“We’re here.”
Shoko opened her eyes and offered a flat reminder.
Her voice wasn’t loud, but in the enclosed cabin of the car, it was clear enough—at least Satoru Gojo heard it plain and simple.
The car ground to a slow halt at the end of the mountain road leading up to Tokyo Jujutsu High.
The brake pads issued a faint screech, tires crunching over gravel before coming to a steady stop right in front of a wooden torii gate.
The engine wasn’t killed; a low vibration hummed up through the seats.
Outside the window, the wooden torii gate stood in silent vigil before the stone steps.
The pillars of the gate were made of aged cedar.
Its vermilion lacquered surface had weathered years of wind and rain, fading into a dull, dark brown—as if someone had died right there and never been cleaned off properly.
A thin layer of moss clung near the base, likely feeling damp and chilly to the touch.
The early April breeze swept in from the woods, carrying a moist scent of grass and earth mixed with an undefinable, desolate chill characteristic of deep, old forests.
In the distance, the school grounds lay hidden in the depths of the mountain woods, with only a few gray tiled roofs poking out from the dense canopy.
It didn’t look like a school so much as a shrine complex left behind from an ancient era—old beyond belief.
Quiet.
Remote.
Even the air carried a vibe that felt thoroughly unwelcoming to ordinary humans.
Shoko pushed the car door open and stepped out.
The soles of her shoes pressed into the gravel, producing a faint crunch.
The mountain wind gently ruffled her short hair, sending a few loose strands sliding out from behind her ears, which she tucked back with a practiced, casual flick of her hand.
She looked up at the long flight of stone steps before her.
The edges of those steps had been rounded smooth by time, the center of each step slightly concave—a mark left by countless pairs of feet.
The cedar trees lining both sides of the staircase towered into the clouds, their crowns crisscrossing overhead to form a natural arcade, filtering sunlight through the gaps in their leaves to scatter broken gold across the ground.
She stole another glance at the guy beside her.
Satoru had already “bounced” down from the other side of the car.
He was like some large feline finally granted freedom after being locked up through a hours-long car ride; the moment his feet hit the floor, he began stretching, raising both long arms high over his head.
He hummed a tune he had picked up from who-knows-where, horribly off-key, but humming with absolute confidence—just like everything else he did.
His sunglasses were perched properly on the bridge of his nose, concealing those sky-blue eyes, but that restless excitement couldn’t be contained at all, oozing out from the tips of his hair all the way down to his toes.
Taking a stride with those long legs, he rounded the hood of the car, stepped up beside Shoko, planted one foot on the very first stone step, and looked deep into Jujutsu High.
“Woah~”
He drew out the sound, his voice echoing softly through the mountain woods.
“It’s even more remote than I imagined~”
Shoko shoved her hands into the pockets of her white jacket, standing with a slack posture.
Her eyes swept past the endless stone stairs behind the torii gate, then across the impenetrable cedar woods on both sides, before she remarked plainly: “Great place to bury a body.”
The Assistant Manager leading the way visibly faltered in his tracks.
The foot he had raised onto the first stone step hovered in mid-air for half a second before coming down.
Satoru Gojo laughed so hard his shoulders shook, resting a hand on Shoko’s shoulder.
Only for Shoko to unceremoniously shake it off and slap his hand away.
Gojo didn’t mind in the slightest, retracting his hand into his own pocket and grinning to show a row of white teeth: “Shoko, saying stuff like that on your very first day of school…
the teachers and principal are gonna cry, you know?”
“Then keep your mouth shut a bit more in the future,” Shoko started up the stone steps, her pace unhurried but steady.
Without turning her head, she added, “They might manage to live a few years longer.”
“Hey!” Gojo caught up in a few quick strides, the advantage of his long legs allowing him to match her side-by-side in two or three steps.
“How could you say that about me?
I’m the future’s most popular freshman!”
Shoko didn’t even look at him, her gaze fixed straight ahead.
The stone steps were long, with no summit in sight.
She had already begun counting in her head how many steps were left: “Ranked by who?”
“By myself.” Gojo raised his chin proudly, his sunglasses flashing a reflection in the sunlight.
“Never mind, then.” Shoko nodded, her tone as calm as if she were saying ‘the weather sure is nice today’.
