Chapter 19
"Was it you who tipped off Yaga-sensei?"
After class, Ieri Shoko sidled up to Asou Akiya as they both watched the spectacle unfolding on the training field—two white-uniformed boys, grimly patching up the cratered earth under punishment.
Yaga Masamichi had arrived just in time to pull Gojo Satoru and Geto Suguru apart before their brawl escalated further. The furious homeroom teacher had yanked them back by their collars, heart pounding in dread of the very thing Ieri had feared most: an all-out group fight. Thankfully, both boys—however reluctantly—had backed down before things spiraled.
Asou gave her a look of gentle exasperation. "Ieri, I set up a fair wager. Do you really think I'd stoop to calling Yaga-sensei behind the scenes?" He spoke clearly, openly—fully within the field of vision of the Six Eyes. "Yaga-sensei isn't here every day. His appearances are pure chance. And unlike someone, I don't have the Six Eyes. How could I possibly track his movements with perfect accuracy?"
Privately, he added in his thoughts:
[Though Yaga-sensei does leave campus occasionally… given how deeply he worries about these two problem children, I doubt he'd dare stay away from Jujutsu High for long.]
In truth, this fight could only have ended two ways: either interrupted immediately, or grinding into a stalemate until exhaustion forced a stop.
Either way, they'd vented their frustrations. And a draw? That was its own kind of acknowledgment—mutual recognition of each other's foundational strength.
There wasn't a second person alive who could make Gojo Satoru concede even that much.
The training field was a disaster—pockmarked with craters and trenches from their battle. Gojo knelt on the edge of one gaping hole, using the gravitational pull of his technique Blue to draw soil back into place. Nearby, Geto summoned low-grade curses through his Cursed Spirit Manipulation, directing them like hard-labor contractors to fill in the rest.
Over the din of shifting earth and groaning curses, Gojo called out, half-amused, half-grudging: "Weird bangs, we never got a real winner this time. You're the first person who's ever dragged me into a war of attrition."
Geto winced just thinking about Gojo's technique. It was absurdly overpowered. No matter how hard he hit, he could never pierce that damn "Limitless."
"I refuse to believe your technique can stay active twenty-four hours a day!"
Gojo burst out laughing—actually doubling over, clutching his stomach. "If I couldn't keep it running 24/7, do you think those old tangerines back home would've ever let me enroll here?!"
"Twenty-four hours? Nonstop?" Geto froze, stunned. An entire day locked in invincible defense?
"Yep," Gojo said cheerfully. "The trade-off is low blood sugar and serious brain burn. It's really exhausting."
Geto pressed his lips into a thin line, conflicted.
Here was Gojo—casually revealing a critical weakness in his technique—as if it were common knowledge. That defied everything Geto had learned since entering the jujutsu world. Technique was a sorcerer's ultimate secret, hoarded like treasure, never disclosed unless absolutely necessary.
And yet, Geto—never one to owe favors—found himself compelled to reciprocate honesty. "My Cursed Spirit Manipulation doesn't have an obvious flaw… but every curse you exorcised today? I spent ages tracking them down, taming them one by one. My next goal is to collect Grade 1+ curses—especially those who possess their own techniques."
Gojo was silent for a beat. Then, slowly, he murmured: "...Pokémon Master?"
"You've seen Pokémon too?" Geto's eyes widened. He remembered the Digimon figures on Gojo's bookshelf—but Pokémon had aired even earlier, long before Digimon. It had been the defining joy of his own childhood.
He struggled to name the emotion rising in his chest. Even Asou Akiya, who chatted with him often, never brought up Pokémon. Asou preferred newer anime, as if his childhood had never included Ash Ketchum and Pikachu at all.
"To gather curses like a Pokémon Master," Geto said, voice softening with rare vulnerability, "and fight alongside them—that's one of my dreams."
But he hadn't forgotten why they'd fought in the first place. Shaking off the nostalgia, he forced the subject back on track: "Gojo, who won this round?"
Gojo sighed, slumping dramatically. "Draw, I guess."
Who could've guessed the Cursed Spirit Manipulator would be this damn good at hand-to-hand combat?!*
A ranged spellcaster who could brawl up close—what kind of broken build was that?!
Geto pressed further, suspicion sharpening his voice. "Tell me—how did you even know what Asou and I were talking about?"
Gojo rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn't vanish into his skull. "Did you even bother looking up what the Six Eyes can do? I was born with them. I can see 360 degrees—with no blind spots, ever. Out of the three of us, you're seriously the only one who didn't know that?"
Geto froze. His soul seemed to leave his body in a thin, wispy trail as a flood of mortifying memories crashed over him—every unguarded whisper, every sarcastic comment about Gojo, every private grumble now replaying in vivid, horrifying detail.
Robotic, hollow, he stammered: "…S-sorry…"
Asou. Ieri. You two bastards!
"They're talking about us," Ieri Shoko murmured, suddenly alert, already shifting her weight as if preparing to bolt. "They're definitely looking this way."
"I don't read lips," Asou Akiya said, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "Though… maybe I should learn." He paused, then added calmly, "I think Geto just realized we've been keeping things from him."
"I don't know anything!" Ieri insisted, waving her hands frantically.
"It's fine," Asou replied, as casually as if commenting on the weather. "He'll see us clearly soon enough. We're weak in the realm of combat—our ceilings have already been capped. At Jujutsu High, the one who'll stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Geto through life-and-death missions is Gojo. Geto's taijutsu and mobility compensate for Gojo's close-quarters limitations, while Gojo's pinpoint cursed energy control will always deliver the final, decisive blow. Together, they'll ascend to the very peak of the jujutsu world's pyramid."
"…" Ieri's fingers twitched. She suddenly had an overwhelming urge to light a cigarette.
