“Wait.
You crippled one of the Zenin clan heir’s hands, and then you sent pictures of it around?” Mai suddenly looked up.
After being hit in rapid succession by the absurdity of violent crime, a dropout gambling addict, and a femboy upperclassman, the combined shock had somehow worked like a bucket of ice water, forcibly reconnecting the rationality that had nearly burned out.
She stared hard at Makoto, and the reverence she still carried for the Zenin clan—its authority, its order, its power—rose back to the surface.
“The Zenin clan won’t let this go, Mizuki Makoto!
They’re one of the Big Three Families, at the top of the jujutsu world!
Zenin Naobito may be wary of the Gojo clan, but he’ll never allow the disgrace of ‘Naoya being crippled by one of Gojo Satoru’s students.’ He’ll use every political means at his disposal—” Makoto moved faster than she did, picking up a thick, sizzling slice of Kobe beef that had just been dipped in egg and stuffing it precisely into her chattering mouth before she could hit another high note.
“Mmph!
Mmph!” “Eat more meat and worry less, Mai-chan.
Starting to stress over political infighting at your age will give you wrinkles.” Makoto withdrew his chopsticks and casually pointed at Hakari, who was glaring as he tried to smuggle the last piece of short rib off the grill.
“You heard it earlier, right?
This dead gambling addict sitting in front of you recently beat several conservative higher-ups on Kyoto territory so badly that they’re still on oxygen.” Makoto gave her an exceptionally malicious smile.
“According to Zenin-clan logic, this macho idiot should be at the bottom of Lake Biwa feeding fish by now.
So why is he still sitting here, fighting me over who gets that strip of beef?” “Makoto!
This meat has reached the peak of its Fever!
It belongs to me!” Hakari roared, swinging his thick chopsticks fast enough to leave afterimages and generate gusts of air.
“You bastard, you used me to take the heat and now you want to short me on money too?
I’ve put up with you long enough—watch me beat the shit out of you!” Makoto snorted.
The pain in his lower back had turned his face pale, but the hand holding his chopsticks remained steady as a rock.
Above the tiny grill, the two of them launched into an unbelievably childish, high-speed war, their chopstick tips scraping hard enough to throw off a few sparks.
The instant Hakari exposed an opening while defending the meat, Makoto pushed up his monocle with his free hand and spoke as calmly as if they were discussing tomorrow’s weather.
“Mai-chan, the Zenin clan is one of the Big Three Families.
They have deep roots, and crippling their heir will invite endless retaliation.
The higher-ups might even secretly sentence me to death…
that’s what you wanted to say, right?” He gave up on the chopstick battle entirely.
Just as Hakari was about to sweep away the meat, Makoto flicked the bloodstained black-and-gold card that had belonged to Zenin Naoya across the table and sent it straight into Hakari’s broad forehead.
Smack.
The sharp sound silenced the noisy private room for a full second.
“But you’ve misunderstood one thing.” Makoto turned toward Mai, who still had beef in her mouth and shock written across her face, and gave her a vicious smile identical to Gojo Satoru’s.
“I’m Gojo Satoru’s student.” He paused, as though giving the words time to settle into the air.
“Even if I had never touched Naoya, even if I had done absolutely nothing, the old fossils at Jujutsu Headquarters would still hate the sight of me as long as I carried the title of ‘Gojo Satoru’s student.’ Since they’re going to target me either way, why shouldn’t I at least enjoy beating the crap out of people?
As long as I’m not caught red-handed and the tallest, strongest person in the world is still standing over me, all they can do is smash teacups in meetings, suppress my grade, or maybe arrange for me to ‘run into’ a special-grade cursed spirit during a Grade 2 assignment.” Watching Hakari skillfully catch the black card, Makoto leisurely sipped his green tea as a wildly excited green glint appeared in the gambler’s eyes.
“And let me repeat myself: I’m that Gojo Satoru’s student.
As long as the blindfolded asshole is alive and sitting in his Tokyo Jujutsu High office eating sweets, the Zenin clan can stack their complaint letters as high as Mount Everest and still do nothing except listen to me enjoy a feast like this.
At worst, they can tamper with mission assignments.
That’s the advantage of having an influential teacher.
Got it?” “You know Okkotsu Yuta, right?” Makoto added, offering an even more dramatic example.
“Jujutsu Headquarters personally placed him under a secret death sentence, yet he isn’t dead.
He’s about to stroll right back into Tokyo Jujutsu High.
Do you know why, Mai-chan?” Through the steam rising from the grill, Makoto spoke softly.
“Because Gojo-sensei said, ‘Don’t forget, I’m on Yuta’s side.’ So that death sentence is good for nothing but wiping the old bastards’ asses.” ‘W-wait a second!
Is Tokyo Jujutsu High actually some international criminal organization, and is Gojo Satoru a mafia godfather who destroys the world whenever he’s in a bad mood?!’ Mai finally swallowed the beef, but even its rich flavor could not soothe the desolation in her heart.