The Assistant Manager walked silently out front, his pace noticeably faster than when they arrived, striving to make himself look like someone without a sense of hearing.
His job today was merely to pick up the two freshmen from Kyoto, bring them to Tokyo, and lead them to the classroom.
In theory, it was supposed to be a simple task.
Pick them up, get in the car, get out of the car, lead the way, hand them over.
A standard, clear-cut routine.
Yet for some reason, ever since he picked up Satoru Gojo, he had the illusion that he had overdrafted his future workload for the entire coming year.
Especially since this young master of the Gojo family had chattered all the way from Kyoto to Tokyo—from sweet treats to the “old fogeys” of the Three Great Families, from the density of Cursed Spirits in Tokyo to whether the principal of Jujutsu High would sew a doll so ugly it had a soul, even attempting halfway through to persuade Shoko to bet with him on whether the Tokyo Jujutsu High cafeteria had strawberry daifuku.
Shoko hadn’t agreed.
Shoko had merely said: “If you keep making noise, I’m going to feed you sleeping pills.”
Gojo’s evaluation of that was: “Shoko really has a sense of humor.”
Shoko had snapped her second lollipop on the spot.
Not letting it melt—she bit right through it.
A sharp crunch resonated with exceptional clarity inside the quiet cabin of the car.
The Assistant Manager had caught her expression in the rearview mirror and decided not to write that detail into today’s mission report.
Shoko genuinely wanted to land a few punches on this scum.
Now that they had arrived at Jujutsu High, Gojo had finally quieted down a bit.
But only a bit.
He walked further inside, looking around as he went.
Those Six Eyes behind his dark sunglasses took in the entire school far clearer than anyone else could.
Traces of residual Cursed Energy lingered in the mountain woods; the borders of the barrier were layered in several intricate tiers.
Minor techniques embedded in the architecture, and even the residual Cursed Energy fluctuations echoing from the distant training grounds—all were unraveled and laid bare before his vision.
That was just how formidable the Six Eyes were~
Where ordinary people saw an ancient school campus framed by green trees, birds chirping in quiet mountains…
He saw a massive nest wrapped layer upon layer in jujutsu, every single corner hiding something worth dissecting.
Interesting.
Way more interesting than where those old fogeys in Kyoto hung out.
What was there in Kyoto?
Century-old estates that never changed, corridors polished spotless, clan members who spoke painfully slow, and family rules plastered with “Forbidden,” “Not Allowed,” and “Prohibited.” Enjoying the story? Read on at g.com.
It was different here.
The air here was alive, the barrier was alive, and even every wood grain on the corridor floorboards bore the marks of being repeatedly soaked in “freedom.”
Gojo went straight off to mess around and play.
Since there was still time before class started, he bought some stuff and lay down in a nice spot to soak in the sun.
Shoko found a random spot to sit and enjoy her lollipop.
Time was almost up.
The Assistant Manager led Shoko Ieiri through the courtyard and around a section of wooden corridor.
The floorboards of the corridor were wiped clean, creaking faintly beneath their steps.
Open courtyards lay on either side, white sand covering the ground, punctuated by scattered rocks and old, weathered pine branches trimmed into stylized curves.
Shoko took a turn at the end of the corridor, walked a short stretch further, and finally stopped outside a classroom door.
The door was an old-fashioned wooden sliding door with a small plaque hanging on the frame reading “Class 1.” The Assistant Manager raised his hand and knocked.
Masamichi Yaga’s deep voice sounded from within.
“Come in.”
The door was pulled open.
Just as Shoko was about to step inside, Gojo came running over, footsteps thudding.
“Hey~ almost late~”
Gojo poked his head inside ahead of Shoko.
With one foot still outside the door, his upper body was already completely inside the classroom.
His white hair swayed near the doorframe, his sunglasses nearly bumping into it.
And then, he spotted two people.
One was sitting very straight.
Black hair tied in a half-bun behind his head, with a strange bang across his forehead.
His posture was the standard posture belonging exclusively to those raised from childhood to “stand like a pine and sit like a bell.”
Spine straight, shoulders relaxed, one hand resting on the desk next to a book titled Basic Jujutsu Theory.
His facial expression was gentle, but not a soft, weak gentleness—it was a grounded, composed gentleness rooted in confidence.
