Todo Aoi’s dorm room was unexpectedly tidy.
Aside from the enormous Takada-chan posters covering every inch of the walls—enough to give anyone aesthetic fatigue—the place resembled an ascetic’s meditation chamber.
Mizuki Makoto sat in an absurdly oversized chair, his heart pounding even faster than it had when Zenin Mai pointed a gun at his head.
[There was no helping it.
The white-haired teacher back home had already seen the first draft of Gojo Mai: ■■■■.] Whenever Makoto remembered the gentle smile that had appeared on Gojo Satoru’s face when he removed his blindfold at the training ground—a smile cold enough to freeze the air around him—he felt a chill crawl down his spine.
His overnight escape to Kyoto was not merely an attempt to put physical distance between himself and Gojo; before that man could drag him back to Tokyo for his “execution,” Makoto needed to build himself a temporary ace up his sleeve.
“Hey, brother.
You’ve been staring at my shoulder ever since we got here.
Have you finally…” Todo asked without looking up as he carefully polished one of his limited-edition CDs, “…noticed the holy light hidden within my muscles?” “No.
I was studying the wild quality of your movements.” Makoto took a deep breath, adjusted his glasses, and decided to gamble everything on an artist’s intuition.
‘As someone who transmigrated here, I already know the truth, but I absolutely cannot break character right now!’ “Todo-kun, no amount of Kyoto’s conservative old fossils could teach someone to move with that kind of violent beauty.” “That style carries an untamed, feral quality.” Makoto paused as a sharp glint flashed across his lenses beneath the light.
“I once heard Gojo-sensei casually mention Tsukumo Yuki, the only woman to hold the title of special-grade sorcerer before that white-haired fool became ‘the strongest.'” “He called her an unmanageable lunatic, but the instant I saw your punch earlier, her name came to mind.” “That crushing sense of weight, as though it could smash the whole world apart…
Are you her son—or her student?” Click.
Todo’s hand stopped in the middle of polishing the CD.
“You said…
‘weight’?” He turned slowly, his scarred eyes locking onto Makoto’s.
For an instant, Makoto felt as though he were facing an ancient mammoth about to stampede.
“Yes.
An overwhelmingly forceful sense of presence.” Makoto kept building the profile from there, piling on one mystic deduction after another.
“Anyone capable of teaching you to fight like that must be a wanderer unconstrained by rules.” “Someone who rides a heavy motorcycle straight into the wind, burning with the mad desire to ram the entire world—and every one of its rotten old rules—into dust.” “After all, only a soul like that could make a man like you lower his head.” Makoto had never actually met Tsukumo Yuki.
He was only describing a feeling, gambling that a man as emotional as Todo, someone who worshipped the idea of an authentic soul, would fill in the rest of the picture himself.
The room fell silent for three full seconds.
“…You can see the traces left by that person with nothing more than your eyes?” Todo murmured, his suspicion gradually becoming frighteningly intense excitement.
“You can even strip the truth out of Gojo Satoru’s idle complaints…” He clenched one fist, and his voice carried an unprecedented note of recognition.
“You’re right.
She is my teacher.” “She has long since left this stale country behind, but the legacy she gave me is right here.” Before Makoto could breathe a sigh of relief, a massive shadow fell over him.
Todo took a step forward and pressed the hand that could crush a cursed spirit’s skull heavily onto Makoto’s shoulder.
“That insight—the ability to see through flesh and look directly at the essence of a person’s soul…
Mizuki Makoto, you truly possess one of the greatest souls in this world!” Then Todo frowned, and a displeased appraisal entered his gaze.
“But, brother…
your body is too light.” “You’re as light as a worthless scrap of paper caught in the wind.” “My best friend must possess not only noble taste, but the vessel needed to carry that taste!” Five minutes later, at the martial training ground behind Kyoto Jujutsu High, Todo Aoi let out a roar like distant thunder.
“Come, brother!
If you cannot resonate with me physically, then everything you just said is nothing but cheap empty talk!” Bare-chested, Todo stood with cursed energy rising from him like boiling steam.
Across from him, Makoto’s calves were already cramping.
[I’m going to die!
I’m actually going to die!
I forgot one vital point—Todo Aoi’s brotherhood is not only toxic; it deals real fucking physical damage!] “Todo-kun…
I’m really just an artist.” “I’m the sort of fragile creative type who’ll fall over if the wind blows too hard…” “But you are a jujutsu sorcerer too!” The ground beneath Todo’s feet exploded as he charged forward like a collapsing mountain, bearing down on Makoto with overwhelming pressure.
Faced with a punch powerful enough to turn someone into a QR code, Echo Mimicry in Makoto’s mind began an overclocked simulation.
‘At this range and speed, normal evasion is already impossible without Limitless.’ ‘Todo’s attack covers every blind spot!’ ‘If I can’t dodge it, then I’ll have to use a doujinshi artist’s professional technique—forcefully redraw this space!’ Makoto threw up both hands and imagined the air in front of him as an enormous, crumpled bedsheet.
He seized the broken folds with perfect precision and tore them apart.
[Echo Mimicry: Thin Ice Breaker!] “Slide…
away from me!!!” Todo’s heavy fist crashed into Makoto’s forearm.
In that instant, Makoto felt as though a Shinkansen moving at full speed had struck him head-on.
Thin Ice Breaker forcibly shifted the point of impact, allowing the punch to scrape along his arm instead of landing cleanly, but the remaining shock still hammered through his internal organs.
Makoto flew more than ten meters like a rag doll and slammed heavily into a tree trunk.
“…Guh!” Blood sprayed over the fallen leaves as his insides churned violently and all feeling vanished from his right arm.
Todo did not pursue him.
He stood in place, studying a point in the empty air before looking down at the fist that had missed its mark.
As the user of Boogie Woogie, he understood better than anyone what had happened.
“In that instant…
space was pulled apart?” Todo murmured, a sharp light of absolute surprise flashing through his eyes.
He raised his head and looked at Makoto with the shock of someone discovering a new continent.
“Mizuki Makoto, that wasn’t a defense.” “For that instant, you forcibly interfered with the ‘surface’ of the space around us, didn’t you?” Todo’s gaze had changed.
He no longer looked at Makoto as though he were a weakling, but with the wild joy of seeing a soul struggle with a kind of obsession.
“Your body is unbelievably weak, but you still chose to remain on the battlefield.” “You use an artist’s obsession to defy the laws of physics!” Todo walked toward him with heavy steps.
To Makoto’s horror, he did not throw another punch, but instead burst into laughter loud enough to shake the leaves from the trees.
Then he hauled Makoto off the ground and wrapped him in a crushing embrace.
“Good!
Brother, you may be nothing but scrap metal right now, but I will forge that scrap metal myself!” Crushed against Todo’s body until he could barely breathe, Makoto’s vision went black around the edges.
There was only one thought left in his head.
[Gojo Satoru, you bastard…
Look what you’ve driven me to!
I ran from your fists, and now Kyoto’s muscle man is about to squeeze my ribs into powder!]