Tokyo Jujutsu High.
The air inside Yaga Masamichi’s office felt so thick it might as well have been filled with molten lava.
“GOJO—!!!” The roar was loud enough to nearly shatter the windows along the corridor.
Gojo Satoru, who had been sprawled leisurely across the sofa with his hands behind his head, blindfold still on as he chewed bubble gum, was actually forced to straighten up slightly under the sheer force of the sound.
“Come on, Principal, calm down.
If you keep yelling that loudly, you’ll scare the innocent cursed corpses bald.” Gojo leisurely blew another bubble, his flippant tone practically begging someone to punch him in the face.
“Calm down?!
How exactly do you expect me to calm down?!” Yaga slammed several urgent reports onto his desk with enough force to make it shake, then jabbed a finger at the photo displayed on his phone.
It was the picture Mizuki Makoto had posted in the group chat: Zenin Naoya, beaten so thoroughly flat that the result possessed a certain unmistakable two-dimensional aesthetic.
“And you still have the nerve to sit there eating candy?!” Yaga snatched up the reports again, looking very much as though he intended to throw them straight into Gojo’s face.
“First, your personal student Mizuki Makoto ‘vanished without cause’ a month ago and still hasn’t returned to school to report in!
Second, second-years Hakari Kinji and Hoshi Kirara sent one of the higher-ups’ messengers flying in Kyoto, then disappeared without submitting so much as a leave request!” “Oh, you know how young people are.
Sometimes they just feel the urge to go searching for poetry and distant horizons…” “Distant horizons, my ass!
The Zenin Clan’s complaints are already piling up on my desk!” The veins at Yaga’s temples bulged as he pointed once again at the photograph now circulating throughout the jujutsu world, showing Naoya hanging amid the wreckage.
“Mizuki Makoto labeled the heir of the Zenin Clan a ‘work of art’ and actually posted the photo!
Now the entire jujutsu world knows you’ve raised a lunatic who doesn’t even bother giving face to the Three Great Families!
Gojo Satoru, at this rate, are you planning to recruit the King of Curses into your class next?!” The sheer volume of the shout caught Gojo slightly off guard, and the bubble he had been blowing burst with a pop, sticking to the tip of his nose.
He did not, however, appear to be reflecting on his actions in the slightest.
If Yaga had been standing a little closer, he might even have heard the so-called strongest muttering quietly to himself.
“Huh?
Sukuna?
If he’d wear the uniform properly and turn in his homework on time, that could actually be pretty interesting.” Gojo then glanced at the photo again.
“This really is a great shot, though.
The contrast of light and shadow, the bloodstains, the proportions of the subject…
the composition is beautiful.
That’s Makoto for you.
Yep, definitely my student.” Yaga’s furious lecture continued at point-blank range, saliva flying everywhere and baptizing Gojo from every conceivable angle.
After spending the past several days cleaning up after his students and enduring one tedious argument after another, Gojo’s already fluffy white hair somehow looked even smoother and shinier beneath the office lights.
It was probably the glossy finish that came from being thoroughly moisturized by his principal’s spit.
“Well, to be fair, this has been giving me a headache too.” Gojo tugged his blindfold down slightly, revealing pale blue eyes that contained not the slightest hint of remorse; instead, a wicked gleam flickered through them.
“Makoto tearing off Naoya’s arm was definitely wrong.
At the very least, he should’ve broken the other one too, so they’d match.
As for Hakari and Kirara…
they probably went to Kyoto early to scout out the route for our ‘school exchange trip’?” “So how exactly do you plan to clean this mess up?” Yaga drew a deep breath, trying to suppress the dizziness brought on by his rapidly rising blood pressure.
“The Zenin Clan is demanding that Mizuki Makoto be handed over for trial, and the higher-ups want Hakari Kinji expelled.” “Handing him over isn’t happening.
Not in this lifetime.” Gojo finally pulled his blindfold all the way down, and an icy arrogance flashed through those sky-blue eyes.
“Makoto was only helping the Zenin Clan clean house.
