It remains unknown which f*cking bastard with doomed ancestors left an uneaten, rotten banana lying casually at the corner of the stairwell.
The thing had been stepped on and squished into a gross pulp by a passing student, its yellowish-white flesh sticking greedily to the concrete steps like a scoop of melting, nauseatingly sweet, decaying ice cream.
The unlucky Yasui was walking down, looking down at math formulas.
The moment his left foot stepped on it, an excruciatingly slippery sensation sent a shock down his spine.
“Ah, shit…”
Instinctively, he tried to grab the handrail, but his fingertips caught only cold, empty air.
His entire body collapsed like a pitiful, boneless cutlassfish (which is actually delicious; I’m pretty fond of beltfish, braised cutlassfish is awesome~).
First, the back of his head cracked loudly against the edge of a step with a heavy “thud,” and immediately after, his body completely lost all control.
“Clack-clack-clack-clack—”
The dull thuds of bone colliding with concrete echoed in the narrow stairwell—painful and clamorous.
Yasui tumbled all the way from the sixth floor to the fourth-floor landing like sparks and lightning.
Amidst the spinning world, he clearly heard a bone-chilling “snap” from his ribs, and his left arm twisted at an unnatural angle before slamming into the iron box of the fire hydrant.
He wasn’t dead yet; he was still breathing.
Lying flat on his back on the icy floor, his purple eyes stared up at the ceiling, though what he saw wasn’t the ceiling at all, but rather swaying darkness and a faint speck of light.
“It hurts so bad…”
It really hurt like hell.
His lungs felt completely unfamiliar, as if an invisible hand were squeezing them tight, each breath dragging out a shattering, excruciating pain.
However, the true disaster was only just beginning—the benign tumor (in his heart) that had laid dormant in his left chest for eighteen years finally buckled under the burden in a body exquisitely sensitive to pain.
Tears welled up in his eyes, slowly pooling in his eye sockets.
Physiological tears, of course—though he personally felt a bit like crying too, because it really, really hurt.
Triggered by the intense pain, the nerves around the tumor began discharging frantically.
Yasui felt that hand squeezing his heart tighten further—
Beat, pause, shudder, pause again.
Yasui went off to enjoy his bliss.
Haha, how lucky of you, Yasui.
The world lost a mathematical genius forever.
But the Jujutsu world was about to welcome its very own sun~
Background Music: Highway to Hell…
Hehehe (Voldemort laugh).
…
March 7, 2005, Morning.
Sunlight poured onto the ancient, grand structure, filtering through the wooden grids of the old-fashioned window to cast dappled light and shadow across the floorboards.
Those light patches were diamond-shaped, their edges blurred and fuzzy against the yellowed window paper, like lazy orange cats snoozing listlessly on the floor.
Floating in the air was the peculiar scent of decaying century-old wood mixed with mothballs and old books—the signature smell of the Yasui estate, one Yasui had smelled for over a decade in his past life and couldn’t forget even in death.
The person lying on the floor was all alone, looking like a skinned toad.
He twitched his fingers.
He opened his eyes once more.
What met his eyes was a familiar ceiling—interlocking wooden beams carved with intricate patterns, spiders weaving webs in the corner; it was the old estate he had poked countless times with a bamboo pole as a kid.
He could even see the legs of an orb-weaver spider on the web, vibrating lightly at a steady frequency.
That spider is still alive!
Ah…
The cleaners slacked off again.
Time to dock their pay.
He twitched his fingers again, reaching downward to grab a blanket or a bedsheet—it was a bit cold.
The tactile sensation was real.
The lines on his palm, the curvature of his knuckles—everything carried a strange sense of familiarity.
This wasn’t a dream.
A dream wouldn’t have air so crisp with the faint tang of wood, nor would it carry the dull ache pressing against his tailbone from the floor beneath him.
“Huh?”
Something was wrong.
He clearly remembered performing a free fall at the stairwell of his college dorm.
How did he wake up back in this feudal estate the moment he opened his eyes?
And he felt…
this body was ridiculously light.
In his past life, he had been 185 cm tall; whenever he lay on this bed, the bedboards would groan under the weight.
Now, the floor beneath him was dead silent.
This was way too absurd.
[Hello!