Through his sunglasses, Gojo’s Six Eyes observed the Cursed Energy wrapping around this person.
Mm, very strong.
Strong enough that in his vision, it looked like a body of water slowly surging, suppressed beneath that gentle skin—quiet, but absolutely far from weak.
Suguru Geto.
Gojo knew for sure at first glance.
The serious guy with the absurd Cursed Energy reserves mentioned in the profiles.
He really did look proper—proper to the point of being a little hilarious.
On his very first day of school, he arrived early to the classroom and brought a book, complete with a bookmark between the pages.
Was this guy here to attend school or go on a pilgrimage?
The other guy was completely different.
He was slumping lazily over his desk, half his face buried in his arm, looking as limp as if his bones had been extracted.
His long black hair wasn’t tied tightly, falling loosely to spread across the desktop like a small patch of ink-colored silk, while part of it rested on his shoulder, the tips flicking up slightly.
Hearing the door, he raised his eyes sluggishly.
Deep purple eyes—not a purple so dark it looked black, but a rich, deep purple.
A red dot sat right between his brows.
It had to be said, he was drop-dead gorgeous.
His skin was unnaturally pale.
The corners of his lips bore a natural, faint half-smile.
He hadn’t said a word, yet he looked like he was plotting something bad.
This face was excessively pretty.
Not good-looking in the conventional sense, but a bit surreal.
Like a doll, or like a monster.
Yet when he smiled, he looked dazzlingly bright.
Luminous, relaxed, completely off-guard—and yet making one feel this guy was definitely no “good student.”
Gojo’s Six Eyes lingered on him for a split second.
And then his interest spiked even higher.
So this was Yasui.
The guy who drew Cursed Spirits.
In the vision of the Six Eyes, the flow of Cursed Energy in Yasui was very strange.
It wasn’t sheer strength.
His Cursed Energy capacity wasn’t absurd—it couldn’t compare to Geto’s overwhelming volume.
Nor was it simple chaos.
Tiny ripples radiated from the edges of his Cursed Energy, faintly diffusing outward.
Ordinary people couldn’t perceive these fluctuations, but Cursed Spirits would be snared by that scent—like wild dogs catching the scent of blood, or moths flying into a flame, unable to stop themselves from drawing near despite knowing the danger.
A huge hassle.
And super interesting.
The corners of Gojo’s mouth curled up inch by inch.
Pairing this ability with Geto’s Cursed Spirit Manipulation was practically a buffet served with takeout bags—one responsible for luring the Cursed Spirits over, and the other for sweeping them up.
His mind was already automatically generating various combo unit strategies, getting more amused the more he thought about it.
It even conjured up a mental image of a dog, a meat bun, and a wooden stick.
Yasui was the “meat bun” attracting Cursed Spirits, the Cursed Spirits were the “dogs,” and Geto was the “wooden stick” beating them up.
Yasui was looking at him too.
White hair, black sunglasses, a head taller than others his age, blocking half the doorframe just by standing there.
His aura was brazen, practically dying to write “I Alone Am The Honored One” across his forehead.
Even though he was only fifteen, his shoulders not yet broad and his jawline retaining the clean contours of youth, he already possessed a vibe that looked down on everyone.
When he walked into the classroom, he didn’t even look at Masamichi Yaga first.
With such a huge living person standing at the podium, he somehow overlooked him entirely.
Choosing instead to sweep his eyes over the people in the classroom, he went straight into cosplaying a king inspecting his new territory, checking out who inhabited this domain.
Oh.
Fifteen-year-old Gojo-sensei~
Six Eyes, Limitless, future strongest, ceiling of the jujutsu world.
A string of tags automatically flashed through his mind, and he stacked them up one by one until they formed the living person right in front of him.
Fifteen-year-old Gojo-sensei was a very expensive, yet very punchable white cat.
The kind of white cat that would stomp you awake at four in the morning, push your cup off the table, and look at you with an innocent face.
Purebred, gorgeous fur, staggering net worth—but insanely punchable.
The two locked eyes across half the classroom for three seconds.
During those three seconds, the air was quiet as if someone had hit the mute button.
Don’t misunderstand—it wasn’t love at first sight, nor was it two weirdos connecting on a soul level.
