming hunger.

Arata moved through them like wind through tall grass.

Some saw him. Tried to act. One magician lunged from the rubble, arm lit with unstable energy. Arata didn't even break stride. A twist of his hip, a pivoting strike to the throat—his elbow crushed the man's windpipe before the spell finished forming.

The magician dropped, limbs convulsing in the dirt.

[+250 XP | Target Eliminated]

[Shrine Occupants Purged – 7%]

The system tally didn't interest him. He wasn't here for stats.

He pressed deeper.

Through shattered gates and inner sanctums choked by vines, past torii gates that led nowhere, Arata felt it—a tug. Something was calling. A pressure that didn't shout but pulled. Downward.

At the rear of the shrine—behind a collapsed statue of a forgotten kami—he found it: a sinkhole hidden by decades of debris, sealed by crumbling wards and shattered charms. The cursed air pouring from the gap wasn't the same as above. It was heavier. Older. Sharper. It tasted like betrayal.

He crouched by the edge, eyes narrowing as he scanned the crude stone lip of the tunnel, pondering the risks that lay ahead. The entrance, a narrow gap barely wide enough for a single person to crawl through, loomed before him. Faint glyphs traced the rim—warding seals and deterrents, now faded to illegibility.

A normal magician wouldn't dare go further.

But Arata?

He didn't hesitate.

Sliding into the narrow shaft, shadows wrapped around him like the arms of forgotten gods. And still—he kept moving.

The deeper he ventured, the silence grew louder, a deafening scream of emptiness echoing in the depths of the shrine.