“Choice is really just a gamble on whether to turn left or right.” Mizuki Makoto lay on the grass of the training ground, staring up at Tokyo’s sky, so white it almost seemed empty, with blood still in his mouth that he hadn’t managed to spit out.
His brain appeared to have suffered some sort of philosophical system crash.
“But right now, I only have two options: lie here and play dead, or let Gojo-sensei haul me up for another combo.” Some time had passed since the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons shook the world.
The smoke over Shinjuku had cleared, the damage to Jujutsu High had mostly been repaired, and even Gojo Mai: The Widowhood Arc had sold out across the doujinshi scene.
The world seemed to be getting back on track, apart from a certain “last will and testament” that should never have arrived.
A few days earlier, Gojo-sensei had opened a letter with no sender’s name, although it carried a faint but unmistakable whiff of a certain man with a bun.
It was an appallingly irresponsible letter, steeped in the self-indulgence of a would-be poet: after Makoto had finally cracked his composure with that relentless verbal assault, Geto Suguru had actually decided to abandon his position as cult leader and go “find himself.” He wrote that he was heading south, to see islands without cursed spirits and consider possibilities beyond “killing all the monkeys.” Naturally, he hadn’t forgotten to finish with a practiced attempt to guilt-trip his former best friend.
“Satoru, I’m leaving my ‘family’ in your care, especially those two kids.
After all, I’m an unemployed drifter without so much as a pension now.” Gojo Satoru stared at the letter for a full half hour before giving a thoroughly punchable smile, crumpling it into a ball, and tossing it into the bin.
“Looks like Suguru’s finally hit his rebellious phase.” That was his verdict.
To celebrate his best friend’s “new lease on life,” and reward the students who had performed “so admirably” during the Night Parade, Gojo-sensei decided to give them an extra helping of training.
“Makoto-kun, Yuta, Kinji—time for some extra lessons!” That was how the nightmare began.
Makoto had originally walked onto the training ground with perfectly innocent expectations—and perhaps a few romantic fantasies—because Maki had been walking beside him.
‘Maki-chan gets to join this special training too?’ he had wondered naively, rubbing his chin.
‘Has Sensei finally grown a conscience and decided to give her some cheat codes?’ He had gone in completely unprepared, assuming it would be another ordinary sparring session.
Then he noticed the look on Hakari Kinji’s face, which clearly said, “You’re on your own,” followed by Maki and Kirara standing at the sidelines with their arms folded and enough pity in their eyes to wish him a peaceful passing.
As it turned out, Maki and Kirara were indeed attending the lesson—as spectators, and afterward as the cleanup crew responsible for scraping what remained of Makoto’s soulless carcass off the ground.
“Don’t space out, Makoto-kun.
You might draw smut quickly, but to a special-grade sorcerer, even ‘slow motion’ would be a generous description of your reflexes.” Gojo smiled as he removed his blindfold, the azure beneath it looking particularly cold in the sunlight.
The next ten minutes were a pure nightmare for anyone who could still be considered an ordinary human being.
Hakari Kinji and Okkotsu Yuta were a pair of absolute freaks: one had almost limitless cursed energy to maintain his physical strength whenever he needed it, while the other was already getting a handle on Reverse Cursed Technique.
Broken ribs could be mended almost immediately, and knocked-out front teeth grew back as soon as he closed his mouth.
‘And what the hell do I have?
I’m a Grade 2 sorcerer drifting through space with a knockoff Thin Ice Breaker, maxed-out defense, and a paper-thin health bar!
‘I don’t have a fucking cheat plugin called Reverse Cursed Technique!’ Gojo’s uppercut slammed into Makoto’s abdomen with a heavy thud.
Although Makoto had managed to distort space with Thin Ice Breaker at the last instant and deflect ninety percent of the force, the remaining ten percent still felt like a charging wild boar had hit him head-on.
His insides churned, and the bowl of ramen he had eaten for lunch seemed determined to force its way back up his throat.
“Guh—!” Makoto curled on the ground like a cooked shrimp, retching up stomach acid and saliva as involuntary tears blurred his vision.
The blow had physically emptied his head so completely that he couldn’t even remember which page of his doujinshi he was working on.
“Oh dear, down again?” Gojo stopped three paces away and tilted his head innocently.
“I didn’t even use cursed energy reinforcement that time, Makoto-kun.
“Have you been working so hard on Household Affairs that you’ve worn out your lower back?
My, my.
Young men really do need to learn moderation.” ‘Bullshit!
You absolutely put extra force into that!
‘This is revenge for the way I drew you!
I don’t have proof, but I’d bet anything that punch had at least ten years of training and five hundred kilos of resentment behind it!
‘You’re not training a student.
You’re executing the doujinshi artist who drew porn of you!’ “Tch.
Out cold again?” Maki’s voice reached him, cool and carrying its familiar note of disdain.
A familiar but utterly uncompromising strength wrapped around his body as her powerful arms, bandaged and lightly callused, slipped beneath his armpits and hauled him off the grass, slick with sweat and vomit.
There was none of Yuta’s gentle support or Panda’s soft, furry embrace in it; she lifted him with the brisk efficiency of someone retrieving a particularly heavy trophy.
Then she settled him into the legendary bridal carry, holding him in her arms as matter-of-factly as if he were a sack of rice.
“Mizuki, if this routine of yours—ten minutes getting beaten up, two hours unconscious—ever makes it into the school history, it’ll be the most embarrassing record Jujutsu High has ever had.” She patted his dusty cheek as she spoke.
Makoto struggled to open one eye and looked up at her strong, striking profile before letting out a weak breath.
“Maki-chan…
next time…
could you ask Sensei…
to find a gentler way to get his revenge?
Maybe…
just confiscate my pens…” “You think that’s going to happen?
When has that blindfolded bastard ever listened to anyone?” Maki snorted and shifted him higher in her arms.
“Kirara, grab his notebook.
If we let him die here and the next issue of Gojo Mai never comes out, Inumaki’ll be upset.” Makoto closed his eyes completely and let his consciousness slip into the dark.
In the last moment before he passed out, he was still thinking.
‘Suguru heading south and Yuta heading north will both find their answers eventually.
‘But for someone like me, who’s been beaten so badly he can’t tell north from south, there seems to be only one answer: Gojo Satoru, you petty bastard of a strongest sorcerer, you absolutely hit me harder on purpose!!!’