Sōjun Minamoto sat cross-legged by the tea table, his back to the window. An eye had opened on the back of his neck, its sharp gaze sweeping the surroundings.
Inside the eye, its internal structure was undergoing constant micro-adjustments—some parts added, others reduced.
For instance, the blood vessels on the retina: too many would cause astigmatism and chromatic aberration; reduce them, and vision improves. But too few, and the eye would suffer from energy deficiency and begin to deteriorate. Striking the right balance was critical.
What was the optimal number? The best positioning? Not only did he need to find the most suitable configuration for himself, it also had to work harmoniously with other tissues to form a perfect structure and deliver even greater performance.
All of this required endless fine-tuning and experimentation.
Sōjun Minamoto kept reconstructing eyes from flesh and blood, while using large amounts of Cursed Energy to replenish the consumed material.
His hands moved swiftly across a notebook, scribbling diagrams and notes.
It was a detailed cross-section of the eye, densely annotated with data—experiments, observations, hypotheses regarding its structure.
He formulated new ideas based on his understanding, tested them through experimentation, and gradually eliminated the ones that didn't hold up.
He was locked in a cycle of continuous iteration.
Another pair of hands flipped through books, extracting knowledge, sparking inspiration.
One pair rested on the table, gently cradling a teacup.
Another pair played absentmindedly with the Fly Head, pinching and poking it.
For Sōjun Minamoto, this was his way of balancing work and rest.
The remaining optimization steps were repetitive and didn't require full focus. Inspiration couldn't be forced.
Better to take it slow.
Right now, he was multitasking to the extreme—relaxed, yet still progressing the experiment.
This Fly Head had quite the history with him.
When he was six and on the verge of awakening his technique, he couldn't break through the barrier. Coincidentally, the Fly Head kept buzzing around him, becoming the last straw. It irritated him so much that he snapped—and broke through, awakening his technique.
In the process, he half-crushed it by accident. Later, Mrs. Minamoto sealed it in a glass jar, where it remained for four years.
When Sōjun Minamoto turned ten, he came across it again, remembered what it was, and let it out. Since then, he'd kept it tied in his hair.
But the damn thing was impossible to tame—always trying to flee. Maybe he just wasn't strong enough yet, or his Cursed Energy wasn't overwhelming enough to force it into submission.
He knew Cursed Spirits could be tamed. Many Jujutsu Sorcerers nowadays kept Cursed Spirits.
Some used techniques, others relied purely on power.
By logic, even if the Fly Head had no intelligence, it should still retain the instinct to seek benefit and avoid harm. After all this time, it should've submitted. But this stubborn mutt was the exception.
Forget it. Just keep it tied up.
Sōjun Minamoto extended a strand of hair, wrapping it tightly around the still-struggling creature, leaving only its pair of white wings fluttering in the air.
He had no plans to release it—or exorcise it.
Everyone's rebellious?
Then you refuse to yield? I'll make you yield.
Sōjun Minamoto actually had quite a few Cursed Spirits under his control—most of them small and weak.
He wasn't after power—he used them for experiments, to study or test certain theories.
So he didn't care about their strength—just their utility.
At that moment, one strand of hair extended, its tip turning crimson, and suddenly stabbed into the Fly Head's left arm.
The creature seemed to sense danger and thrashed wildly.
Too bad—it was bound tight by several strands of hair.
Sōjun Minamoto fed it a small amount of Cursed Energy, and it immediately calmed down, caught in a euphoric trance.
"Gulp... gulp..."
A strange swallowing sound echoed from the crimson hair.
The Fly Head's left arm visibly shriveled, drained dry in moments. A network of crimson strands replaced it, still connected at the shoulder.
The next second, blood surged. Bone, flesh, and skin reformed—an entirely new left arm took shape.
Throughout the process, the creature wore a blissful expression, completely unaware anything was wrong.
Long ago, Sōjun Minamoto had learned that his Innate Technique couldn't control anything detached from his body.
A severed hair, a clipped nail, a constructed limb—once separated, it became uncontrollable.
The power of his technique lay in perfect control. It was all or nothing. If there was even the faintest trace of life, he had 100% control. If not, control was gone completely.
There was no middle ground.
In a sudden flash of insight, a thought crossed his mind:
What if he replaced the Fly Head's left arm with one constructed from his own Cursed Energy, kept it active via a hair connection?
Would that allow him to achieve perfect control over it?
...
The new arm hung limp and looked totally mismatched with the rest of the Fly-head's body—especially its right arm. It was grotesque.
A weak, ugly creature now bore a human-like left arm—an eerie contrast.
That strangeness was inevitable. After all, the arm was Sōjun Minamoto's. Just resized to scale—but still inherently his.
He could feel his control over it clearly. The arm was low on energy.
A red glow coursed through the connecting hair, feeding into the limb.
The arm regained strength, flexed its fingers.
The rest of the Fly-head flailed wildly.
Its tiny brain couldn't comprehend what was happening—it simply wanted to regain control.
After testing a few things, Sōjun Minamoto released control and let it move freely.
This arm would continue to erode the Fly-head, gradually transforming and assimilating its entire body. Eventually, even its soul would begin to mirror the change—something akin to a graft.
What would the final result be? Not even Sōjun Minamoto knew.
That was the thrill of experimentation.
Either way, the mutt would become something special.
You're unique now—but from here on, you're mine.
Sōjun Minamoto wouldn't erase its consciousness, nor would he overly manipulate it.
He'd made a promise: it would submit.
Physical submission counted too.
...
At dawn, just as the sky lightened, Sōjun Minamoto stood on the second-floor balcony of his home, gazing into the distance.
He could see far past the city, catching details of flowers, birds, insects, and fish.
His pupils dilated, nearly filling his entire iris.
He looked up—he could clearly see a plane flying overhead, the fine lines on its fuselage, even the facial features of the pilot.
And this wasn't even the limit of his vision.
It's said that hawks can see up to 36 kilometers away. While flying at 3,000 meters, they can spot small animals amidst movement, adjust focus, and precisely capture prey.
Sōjun Minamoto drew his gaze back, his pupils shrinking to a pinpoint. He looked across the road at a stray dog rummaging for food. His stare was sharp, like a hawk on patrol, locking onto prey.
The dog seemed to sense something. Its thin body trembled as if shocked, and it lay flat, whimpering softly, not daring to move.
Sōjun Minamoto looked away, feeling great.
The eagle eye experiment was a complete success. Phase one of the ocular reconstruction plan had gone perfectly, and the test results were excellent.
He leapt from the balcony, landed smoothly, opened the gate, and walked onto the street, curiously observing everything like a newborn seeing the world for the first time.
On the way, he bought a few meat buns from a street vendor. When he passed the stray dog, he tossed it two.