You’ve transmigrated~]
A cheerful mechanical voice chimed in his head, dripping with malicious cutesiness and disgusting, whiny intimacy.
Every word sounded like it had been chewed in its mouth, giving off an annoying vibe that made his fists itch.
?
I didn’t even get hit by a Truck-kun.
“Ah…
The gift my parents left me is here.”
Yasui climbed up from the floor.
Yes, he realized he was actually lying on the floor, not on the bed.
Reflexively, he cursed under his breath.
“Dammit.”
No wonder he thought the bed felt so hard and wasn’t making a sound—he wasn’t lying on the bed at all!
His parents were both mental patients who developed symptoms in their twenties.
He was eighteen this year—and while the onset seemed to have arrived a few years early, it wasn’t unexplainable.
After all, mental illness ran in families, a sort of random “awakening.”
The gift left by his parents was naturally mental illness.
Unsteadily, he shuffled toward the full-length mirror in the corner of the room, his footsteps light and weak.
He looked completely uninjured, yet the agony of falling to his death seemed to linger in his body—it hurt so, so much.
Was it a bit like phantom limb pain?
Lifting his eyes to look at the person in the mirror, Yasui froze.
Long black hair cascaded like a waterfall down to his waist, the tips curling slightly, tracing soft curves in the air as he turned his head.
His eyes were a rare, deep purple—strikingly beautiful, glistening with a faint light in the dim room.
Right in the center of his forehead sat a dot of red.
It wasn’t a mole, yet looked like one, vividly striking to the point of being eerie.
I am truly gorgeous.
That face was so beautiful it defied gender, looking like a spirit stepping out of a traditional ink painting, or some non-human entity—if one ignored the deep purple eyes shimmering with the pure joy of a seasoned chaos-seeker intrigued by something fun.
The face was his.
It was just…
way too young, impossibly young.
Yasui raised his hand and measured his height above his head; the figure in the mirror mirrored the gesture.
Around 173 cm.
Broad shoulders, narrow waist, a bit lean—a completely normal adolescent frame.
His wrists were pale enough to reveal faint, bluish veins winding beneath his ghostly skin.
“Huh?”
At eighteen, Yasui had been a solid 185 cm tall.
Broad shoulders, narrow waist, poor health, but at least a 185 cm super-hunk (or beauty, whatever, he was drop-dead gorgeous anyway~).
Yasui was a bit of a narcissist.
Yasui: That’s just a fact, alright?
The body he possessed now looked as if a chunk had been chopped off.
“Hmm…
Growing shorter isn’t completely unacceptable either…”
So what if he died?
So what if he transmigrated back into the past?
It even came with an age-reversing perk?
Turn eighteen, get three years off?
He was totally profiting!
[Nope~ You’ve transmigrated into the Jujutsu world~]
That voice returned, this time tagged with a creepy tilde, sounding like some low-grade anime mascot squeezing its throat to talk cute right into his ear.
Disgusting.
Made him want to throttle it.
Yasui narrowed his eyes, his deep purple pupils dilating slightly in the mirror’s reflection.
Auditory hallucination.
Visual hallucination.
Looks like this mental illness was a bit more severe than he had anticipated.
Or maybe that fall just now snapped a wire in his brain?
He fell into deep thought, his gaze sweeping across the room.
A fruit knife sat on the table, its stainless steel body reflecting a cold gleam under the sunlight.
A tiny nick remained on the blade—left behind when he was nine, peeling an apple with too much force and slamming it against the edge of the table.
The broken table had been thrown out, but the damaged knife stayed.
He had no idea what he was thinking back then.
He walked over, picked up the knife, and sliced open his palm without a second thought.
The knife was a bit dull.
Cutting flesh with a dull knife—well, how should he put it?
“Hss—”
Excruciating pain surged up his nerve endings like an electric current.
Bright red blood gushed out, dripping onto the aged wooden floorboards and fanning out.
The pain was sharp, crystal-clear, and uncompromised—comparable to having countless red-hot needles driving straight down his nerve bundles through the wound on his palm.
Yasui shed two crocodile tears, staring at the line of blood, lost in thought.
Hallucinations were fake, but the pain was real.
If this was a mental breakdown, the pain simulation was far too vivid—so vivid that he could feel the slight chill as blood left his veins, and the soft twitching of the flesh along the edges of the cut.
This was a real world.