The bell of the Gion Shoja tolls, Telling of the impermanence of all things.
The color of the Sala flowers reveals, The truth that the prosperous must decline.
The proud do not endure, Like a passing dream on a night in spring.
The mighty fall at last, To become as dust before the wind.
December 7, 2006.
The birthday of the eldest son of the Taira family—a minor jujutsu clan.
As a four-year-old boy lay unconscious, venomous whispers echoed from the dark corners of the seemingly quiet Taira estate.
“The Young Master failed to inherit a technique, and his constitution is so weak.
There’s no way he can become the head of the house.” “He doesn’t have the potential to even reach Semi-Grade 1, let alone lead us.
As long as we can produce a child who actually inherits a technique, the other Big Three families will help us secure our position.” Tokyo winters are particularly loathsome.
Sometimes, Tokyoites find themselves envying the pristine white snow of Kyoto.
The northwesterly winds that bring rain and snow are stripped of their moisture by the mountains, leaving Tokyo with nothing but bone-chilling air that makes one’s face sting.
These cold winds carried the biting rumors through the halls of the Taira estate—a place that was “gold and jade on the outside, but rot and decay within.” Some are dead while they still live; others live on long after they have died.
Li Sheng jolted awake, tearing himself away from the suffocating sensation of drowning.
He was alive.
He was actually alive!
He gasped for air, his lungs burning with the intake of oxygen.
A tidal wave of emotions surged through his mind, but the sheer joy of surviving death’s grip triumphed over all.
He tried to call out for a nurse, wondering why his vision was so blurry, but the sound that escaped his throat was the high-pitched, tender cry of a child.
He forced his eyes open; his vision, initially hazy, slowly began to clear.
Suddenly, a sharp pain lanced through his brain.
Memories flooded in like a torrential tide.
It took a long moment for the agony to subside and for him to adjust.
I’ve…
transmigrated?
Into the body of a child?
A sudden ache hit his chest.
Was this some sort of cosmic compensation for his twenty-odd years of tragedy?
He had finally done something heroic for once in his life—saving someone—and ended up drowning for his troubles.
Perhaps it was for the best; as an orphan, he had no ties left in his old world.
But as he began to sift through his new memories, something felt profoundly wrong.
Tokyo, Japan.
Cursed Spirits!
Jujutsu Sorcerers!
Gojo Satoru?!!!
Li Sheng stared at his small, pale hands, a bitter smile tugging at his lips.
“I finally get a second chance at life,” he muttered to himself, “and it’s in the world of Jujutsu Kaisen.
That twisted, nonsensical world…
This is hardly the place I’d call a ‘dream destination’.” In Japan, the average number of annual unexplained deaths and disappearances exceeds 10,000.
A massive portion of those are the result of Cursed Spirits.
Human death born from human fear.
“My name is Taira no Minamoto.
I just turned five.
I was born into the Taira clan, a jujutsu family.
I fell into a coma because I was awakening a technique…
so that’s why I’m here.
Even if this world is dangerous, being the eldest son of a sorcerer family should be safe enough.
Not to mention, I actually have a technique now.
Superpowers—the thing I dreamed of in my past life!
But wait…
why is this the technique I awakened?” His mind went hazy again as a burst of information exploded behind his eyes.
His temples felt like they were being split open; his head was throbbing as if it might detonate.
Forgotten images flickered into his consciousness.
An infinite, burning wasteland.
In the leaden sky, massive, rotating gears ground against one another.
A searing light bathed his body—not the warmth of the sun, but the heat of a Great Fire.
Standing before a certain man, he recognized him instantly.
The man who sacrificed the few to save the many.
The man who cast aside his humanity and emotions to become a tool for “Justice.” Even after death, he became a Guardian of Alaya, fated to eternally massacre those who would cause disaster.
In that endless cycle of slaughter, he had grown weary of his existence, consumed by infinite regret.
The Wrought-Iron Hero.
The Nameless Archer.
Emiya Shirou.
It turned out that after his death, Li Sheng had met Alaya and signed a contract.
After a conversation with the Heroic Spirit Emiya—who, while skeptical of Li Sheng’s ideals, granted him his power and memories—he was given the strength to pursue his own pale imitation of justice.