It was two chaotic trolls meeting each other in the low mountains and stagnant waters, realizing they were kindred spirits.
The Assistant Manager stood at the door, hand still propped on the doorframe, unsure whether he should step inside.
Watching this scene, Geto suddenly felt a terrible premonition rising in his heart.
The premonition arrived swiftly.
Dead accurate.
Defying all reason.
It was as if someone had struck a bell cleanly inside his mind, its lingering tone buzzing softly.
The next second, Gojo grinned.
“You’re that meat bun that lures Cursed Spirits?”
Yasui grinned back, radiant as ever.
“Haha, you’re that white-haired cat from the Three Great Families?”
Fifteen-year-old Gojo-sensei was truly fun.
The classroom fell silent for a split second.
The eyes of the two locking gazes shone as bright as two cats discovering each other in the same patch of grass.
Haha, true kindred spirits meeting in low mountains and stagnant waters.
Masamichi Yaga stood at the podium, still holding the handouts he prepared to distribute.
He suddenly felt the paper in his hands grow heavy.
It felt as though an entity named “The Future” had swung a fist and landed a brutal blow on him.
He felt like dying.
Shoko stood outside the door, not even having crossed the threshold yet.
Her gaze passed over Gojo’s shoulder, taking in the uncanny similarity in the smiles plastered across Yasui’s and Gojo’s faces.
She halted the foot she was about to step forward with.
Geto said nothing.
His gentle smile remained on his face, but it was purely a social instinct activated for self-preservation, having nothing to do with his actual emotions anymore.
The Assistant Manager silently backed up half a step, trying to minimize his presence.
He really was just here to lead the way today.
Gojo seemed to have heard something particularly hilarious, bursting straight into laughter.
Laughing, he reached up and pulled his sunglasses down a bit, exposing those pale blue eyes beneath.
Those eyes were too light in color, too bright, set into that overly arrogant face.
The existence of the Six Eyes was a visual shock in itself.
The information reflected in those eyes far surpassed what ordinary people could perceive—every flow of Cursed Energy, every trace of a technique, every line of a barrier was rendered crystal clear.
But right now, those eyes were merely looking at Yasui, his pupils reflecting the dark-haired figure lying lazily across the desk.
“White-haired cat?”
He repeated it.
There was no anger in his tone; instead, he was brimming with zest, like a cat happening upon a yarn ball, full of interest.
“That title’s pretty good~ Way more interesting than them calling me Young Master Gojo.”
“You like it?” Yasui cupped his chin, looking at him lazily, switching his elbows to a different angle on the desktop.
“Then I’ll call you that from now on~”
“Sure thing, Meat Bun.”
“White-haired cat.”
“Bun.”
“Cat.”
The two went back and forth.
One dragged out a Kansai accent at the end of his words, the other raised a Kyoto tone; the two accents clashed back and forth in the air, neither willing to stop first.
What they shared was that both of their tones were thoroughly shameless.
Geto slowly raised a hand and rubbed the space between his brows.
He rubbed his fingertips back and forth twice, solving nothing, only feeling a dull ache beginning to throb at his temples.
Before meeting Yasui, he had believed there was an upper limit to how much of a headache a person in this world could give someone.
After meeting Yasui, he felt that upper limit was Yasui himself.
Now he knew.
It turned out this world didn’t just produce Yasui; it produced Satoru Gojo as well—and with utter malice, placed them in the same year, the same classroom, right across from the same podium.
He suddenly wanted a cigarette.
Except he didn’t smoke.
Kind people always get walked all over.
May the world treat him a bit better.
May April treat him a bit better.
[LanLi: No shit sherlock.]
Shoko stood at the doorway, watching the two people in the classroom who had already begun giving each other nicknames.
One slouched over the desk, the other leaned against the doorframe—smiling broader than the other, running their mouths smoother than the other.
One look told her these were two scum who loved slinging trash talk.
She pinched the third, unopened lollipop in her hand.
The lollipop wasn’t sweet.
The second one earlier had already been bitten to pieces and swallowed by her.
Shoko remained silent for two seconds, then turned to ask Masamichi Yaga, her tone entirely serious, as if genuinely inquiring about a feasible proposal: “Teacher, is it too late to transfer schools now?”
Masamichi Yaga remained expressionless