“Shoko-sensei—!
Help me—!
I’m dying!
I’m seriously going to die—!” Tokyo Jujutsu High, infirmary.
The air, which should have been quiet and solemn, was currently being torn apart by a miserable, piercing wail.
Mizuki Makoto, the “Grade 3 sorcerer” who shattered a barrier with his bare-boned left arm half an hour ago, was now wrapped from head to toe in thick bandages, looking exactly like a freshly unearthed mummy.
Unfortunately, this mummy possessed none of the peace and dignity of the dead.
Instead, he was clinging tight to Ieiri Shoko’s leg in an extremely bizarre posture, wriggling around like a giant damn maggot.
“Waaah!
Shoko-nee, look at my hand!
The flesh is gone!
It’s just bone now!
Does that mean I won’t even have the strength to hold chopsticks and eat instant noodles anymore?
Am I going to become a useless cripple who can only stay alive on a ventilator?” As Makoto bawled his eyes out, he desperately rubbed his bandaged face against the hem of Shoko’s white coat.
If you ignored the sharp, calculating clarity hidden deep in his eyes, his tragic performance could genuinely be called tearful and convincing!
“Let go.” Shoko sat on a swivel chair with an unlit cigarette between her lips, the dark circles under her eyes twice as heavy as usual.
She lowered her gaze and looked at the creature beside her leg currently engaged in “malicious cuteness,” her expression full of the weary question: ‘Why the hell didn’t I let Satoru bury him back then?’ “I won’t!
Not unless you approve half a year of paid medical leave for me!
And I need premium nutrition subsidies too!
The cursed energy residue from that Special Grade cursed womb must still be damaging my damn brain cells.
Sensei, look carefully—don’t my eyes seem clearer now?
Clearer in the stupid way?” Makoto lifted his head and widened his eyes, which were practically screaming, “Please financially support me,” as he attempted to launch an attack called [A Weakling’s Whining].
“Makoto, let me remind you of something.” Shoko expressionlessly stretched out two fingers, accurately pinched Makoto’s ear, and yanked upward.
“Your hand has already been completely regenerated with Reverse Cursed Technique.
As for the ‘brain cell damage’ you mentioned, based on my diagnosis, that’s probably a natural intellectual defect.
Reverse Cursed Technique can’t cure terminal stupidity sadly.” “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow!
It’s going to tear off!
My ear is going to fall off!” Makoto let out a scream like a pig being slaughtered, but the strength with which he hugged her leg only increased.
“Shoko-onee-sama!
Shoko-sama!
Your gentle fingers are a miracle!
With just one word from you, I’d even wash Gojo-sensei’s underwear…
no, actually, forget washing his underwear.
That’s way too anti-human!
Let’s change it to triple compensation instead!” “That scumbag was right.” Shoko sighed and finally gave up struggling, allowing this “maggot” to keep hanging from her leg.
“You really don’t have the slightest bit of dignity as a jujutsu sorcerer.
Seriously, when I saw that arm of yours with the bone exposed, I almost thought you had finally graduated from being Scumbag Number Three.
But in the end…” “Can dignity be exchanged for triple pay?
Can it be exchanged for a tablet subscription?” Makoto sniffled loudly.
“I got injured this badly while protecting Jujutsu High’s important property—meaning myself!
That patchwork monster was scary as shit!” “Enough!
Stop acting.” Shoko pressed her fingers hard against her temple, then slapped a report onto Makoto’s bandage-wrapped head.
“Satoru already figured out what happened.
That was Suguru’s…
the curse user Geto Suguru’s handiwork.” The moment he heard the name “Geto Suguru,” Makoto’s wriggling paused for an almost imperceptible 0.1 seconds.
Then he cried even louder!
“Sensei, that means I was hit by Geto Suguru!
That was a trap personally set by one of Gojo-sensei’s ‘only two best friends’!
If I hadn’t needed to deal with the Special Grade cursed womb he left behind, would I have ended up in such a ‘bone-exposing’ state?” As he spoke, he naturally climbed higher up her leg and tightened his hold, his humble tone carrying the faintest trace of a threat that finally revealed his true purpose.
“When I revealed my cursed technique, [Limitless], to you, you still had doubts about me.
But now, I’ve paid a blood tax for that little piece of your ‘youth’!
Shoko-sensei, can you really bear to watch a kid who was crippled for justice—and money—withering away in agony because he lacks source material?
Can you really let that bastard Geto Suguru laugh in the shadows while I don’t even have enough material to write a novel trashing his ass?” The hand Shoko used to hold her cigarette trembled slightly.
She lowered her head and looked at the shameless boy beside her feet.
