Tokyo Narita International Airport.
The silver Gulfstream G650ER let out a deafening roar as it tore through the clouds, slicing through the heavy curtains of rain.
This top-tier business jet was designed specifically for the world’s elite; it was the largest, most expensive, most comfortable, and fastest private aircraft in its class.
A misty drizzle blanketed the evening, and the April rain carried the biting chill of the night.
Two black Maybachs sat waiting by the runway.
As the air-stair descended, Gojo Satoru was the first to step out.
The four students followed closely behind, none of them feeling the urge to grab an umbrella—they were still reeling from the sheer luxury of their teacher’s private jet.
Among the first-years, only Taira no Minamoto could be considered “new money,” but even he was profoundly shaken.
He finally understood how the truly wealthy lived; compared to this, his own family was practically middle-class.
A girl with short blonde hair and a sharp black suit stood by the cars, watching the stairs.
The moment the hatch opened, she stepped forward and raised an umbrella over Gojo Satoru.
She didn’t even glance at the four students; after all, who could see anyone else when standing in front of Gojo Satoru?
“Welcome back, Mr.
Gojo.
I’ve prepared tea and snacks in the car for you.” Her smile was as warm as a sunbeam.
She opened the car door, and Gojo took his seat in the back.
She closed it for him and finally seemed to notice the four students, who were walking as if they were stepping on clouds, still intoxicated by the feel of the jet’s plush carpets.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you all.
I am Akari Nitta, an Assistant Director at Jujutsu High.
I’ll be filling in for Mr.
Ijichi for the time being,” the woman said politely.
The four of them snapped out of their daze, offering a messy chorus of greetings.
A mix of “Hello,” “Hi,” and Toge’s muffled “Kelp” filled the air.
“Nice to meet you.
Please, get in the car before the rain ruins your day,” Nitta said, giggling behind her hand with the kindliness of a big sister.
By then, the car carrying Gojo Satoru had already pulled away.
He offered a flippant wave from the rear window as they sped off.
He had likely seen the dorky expressions on his students’ faces and decided he didn’t want to squeeze into a car with four damp teenagers.
Looking at their receding teacher, Minamoto and the others felt a profound sense of helplessness at Gojo’s utter lack of reliability.
Minamoto ushered Maki into the front passenger seat while he, Panda, and Toge squeezed into the back.
Finally, they were heading back to school.
Nitta couldn’t help but laugh as she watched Minamoto and Toge pressed against the windows by Panda’s bulk.
Minamoto, in particular, was muttering something about how he’d make Gojo-sensei pay once they got back to the dorms.
Minamoto spent the drive trying to lighten the mood, but unfortunately, Panda—the only one in the group capable of being a “straight man” to his jokes—refused to play along.
Gradually, Minamoto realized something was off.
He had assumed the three of them were just stunned by the luxury of the private jet.
It turned out that he, the “hero” with the “bold features,” was the only traitor—the only one who had let himself be seduced by the sugar-coated bullets of capitalism.
Looking closer at his three companions, he realized they weren’t just mourning the fifteen fetuses from the mission.
While that was tragic, every sorcerer made their peace with such horrors the moment they stepped into this world.
Instead, as the worry on their faces shifted into grim determination, Minamoto began to feel like an outsider in the car—as if a secret meeting had occurred while he was distracted by the leather seats.
He realized the truth: the three of them felt they were too weak.
That was the source of their frustration.
Nitta spoke up, breaking the silence.
“I’m not sure what happened, but you’re all back safe, aren’t you?
We’re almost there.
Just get back to the dorms, eat something, and get some sleep.” Finally, someone said something, Minamoto thought with a sigh.
“Even Gojo-sensei wasn’t the strongest from the start.
Let’s just keep working at it, everyone.” The rest of the trip was silent.
Even as they reached the dorms, the trio hadn’t quite regained their spirits.
Suddenly, a sliding door at the dorm entrance flew open, and Gojo Satoru burst out wearing an apron and clutching a ladle.
