Suddenly, all sound vanished, as if the entire world had abandoned them.
The absence of noise brought no peace; instead, it felt unbearably oppressive.
The colors of the surrounding world began to dim and bleed away, the distance between the students and the normal world stretching as they were peeled away from reality.
A wet, rustling sound slithered from behind.
Taira no Minamoto gripped his twin blades, whirling around to face the threat.
Standing there was a tall woman with long black hair, dressed in a trench coat.
“Who are you?” Panda asked.
The woman didn’t answer.
Her body began to twitch and contort, shifting to reveal a form wrapped entirely in blood-stained bandages.
The four students began to back away slowly, but in the next heartbeat, a nightmare unfolded.
As she shuddered, her hair fell away to reveal a hideous countenance.
She had no discernible facial features; instead, a dozen eyes were scattered across the gaps in the bandages.
She stopped trembling.
A massive, jagged maw tore through the bandages, splitting her face open from ear to ear.
“Hey…
am…
I…
pretty?” Her voice might have been melodious once, but through that mangled throat, it came out as a bone-chilling shriek.
Minamoto reacted instantly, shouting to the others, “Don’t answer!
That’s the Slit-Mouthed Woman, an Imaginary Vengeful Spirit.
This is her Innate Domain—it forces a pact of non-aggression on both sides until her question is answered!” Urban legends, famous ghost stories, and yokai are horrors born from collective imagination.
Even if they don’t exist in reality, the mental image is enough.
The stronger the collective fear, the more powerful the Vengeful Spirit.
The terror lurking in the human heart reflects directly in the Curse’s behavior and attacks.
“I’ll hold her off!
I’m deploying a Simple Domain to neutralize hers!” Minamoto yelled, ignoring his own dwindling Cursed Energy reserves.
A small Breath-Swallowing Domain expanded around the group.
Panda curiously waved a hand through the air, he and Toge beginning to inspect the barrier with casual interest.
Maki glared at the two of them.
“You idiots, get serious!
A Curse that can manifest a domain—even a simple one—is Grade 1 or higher at the very least!” Panda waved her off dismissively.
“Maa, it’s fine to slack off a bit.
The ‘Strongest,’ Gojo Satoru, is right outside.
Clearly, the enemy doesn’t have the confidence to face him directly.” “Mustard leaf, mustard leaf,” Toge added, signaling her to relax.
“Hey!
You two!
I don’t have much juice left!
I can’t hold this forever!” Minamoto yelled, sweat pouring down his face.
“She’s going to realize something is wrong and attack!” In the urban legend of the Slit-Mouthed Woman, a lady in a trench coat and mask stops people on the street to ask, “Am I pretty?” If you say “yes,” she removes the mask to show her torn face and asks, “How about now?” If you say “no,” she kills you with her giant scissors.
If you say “yes” again, she cuts your face to match hers.
Seeing that no one was answering, the Slit-Mouthed Woman flew into a rage.
Her scissors snapped open and shut with a metallic clack.
Four pairs of massive shears materialized in the air, poised to shred the students.
Suddenly, the domain was torn asunder.
The Slit-Mouthed Woman let out a pathetic shriek before dissolving into nothingness.
It was Gojo-sensei.
Though they had expected him, seeing Satoru Gojo rip through a domain and bring back the light was a sight to behold.
Even Minamoto, whose own looks were nearly on par, couldn’t help but let out a stunned, “Oh, wow.” Across the way, Geto Suguru had stopped moving.
Gojo simply stared at him in silence, his eyes seemingly lost in the memories of the only three years of his “Blue Spring” youth.
Geto Suguru, Gojo’s only best friend, had massacred an entire village and killed his own parents in 2007.
He had been officially branded a Curse User by the jujutsu authorities.
The images of that day flashed through Gojo’s mind once more.
Masamichi Yaga, who was their homeroom teacher at the time, had been the one to tell Satoru about Suguru’s crimes.
Geto had sought out Shoko Ieiri first, wanting a final goodbye before facing Satoru.
He had poured out his twisted ideology to Gojo and then turned to walk away, telling Satoru to kill him if he wished.
Just like that day, Gojo found he had no desire to strike.
His best friend had descended into madness, and he, the “Strongest,” had been powerless to stop it.
“Satoru.
This place belongs to your family, doesn’t it?
I saw the Gojo crest,” Geto said, breaking the heavy silence.
“How about buying an old friend dinner?” “Suguru…
you bastard…” Gojo’s voice lacked its usual bite.
He sounded tired.
Geto led Mimiko and Nanako past the group, casually patting Gojo on the shoulder as he went.
“Put it on your tab, Satoru.” He ignored the first-years entirely.
Mimiko stuck her tongue out at Panda as she passed; Panda promptly returned the face, which Nanako found unexpectedly adorable.
Gojo looked uncharacteristically despondent.
He marched over to the car, yanked Ijichi out of the driver’s seat, and told him to find his own way home.
It was…
very quiet.
The five of them sat in the car.
Gojo was actually driving today, clearly needing to clear his head.
Suddenly, he spoke.
“Hold on tight.” Amidst a chorus of yelps and screams, the tires screeched, sending a plume of blue smoke into the air as the car bolted like a runaway horse.
Gojo Satoru didn’t care about red lights or speed limits.
He ignored the growing swarm of police cruisers trailing behind them with total indifference.
Eventually, the sirens faded away—the police had likely checked the plates and realized who the car belonged to.
As they hit the suburban highway, Gojo floored it.
Within thirty seconds, the car had reached its theoretical top speed.
The highway was sparse at this hour, but at such a terrifying velocity, every other car seemed like a stationary obstacle.
The four students braced themselves to jump for their lives a dozen times over, certain a crash was imminent.
Yet the car wove through traffic like a needle, following a path only Gojo’s Six Eyes could perceive.
In the back, Minamoto and Toge clung to Panda for dear life.
In the passenger seat, Maki gripped her seatbelt until her knuckles turned white, her face as pale as a sheet.
They should have known.
They really should have just gone back with Ijichi.
But there was no medicine for regret.
With the Six Eyes, high-speed racing was child’s play to Gojo—if he didn’t push the vehicle to the point of mechanical failure, he wouldn’t be Gojo Satoru.
By the time the car felt like it was about to vibrate into pieces, the world outside had become a blur of light and the wind a deafening roar.
Even Gojo’s laughter eventually faded into the background.
They gave up.
They reached a state of Zen-like resignation.
They were one with the void.
Nothing could surprise them anymore.
Base of Mt.
Enna The mountain road was deserted.
Gojo gradually slowed the car, rolling down the window.
The wind caught his silver hair, tossing the strands about his face.
The headlights illuminated the mountain’s winding turn signs one by one as they ascended.
The reflected light fractured across Gojo’s face, but it was a view no one was in the mood to appreciate.
The four students sat bolt upright, their faces devoid of all desire or worldly concern.
“He was…
my only best friend,” Gojo said quietly.
It was unclear if he was talking to them or to himself.
Aside from the whistling mountain wind, the four students offered him no reply.