She turned toward Miwa, Kyoto Jujutsu High’s sole remaining conscience, only to find her leaning eagerly toward Kirara and humbly asking for tips on keeping makeup primer from smudging.
‘So what kind of life has Maki been living over there?
Maybe the rumors about the “Demon Princess” weren’t exaggerated at all.
Maybe they were conservative documentary reporting.’ “Don’t look so horrified, Mai-chan.” Makoto regarded her through the steam.
“Utahime-sensei is kind, gentle, and far more thorough and reliable as a teacher than that blindfolded asshole.
Honestly, having a teacher like her is enviable…
but she lacks a certain perspective.
That blindfolded asshole once taught us something about being jujutsu sorcerers.” Makoto pointed through the window at Kyoto’s old streets sinking into darkness, then at Hakari, who had begun calculating how to launder the black card.
“At the end of the day, being a jujutsu sorcerer is an individual sport.” He set down his teacup, and his voice took on the tempting weight of corruption.
“Even in a team event, if one person drags everyone down, the whole group sinks into the mud.
On the other hand, if you’re strong enough, the rules of Jujutsu Headquarters and your family’s traditions become…
well, you definitely can’t pull that off, Mai-chan, so forget I said anything.
But take Maki-chan, for example.
She’s freer than anyone now.
She’s already fighting for herself, not for that worthless Zenin clan.” Mai fell silent.
Freedom was too extravagant a thing—so extravagant that the weak could only look up at it from below.
At the Zenin estate, where her position had always been low, she had grown accustomed to enduring whatever came her way.
Merely hearing Naoya’s voice could make her body tremble on instinct.
Yet seated among this table full of scumbags, gambling addicts, femboys, and Miwa Kasumi, she felt as though she might be able to breathe in some of that freedom for herself.
“If you’re calling it an individual sport…” Mai abruptly lifted her head, and a flash of determination appeared in her eyes—the kind that came from someone who had been suppressed for too long and had finally been led astray.
“Then I want to build up some prize money for my own competition, too.” She turned to Hakari, her voice trembling slightly but firm.
“You want to open that underground gambling hall in Tokyo.
Your biggest obstacle isn’t funding—it’s surprise inspections and shutdowns from Jujutsu Headquarters, isn’t it?” Hakari raised an eyebrow, pausing as he peeled a shrimp.
He exchanged a glance with Kirara beside him.
“Oh?
And what insight does Mai-chan have to offer?” “I may have no standing in the Zenin clan, but I’m still someone from the Zenin clan at Kyoto Jujutsu High.
Kyoto often gets advance notice when Jujutsu Headquarters issues orders against troublemakers like you.” Mai clenched her hands until her knuckles turned pale.
“I can be your informant in Kyoto.
If Jujutsu Headquarters moves against your casino or either of you, I’ll warn you in advance.
In exchange—” She took a deep breath and looked at Makoto.
“I want a share of the money on that card as an informant’s fee.
It doesn’t need to be much, but it needs to be enough for me to live without relying on the Zenin clan.” The boiling energy in the room seemed to mute at once, freezing in an abrupt silence.
Hakari stopped peeling the shrimp.
His sharp, predatory eyes narrowed as his cool gaze swept over Mai, while Kirara set down her eyebrow razor.
Her lips still carried a sweet smile, but her eyes had turned distant and cold.
‘Seriously, what kind of troublesome kid did Makoto bring along?
A Grade 3 sorcerer from Kyoto Jujutsu High who reeks of honor-student energy wants in on this?’ ‘Kin-chan, you really are an idiot.’ They exchanged a quick glance before Hakari burst into laughter even louder than before .
“Ohhh, Mai-chan!
You felt the Fever too, didn’t you?
Using the Zenin name to strike back at the Zenin clan—that kind of passion is incredible!
Fine!
I approve this ‘security consulting fee’!” Kirara leaned closer as well, taking Mai’s hand with the syrupy affection of a long-lost sister.
“Aww, since Makoto-kun chose you, we’ll be relying on Mai-chan for Kyoto’s ‘weather reports’ from now on.
If you do a good job, the interest will grow so fast you won’t be able to sleep~” Makoto leaned back in his chair with a smile—though it hurt terribly—and watched Zenin Mai begin exchanging contact information with Hakari over a secure line while Miwa learned how to shape her eyebrows under Kirara’s guidance.
It was a certain kind of perverse delight: the pleasure of becoming accomplices.
As dinner drew to a close, Makoto checked the last message Gojo had sent him.
It was a sticker of a tiny figure in sunglasses shaking its butt wildly, followed by a line of text.
[Mizuki-kun.
That old man Naobito was so angry just now that he smashed his treasured tea set.
To calm Jujutsu Headquarters down, your teacher had no choice but to agree to work an extra hour every day for the next week.
So, as “compensation,” I’ll be assigning you a thirty-thousand-word reflection paper as extracurricular homework when you return to school.
Love, your teacher~ ♡]