“What took you so long?” Gojo complained.
“The curry is going to get cold!
I came back early specifically to help cook!” The group’s reaction shifted from gloom to pure shock.
No one had expected Gojo Satoru to actually know his way around a kitchen.
Once inside, Gojo served them bowls of curry and urged them to eat.
Minamoto realized that his teacher had actually been reliable for once; he must have sensed their mood on the plane and rushed back to prepare a meal.
As they began to dig in, Gojo suddenly spoke up, a thin smile on his face.
“What a person can achieve isn’t entirely determined by their power.
It’s determined by what they want to achieve.
You all have your goals now.
For the sake of those goals, give it everything you’ve got.
Those who can’t gamble it all are useless.
We start special training tomorrow.
Do your best to survive…
after all, it’s not like I’m a monster or anything.” While the other three were still soaking in Gojo’s rare moment of inspirational “chicken soup for the soul,” Minamoto nearly choked on his food.
He remembered all too well that Gojo Satoru was notoriously bad at teaching.
Special training?
I’m going to die tomorrow, aren’t I?
Midnight.
Gojo Satoru glanced out the window.
The wind and rain had grown even more violent.
He was reminded of an old line of poetry: “Clouds surge like rising smoke; dense rain falls like scattered silk.” “Satoru.
Come sit.
Have some tea.” It was the voice of Masamichi Yaga.
Tea flowed steadily from the pot into the cup, filling the small room with a fresh aroma.
The dark green leaves drifted to the surface before slowly sinking to the bottom.
They unfurled lazily in the water, their poetic fragrance lending a touch of elegance to the stormy night outside.
Yaga took a sip, feeling that this was the essence of a life well-lived.
Gojo sat down and downed his tea in a single gulp, immediately noisily demanding a refill.
Yaga wanted to be annoyed at Gojo’s lack of refinement, but his anger dissipated as quickly as it had come.
The purpose of tea was to quench thirst, after all.
He poured Gojo another cup.
Gojo looked at Yaga’s expression, feeling a bit confused by the sudden patience.
At that moment, Kiyotaka Ijichi entered and stood to the side to read his report.
“The fifteen fetuses have been placed in the Cursed Tool Warehouse.
Every single one of them has reached the level of a Grade 1 Cursed Object.
If the majority of their Cursed Energy hadn’t been consumed to maintain the barrier, that Curse would have reached the level of a Semi-Special Grade.
The consequences would have been catastrophic.
However, due to the age of the Cursed Residue, the trail has gone cold.
We can only investigate based on the source of the lab equipment found on-site.” As Ijichi turned to leave, Gojo reached out a hand to stop him.
“Leave this investigation to me.
If he’s still alive, I’ll make him pay.
Anyone who hurts my cute students is unforgivable.
Stealing the youth of the young is a sin against heaven itself.” Outside, a bolt of lightning acted like a blade, slicing open the throat of the sky.
Ijichi caught himself thinking that Mr.
Gojo looked incredibly cool in that moment.
Suddenly, Yaga landed a heavy punch on Gojo’s head—or rather, he tried to, as the blow hit the Limitless barrier instead.
“Stop trying to look cool, Satoru!” Yaga barked.
“Don’t think you can dodge responsibility.
You went off to buy candy and let your students get hurt.
You think acting tough is going to let you off the hook?” Watching Gojo get chased around the room, Ijichi realized he must have been hallucinating when he thought Gojo looked cool.
At the exact moment the barrier was destroyed, two women were walking through a shopping district.
One of them suddenly looked up.
“It was found?
Oh well.
It was just a defective prototype anyway.” “Mizuki, who are you talking to?” the other woman asked.
“Did you see someone you know?” Mizuki shook her head.
“No.
I just remembered something from the past.
Come on, let’s keep shopping.” “You just got into that car accident and the scar on your head hasn’t even healed yet.
Honestly, doctors these days…
that’s such a huge stitch job.”