To use a blade to protect what little kindness remained in this dark world.
The man had hoped that Li Sheng wouldn’t end up betraying his own dreams, nor meet a tragic end.
All the misfortune in the world stems from a lack of power in those involved.
Hold onto your kindness.
Protect the common sense of humanity.
Indeed, the boy known as Taira no Minamoto now possessed Tracing (Projection Sorcery).
He had become a common pawn under the employ of Boss Alaya.
By consuming Cursed Energy, he could project the “Proofs of Heroes”—the weapons and Noble Phantasms stored within Emiya’s memories.
As long as I can complete the structural analysis…
“Anyway, first I need to find a ‘Time-Machine Chicken’ and calm down—” Transmigrating into JJK with a “cheat” code…
no matter how he looked at it, this was a win.
The anxiety that had gripped him dissipated, replaced by the thrill of a transmigrator’s luck.
Everything had been laid out perfectly.
It seemed this body had been prepared for him all along.
Before the age of four, Taira no Minamoto had acted on autopilot based on Li Sheng’s subconscious; the awakening of his technique at age five was simply the catalyst for his past-life memories to surface.
My wonderful life as a wealthy scion is about to begin!
In a world where Curses exist, jujutsu sorcerers are the only line of defense.
They fight and exorcise Cursed Spirits to protect lives and maintain the status quo.
This is the most direct solution.
However, since Curses are born from human fear, the spread of unease regarding the existence of Curses is the true danger.
Curses are born from the human heart.
To protect the peace of mind of the masses and prevent widespread panic—that is the ultimate mission.
One of the front lines of this battle is the Tokyo Metropolitan Curse Technical College.
On the training grounds, a black-haired youth and a white-haired youth stood in a tense standoff.
An invisible pressure radiated from the white-haired boy as he lunged forward.
In the blink of an eye, the white-haired youth’s form blurred.
It was a speed that defied common sense—he was like a hawk diving for its prey from the clouds!
His kick was peerless in speed and power, cold and decisive, as if this were a true life-or-death duel.
But the black-haired youth was no amateur.
He stood his ground, hands positioned one in front of the other to guard his centerline—the classic “Man Sau” (Inquisitive Hand) stance of Wing Chun.
As the lethal kick bore down on him, the black-haired youth’s lead hand parried the side of the leg by a mere few inches.
His right hand then slapped it down, redirecting the force so the strike slid harmlessly past his body.
It was a feat of technique that transcended mere speed and strength.
He had chosen the exact moment his opponent’s power peaked to neutralize the momentum.
The white-haired youth’s kick slammed into the dirt, sending a cloud of dust into the air.
Amidst the haze, the two separated instantly.
A normal person wouldn’t have been able to track the details.
To an observer, it would have looked like the white-haired boy dashed forward, the black-haired boy made a slight gesture, the ground exploded, and they both bounced back.
They stood still for a heartbeat, then lunged again.
Fists and feet collided in a blur.
Neither could gain a clear advantage.
The black-haired youth used defense as offense, his strikes heavy and disciplined.
The white-haired youth was fluid and unpredictable, flickering in and out of sight to deliver lethal blows.
Every time an attack was parried, he would retreat immediately, only to transform back into a blur of light with high-speed movement.
Their desperate struggle was like a beautiful, macabre dance.
A blur of black, a blur of white; they clashed amidst the rising dust, their movements becoming indistinguishable.
Suddenly, the white-haired youth closed the distance and swung his right fist.
Crack!
The blow landed.
The black-haired youth managed to cross his arms over his chest to block, but the sheer force sent him skidding back several paces.
Finally, by unspoken agreement, both withdrew and fell back into their stances.
The black-haired youth spoke first.
“Satoru, I heard the eldest son of the Taira family shares a birthday with you.
Word is he collapsed today while his technique was being tested.
You’re both from the big clans—haven’t you heard anything?” Gojo Satoru clicked his tongue impatiently.
“Suguru, there are plenty of jujutsu clans, and most of them are full of idiots.
There’s no need to pay them any mind.
I think you’re just looking for an excuse to catch your breath.
If you can’t keep up, Suguru, just admit defeat!
Here I come!” The two were none other than the Special Grade sorcerers, Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru.