"A thousand years ago, during the Heian period, Kyoto—Heian-kyō—was hailed as the golden age of the jujutsu world…"
It was afternoon history class, taught today by an elderly assistant supervisor who'd stepped in to lecture on a millennium of jujutsu evolution.
Seated before him were four students.
One openly scrolled through his phone.
Another diligently took notes, head bowed.
A third stared blankly at an open textbook, unmoving, as if frozen on a single page.
And the last…
The assistant supervisor stole a cautious glance. The white-haired boy wore dark sunglasses, leaned back in his chair with practiced nonchalance, and had both legs propped up on the desk. No one could tell whether he was wide awake—or fast asleep behind those lenses.
This kind of history lecture made Gojo Satoru want to doze off, the words slipping in one ear and out the other like mist.
It felt eerily like being back in the Gojo clan's private academy.
Those old tangerines—his elders—loved droning on about history, endlessly glorifying the family's legacy, as if they'd never considered that the Gojo name might not even have existed a thousand years ago. Their ancestor, after all, was Sugawara no Michizane—one of Japan's Four Great Onryō, vengeful spirits whose legacy was anything but "honorable" in the eyes of the past.
Thankfully, the novelty of actual school life kept Gojo from falling asleep entirely. Through his tinted lenses, he idly observed his two male classmates.
His sunglasses were custom-made, the lenses nearly opaque black—
ensuring no one could see what his Six Eyes were truly doing beneath them.
The boy with the absurdly heavy fringe was Geto Suguru, a Cursed Spirit Manipulator. His technique was said to possess "no upper limit" when subduing curses—a rare art that had surfaced only once before in history, during the Heian era, where it earned the poetic nickname "Hyakki Yagyō," the Night Parade of One Hundred Demons.
If the Gojo clan's records were accurate—and they rarely erred—then a Cursed Spirit Manipulator could theoretically subdue curses up to two full grades above their own. That meant Geto, currently a Grade 2 sorcerer, already met the baseline requirement to challenge a Special Grade curse.
The other boy, his forehead hidden beneath that same ridiculous bangs, was Asou Akiya—a mere Grade 4 sorcerer with no notable talents to speak of. Short in stature, quiet in presence, he resembled those neglected "little tangerines" from the Three Great Families—those sidelined heirs with no voice or power. The only difference? This one hadn't given up on himself. Somehow, against all odds, he'd been sent by those stubborn old tangerines to study at Tokyo Jujutsu High.
Gojo's analytical gaze lingered longest on Geto, his interest in the commoner-born sorcerer instinctive, almost reflexive.
But something that happened at lunch had redirected a sliver of his attention toward Asou Akiya, who was now scribbling notes with quiet focus.
That little tangerine had actually made Weird Bangs flee in defeat!
From reading lips alone, Gojo had pieced it together: Weird Bangs had tried to befriend the tangerine—and been gently, firmly turned away.
Why had Geto run?
Gojo couldn't fathom it. Was this how friendships worked outside the cloistered world of the elite?
Still… Gojo mused, the tangerine's theory was interesting enough.
["Grade 1 is the bare minimum for self-preservation—anything less, and you're just dead weight, another corpse waiting to be left behind."]
Gojo Satoru thought this—but didn't take it to heart. He had his own logic, his own cold framework of judgment, and with detached indifference, he mused:
["A Grade 1 sorcerer is merely someone who's less likely to die. Non-clan sorcerers have too many weaknesses. If you want to carve out a place for yourself in the jujutsu world—and actually live well—the absolute baseline, in my view, is Special Grade."]
Not just Tokyo Jujutsu High—there wasn't a single active Special Grade sorcerer anywhere in Japan. The only woman who held that rank, Tsukumo Yuki, had fled overseas and was currently suspended by the jujutsu authorities. Even Gojo himself had never met her.
["The tangerine's theory doesn't apply to me."]
["I don't care about other people's strength—none of them come close to mine anyway."]
["Friends? As long as they're interesting, that's enough."]
Gojo propped his arms behind his head and tilted his face toward the ceiling. There were no pen or paper on his desk—just a freshly issued textbook on jujutsu history tucked beneath his calves. Unlike the musty, decaying tomes of the Gojo archives, this modern printed volume carried far less of that stale, rotting scent of old paper and forgotten knowledge.
Geto Suguru's brow furrowed—imperceptibly, but unmistakably. He disliked Gojo's lazy, careless demeanor intensely.
"Gojo-kun," he said firmly, "please sit properly."
The moment the words left his mouth, he immediately regretted speaking up.
Normally, Yaga-sensei would be here—and Asou Akiya, though not class monitor, functioned as one in all but name. Both Geto and Ieri Shoko deeply admired Asou's quiet perceptiveness, and without even realizing it, they'd gradually handed off the thankless task of keeping class order to him.
"Did Weird Bangs just talk?"
Gojo perked up instantly. He hated the suffocating stillness of the classroom.
"Please respect the lesson," Geto pressed on, now committed. "Put your legs down."
"All right," Gojo replied—surprisingly compliant. He lowered his legs, pressed his knees together, and straightened his spine. Years of aristocratic grooming within the Gojo household meant his posture was, by nature, impeccable.
Were it not for the slightly ridiculous sunglasses dragging down his aura—and the sheer boredom plastered across his face—he would have looked every inch the model scion of a noble lineage.
"Weird Bangs," Gojo added with a smirk, "you've stolen glances at him three times already."
He laid bare Geto's self-deception—and as instant karma for Gojo's rare moment of obedience, Geto's expression darkened sharply.
"Hey, Shoko!" Gojo called out across the room, voice rising with theatrical flair, utterly ignoring the assistant supervisor's now-green-tinged glare. "No need to text them—you're wondering if they argued at lunch? I saw the whole thing! Weird Bangs is mad at the little tangerine… Akiya. And here's the kicker: Weird Bangs, a Grade 2 sorcerer, is obsessing over Grade 1 survival logic? Shouldn't that be my job to explain? Honestly—what a pair of short-sighted fools."
Geto shot halfway out of his seat, fury flashing in his eyes, the legs of his chair screeching harshly against the floor.
Had their lunchtime conversation been overheard?
No—that couldn't be right. They hadn't even argued! Why was this white-haired newcomer spreading rumors?
From the window seat on the right, Ieri Shoko—suddenly dragged into the chaos by name—winced in secondhand embarrassment and muttered, "You guys are being kind of loud…"
Seriously, did they want Yaga-sensei to swing by for a surprise inspection?
Asou Akiya, ever perceptive, caught the unfinished edge in Gojo's words—just barely stopping himself from calling him "little tangerine," wasn't it? A flicker of surprise stirred within him. Was Gojo Satoru, at this early stage, actually mulling over his theory on friendship?
Unfortunately, that theory had only ever been meant for Geto Suguru.
And Gojo's rebuttal? Entirely predictable.
Gojo adjusted his sunglasses with a confident flick of his fingers, expression unshaken. "I don't make mistakes."
Amid the growing confusion, Asou Akiya calmly untangled the thoughts of both Gojo and Geto. With serene composure, he spoke: "Thank you, Gojo-kun, for taking the trouble to say both my name and Ieri's aloud—it's rather flattering, honestly. As for jujutsu sorcerer rankings… I think they mean very little to people like you. Growth in this world has never been a straight line—it's always a curve. Given the right chance, who knows? You might leap straight to Special Grade overnight."
The dark-haired boy—now addressed by Gojo as "Akiya"—used his tone and poise to make it clear: no, they hadn't fought at all.
"Suguru," he added, turning toward Geto with quiet encouragement, "keep going. Grade 1 won't be your limit. You're only one Special Grade curse away from becoming a Special Grade sorcerer yourself."
Geto froze.
Unbidden, the memory of that impossibly gentle face at lunch rushed back—the soft eyes, the calm voice—followed immediately by those cold, clinical words that had shattered his outstretched hand of friendship.
How…
How could this person wear such an ordinary, untroubled expression while saying something so utterly normal—after everything else he'd said?
Frustration coiled tight in Geto's chest. A bitter, sour taste rose on his tongue.
"Whoa—so you're arguing with me now?" Gojo's voice cut in again, sharp and playful, yanking Geto out of his spiraling thoughts. Geto braced himself, expecting provocation—his expression darkened, and for a heartbeat, it almost seemed as if black vortexes of cursed energy might bloom behind him.
"I wouldn't dare," Asou replied, retreating with grace, his voice soft as falling petals. "Which of my words offended you?"
"You said he could become a Special Grade sorcerer that fast!" Gojo snapped, jaw clenched, his usual smirk gone—replaced by something sharper, fiercer, almost like the Gojo Satoru Asou remembered from later years, stripped of boyish naivety. "I won't let him get ahead of me. And your whole theory—thinking about it more, it really pisses me off. Since when did the weak get to define what strength means to the strong? What kind of logic is that?!"
Geto Suguru's pupils trembled like shattered glass. The indescribable tangle of emotions inside him—confusion, doubt, frustration—had just been ripped open, exposed by Gojo's outburst.
Against his will, a traitorous thought slipped in: …Gojo's right.
But—could Asou Akiya, the one person who seemed to see straight into his soul, really be lying through his teeth?
Desperate for clarity, Geto leaned forward, voice urgent. "Asou… what do you really think? I don't get it! I don't believe friendship should depend on strength at all. Look at this guy—his attitude's awful! I wouldn't become friends with him just because he's strong!"
Gojo's eyebrows shot up, furious. "I—"
"Assistant Supervisor," Asou cut in smoothly, silencing Gojo before he could ignite the situation further, "my apologies—but could you please step outside for five minutes? We need a moment to talk."
"Y-Yes, of course!" the assistant supervisor stammered, already trembling.
The air in the classroom had grown unbearable. Between Geto's leaking cursed energy and the raw, surging pressure rolling off Gojo in his agitated state, the man—a retired frontline sorcerer now relegated to administrative duties—felt like he was drowning in an ocean of power he hadn't faced in years.
As he scrambled toward the door, he called back in a panic, "Five minutes is too short—I'll give you *thirty*!"
From her seat by the window, Ieri Shoko clapped slowly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Impressive."
Asou's smile twitched. Of course Gojo would stir up trouble for Geto's sake… He really hadn't wanted it to come to this.
Taking a steadying breath, Asou let his expression settle back into its usual mask of unshakable calm.
"Suguru," he said evenly, "you and Gojo will come to understand each other. I believe you two can become the perfect partners."
"Impossible!"
"There's no way I'd ever understand some weird-banged freak!"
Both boys erupted at once—Geto practically shouting, as if volume alone could refute Asou's words, while Gojo looked like a cat whose tail had just been stomped on, his furious aura flooding the room so intensely that Asou felt it slap against his face like a physical wave.
Asou inhaled deeply, forcing down the primal fear clawing at his cells.
Damn it.
These two wouldn't learn until they saw their own coffins!
Was it really so absurd to imagine Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru as friends?
Did they honestly think they could hate each other for the rest of their lives?
For the first time in a long while, Asou's expression went utterly blank.
"Then go fight each other," he said flatly.
When in doubt, nothing clears the air like a good brawl. He was giving them the push they both desperately needed. "After you fight today," he continued, voice calm but firm, "the winner may ask me one question. I'll bind myself with a binding vow to ensure every word I speak in answer is the absolute truth—unless it concerns something I'm forbidden to reveal."
Ieri Shoko, who'd been watching the whole scene with the delighted curiosity of someone enjoying premium gossip, froze mid-bite on her mental popcorn. She hadn't expected Asou to propose something so dramatically formal.
Boys… do you really have to turn everything into a ritual?
Geto Suguru studied Asou for a long, silent moment—then turned to Gojo Satoru with icy challenge in his voice. "Well? Do you dare fight me?"
Gojo nearly laughed out loud. He kicked his chair over with a clatter, eyes blazing behind his lenses. "Fight? Hell yes! I've got questions I want answers to anyway!"
"And you heard Asou's terms," Geto added, his violet eyes flashing with barely restrained fury. "But I'll set my own stake: if I win, you'll never call me 'Weird Bangs' again."
Gojo responded by pulling a ridiculous face, sliding his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose like a mischievous white cat who'd just knocked a vase off the shelf.
"Weird Bangs! Weird Bangs! Say it loud—because if you lose, you're stuck hearing it for the rest of your life!"
"Fine," Geto said, his anger curving into a cold, sharp smile. "Meet me on the training field."
He turned on his heel, the picture of a model student—polite posture, neat uniform—but his actions betrayed him completely. As he walked past Gojo, he deliberately raised his thumb… and pointed it straight down with theatrical contempt.
Within five minutes, true to his word, Asou Akiya had ended the confrontation, resolved the conflict, and stepped outside to fetch the assistant supervisor back.
The older man stared at him, wide-eyed with disbelief. "W-Where are those two?"
The classroom suddenly felt cavernous without them—emptier, quieter, as if half its energy had vanished.
Asou smiled sweetly. "They've gone to play a friendly match. Shall we continue the lesson?"
Without waiting for a reply, he gently but firmly guided the flustered supervisor back toward the podium.
"Sensei," he said, voice soft yet carrying an edge of steel, "I'd like to attend class. Please don't let this delay my studies."
There was something quietly, unnervingly cold in those words.
There was an inexplicable chill in those words—subtle, but unmistakable.
The assistant supervisor shivered, convinced he must have misheard. After all, the boy standing before him looked perfectly polite, even respectful—smiling gently, posture deferential, the very image of an ideal student.
Ieri Shoko wordlessly slipped her phone into her desk drawer and settled into the role of a diligent pupil alongside Asou Akiya.
Outside the window, something inexplicable was unfolding.
A low tremor rippled through the earth—faint at first, then unmistakable. Dust sifted from the ceiling. The glass panes rattled in their frames with a persistent, uneasy vibration. Yet the classroom remained eerily still as the assistant supervisor, voice trembling with a near-tearful quaver, forced himself to continue the history lecture:
"W-Where were we again? Oh—I've forgotten… Let me tell you instead about Lord Tengen. Lord Tengen was a legendary jujutsu sorcerer from a thousand years ago… His cursed technique was 'Immortality'…"
The school building stood firm, unmoved—anchored against the chaos beyond, just as the two students inside remained utterly unruffled.
—
Asou Akiya: In a single sentence, I made two future Special Grade sorcerers fight over me.