After all, ‘weaklings have no right to call themselves strong,’ don’t they?
That’s practically the Zenin family creed.
As for Hakari…
sure, the guy’s a gambling addict, but his pursuit of ‘fever’ is completely sincere.” He rose from the sofa, brushed the creases from his uniform, and curled his lips into an obnoxious grin.
“Since they’re having such a good time in Kyoto, we might as well let them stay there.
The Goodwill Event is coming up soon anyway.” “What are you plotting now?” “Nothing.” Gojo turned away and casually waved a hand at Yaga.
“I was just thinking that when the Goodwill Event rolls around, Utahime is going to discover that Kyoto isn’t only facing Okkotsu Yuta, but also Mizuki Makoto, who just crippled Zenin Naoya…” His grin widened.
“Wouldn’t that make for a very artistic scene?” “GET OUT!!
AND BRING THEM BACK HERE IMMEDIATELY!!!” …
At the same time, on the training field— “Hup—!” Zenin Maki was drenched in sweat as she swung her naginata, every vicious whistle of the blade cutting through the air carrying enough hostility to suggest she was imagining pinning a certain someone to the ground and putting him in a chokehold.
“Maki-san, you seem to be training especially hard today.” Okkotsu Yuta stood awkwardly nearby with his sword bag strapped to his back.
Gojo had only just summoned him out of the dormitory, and he still wore the bewildered expression of someone wondering who he was and why he was there.
“No kidding.” Panda draped an arm over his shoulder and turned his phone screen toward him.
“Makoto crippled Zenin Naoya, then sent Maki a message just to provoke her.
He said, ‘Since you don’t even want that surname anymore, I’ll go ahead and collect this inheritance for you while I’m at it.’ That kind of crap.” Yuta looked at the miserable Naoya in the photo, and the corner of his eye twitched slightly.
“Um…
Mizuki-kun really did go pretty far.
But he wasn’t hurt, was he?” “Him?” Maki raised an eyebrow.
“That bastard’s in Kyoto right now, eating and drinking like a king with second-years Hakari and Kirara.
According to Panda, they’ve already started discussing how to split the spoils.” “…The person in that picture looks like he’s in a lot of pain.” Behind Yuta, an enormous shadow shifted faintly.
“Yuta, forget about that piece of trash.” Maki reset her stance, a level of fighting spirit burning in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.
“Blindfold Bastard said you’re going to Kyoto for the Goodwill Event this time too.
When we get there, you handle those losers from Kyoto, and I’ll drag that smart-mouthed asshole back myself.” Her grip tightened around the naginata.
“Then I’ll make him swallow the words ‘your Zenin family’ one word at a time.” …
In the infirmary, Ieiri Shoko tiredly exhaled a ring of cigarette smoke while staring at the message Mizuki Makoto had sent her.
[Ieiri-san, the beef in Kyoto is amazing.
I’ll bring you back some souvenirs.] “Souvenirs, huh…” Shoko murmured to herself with a faint smile before turning her gaze toward the window.
“A lunatic who doesn’t care even if he tears the Zenin Clan apart, plus a monster even an execution order couldn’t kill.” She took another drag from her cigarette.
“Satoru, are you trying to piss Utahime off badly enough that she achieves enlightenment on the spot?” …
Far away in Kyoto, Mizuki Makoto was sitting in a private room at a yakiniku restaurant, directing Miwa Kasumi as she massaged his lower back, when a completely unexpected chill suddenly ran down his spine.
“Makoto-kun, are you coming down with a cold?” Kirara asked with concern.
“No.” Makoto adjusted his glasses and stared expressionlessly at the image Gojo Satoru had just sent him: a crudely hand-drawn blindfolded figure holding a pair of shackles.
“I merely sensed an aura known as ‘Gojo Satoru’s resentment’ crossing a thousand kilometers to reach me.” He paused before calmly setting his phone down.
“…Order me another plate of beef tongue.
I need to build up my strength first, so when I go ‘on trial,’ I’ll have enough energy to argue my case—no, to properly ‘explain’ everything.”