Under normal circumstances, she would just think this brat was like those two scumbags—a hopeless piece of social garbage.
But just now, when she personally stitched Makoto’s wounds together, she had indeed sensed a nostalgic stubbornness within the cursed energy residue left behind.
‘Suguru, you scumbag, you really already…’ “…Fine.
Stop acting.
Your tears are getting on my socks.” Shoko let out a heavy sigh and finally gave up on kicking this “maggot” away.
She remembered the plan Makoto had proposed a week ago—the utterly immoral plan to “deconstruct the strongest through rumors.” “Let go and pour me a cup of coffee, two sugar cubes.
If you don’t stir it right, go lie down in the incinerator yourself.” “Yes, ma’am!
Please sit tight, Chief Editor!” Makoto flipped himself up with startling efficiency.
There was no trace left of the pathetic, wriggling maggot from earlier.
Though he was still wrapped in bandages, he moved as nimbly as a monkey that just stole a banana.
Boiling water, grinding beans, lighting her cigarette, massaging her shoulders—he executed a full five-star “exploitation service” so smoothly that it seemed determined to let Shoko rediscover the queenly feeling she enjoyed back in her Jujutsu High days, when Nanami and Haibara practically worshipped her.
Beneath that groveling appearance, however, Makoto’s mind was racing.
This was for the sake of truly putting his [Limitless] cursed technique to use—not the kind of pure delusion that came from drawing a few doujinshi.
By weaving rumors through real source material, he could mislead public perception and use the “curse” known as a “lie” to steal genuine “power.” “Makoto-kun, I don’t want to see you turn those memories into pure trash.” Shoko narrowed her eyes, enjoying the pressure of his hands on her shoulders.
“I review the manuscript first.
That’s our [Binding Vow].
If you dare half-ass it, the backlash from the vow will make you unable to draw so much as a stick figure for the rest of your life.” “Don’t worry, Shoko-sensei.” Makoto leaned close to her ear, his eyes shining like a conspirator’s.
“I’m not planning to draw a doujin this time.
I’m going to write a novel!
With the most delicate prose possible, I’ll knead those real details into the most absurdly painful romance.
I’ve already thought of the title.
It’ll be called—A Bitter Summer.” Words.
That was the medium he carefully selected.
In this prejudiced jujutsu world, nobody would ever imagine that a teenager whose head was full of “white-stocking big breast” and whose tastes were extremely upright would secretly be a master of delicate, heartbreaking male romance.
To maximize the feedback from his cursed technique, he had no choice but to force down the nausea churning in his stomach and spend night after night crawling through those female-oriented websites with disturbingly strange art styles.
In that swamp filled with pink bubbles and indescribable writing, he painstakingly forged a writing style for male romance that was delicate, emotionally twisted, and capable of making even veteran fujoshi blush!
With this cognitive blind spot in place, even if Gojo Satoru discovered it one day, his first suspicion would be that Shoko had finally been crushed by the bullshit of life and developed a creative hobby!
“That day…
Suguru went to buy popsicles.” Through the rising steam of the coffee, Shoko slowly began to speak.
Since Makoto had already paid the price in flesh and blood, she no longer hesitated.
Her voice carried a trace of sickly nostalgia that even she herself didn’t notice.
“But then Satoru stole the bigger half and deliberately dripped melted syrup onto Suguru’s collar.
Suguru’s eyes at that moment weren’t angry.
They were filled with a kind of helpless indulgence.
He didn’t even wipe it off.
Instead, he took off Satoru’s sunglasses, put them over his own eyes, and said, ‘Satoru, you’ve gotten weaker.'” “‘Indulgent eyes,’ ‘syrup on the collar,’ ‘exchanged sunglasses’…
ohohoho!
Nice!” Makoto recorded everything rapidly on his tablet, his movements so fast they almost left afterimages!
“Shoko-sensei, more, more!
Details like this—sugar laced with arsenic—are exactly what readers love most!
Once my A Bitter Summer starts serializing on the dark web, not only will I be able to siphon power from it, maybe even Geto Suguru will be so pissed off by this social execution that his cursed energy goes haywire!” “Go create it, then.” Shoko exhaled a ring of smoke, her gaze drifting slightly.
“Stop being a damn eyesore here.” “Yes, ma’am!
I guarantee I’ll write it even more real than the truth!” Makoto struck a stylish farewell pose at Shoko and disappeared through the infirmary door.
Shoko looked at the empty room, her fingertips rubbing lightly against the warm cup of coffee.
“…Turning lies into truth, huh?” She murmured softly.
“Weaving the story of those two idiots into something like that…
Makoto-kun, you really are a sinner through and through.”