"Go ahead," Asou said with a playful wink, pulling a lighter from his pocket. "I'll keep watch."
In the shadow of the school building, Ieri lit a cigarette with Asou's help, her expression tangled with quiet unease as she smoked right there in front of a classmate. The two of them seemed to fold themselves into a private bubble, deliberately oblivious to the fact that Gojo Satoru's gaze might be fixed on them from across the field.
"…Asou," she said softly after a drag.
Asou tilted his head toward her. "What do you want to ask? Anything you wonder about, I'll answer you honestly."
Smooth talker. I'm not some kid you can sweet-talk.
Ieri gave a dry chuckle, flicked ash, then subtly cupped her hand to redirect the smoke away from him. Her voice dropped, slightly muffled: "Just now—when Gojo and Geto suddenly started talking peacefully—I saw you watching them. What exactly… did you see in your eyes?"
Asou went eerily still. For a long moment, he said nothing, as if the question had grazed a truth he wasn't permitted to voice.
Ieri softened instantly. "Never mind. You don't have to answer. At least… you didn't lie to me."
A low, muffled laugh rumbled in Asou's throat. "It's not that I can't say it. I was just… choosing the right words."
"Huh?" Ieri blinked.
Asou leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a whisper. "I saw something very grand—"
Ieri's eyes widened slowly. Even though she'd seen death more times than most ever would, something in his tone sent a quiet ripple through her steady gaze.
Because what Asou said and what his eyes meant were two different things—layered, divergent, like twin truths woven into one phrase.
"...Youth (Tragedy)" he murmured,
Ieri's whole body jolted as if electrified.
The cigarette between her fingers trembled. The brown-haired girl absorbed the answer—and said nothing more for the rest of the evening. A strange urge to laugh bubbled inside her. Maybe all jujutsu sorcerers really were mad. She suddenly wanted to mock both boys.
Your bickering, your fragile friendship… someone sees it all. Someone is savoring every drop of your joy and sorrow on your behalf.
How terrifying, Asou.
…
Across the field, Geto juggled multiple tasks at once, barking orders without looking up. "Gojo! Hurry up and finish the field!"
Gojo snapped back to attention, kicking at a stubborn pile of loose soil. "What's all this 'youth' nonsense?"
Could that little tangerine even understand what youth really meant?
Under the amber glow of dusk, the two boys—still dusted with earth and sweat—walked side by side back to the dormitory, the first tentative threads of familiarity beginning to weave between them.
As they passed Asou Akiya's dorm room for the second time that evening, Geto Suguru turned to Gojo Satoru with a stern warning.
"Your eyes may be powerful, but that doesn't give you the right to pry into your classmates' privacy. Even among friends, boundaries matter."
Gojo scoffed, arms crossed. "I don't need you telling me what to do."
Without hesitation, he kicked Asou's door—thud!—sending a shudder through the frame.
Geto's eyes widened in outrage. "You—!"
But Gojo, having already scanned the corridor and confirmed no one else was nearby—no risk of eavesdroppers—immediately raised his voice, shouting toward the closed door:
"Akiya! Stop playing dead—I can see everything! I promised Yaga I wouldn't make things hard for you, so be smart: who sent you to get close to me? Was it Kamo? Or Zenin?"
Geto, who'd instinctively moved to intervene, froze—and slowly lowered his hand.
The door swung open.
Asou stood there in slippers, and the moment he met Gojo's gaze, the white-haired boy seized him by the collar.
Gojo leaned in so close their faces nearly touched—his sunglasses knocking lightly against Asou's cheek. Even in the dim hallway, the Six Eyes gleamed with an otherworldly radiance, like twin stars refusing to be swallowed by shadow. It was the very essence of Gojo Satoru himself: untouchable by darkness, unyielding to deceit.
"Kamo?" Gojo hissed, voice low and dangerous. "Or Zenin?"
Asou's mind had already rehearsed a dozen responses—but for one fleeting second, he was genuinely startled by the sheer lack of personal space.
He pushed Gojo's face back with steady hands.
His fingers brushed Gojo's skin. The boy's cheeks were surprisingly soft, full—not gaunt or sharp-featured, but plump with health, nurtured by generations of Gojo privilege into porcelain-white vitality. Yet the expected smoothness of milk-pale skin never came. Instead, his fingertips met only the maddening slowness of Infinity—the tactile illusion of nearness without true contact, forever hovering at the threshold of touch but never crossing it.
The Gojo clan's ancestral technique—Limitless—was already active.
Pity, Asou thought wryly.
At fifteen, Gojo's face looks so perfectly pinchable.
But it's not time yet.
The time for true closeness hadn't come. For a commoner-born sorcerer, even being allowed to stand as "classmate" was more than most could hope for.
A quiet sigh slipped through Asou's heart—but his voice remained calm, clear.
"I am only myself."
Never a pawn. Never a spy.
The satisfaction of having prepared multiple layers of truth—enough to deceive even the Six Eyes—washed away any lingering unease. He stepped back and gestured gracefully toward his room.
"I'm neither Kamo nor Zenin. What makes you think someone as ordinary as me could possibly belong to one of the Three Great Families? If you don't believe me, ask Geto. My enrollment records show I'm an orphan from a children's welfare facility—raised in a normal household in Yokohama. Neither of my parents were sorcerers."
Gojo didn't hesitate. He stuck his head through the doorway and swept his Six Eyes over every corner of the room, scanning for hidden seals, concealed weapons, anything amiss.
Geto finally snapped. "Gojo, leave! Are you interrogating a criminal?"
Asou stepped past Gojo and turned to Geto with a faint, teasing glint in his eye. "Is Suguru-kun the assistant to Officer Gojo, then?"
The jab—light but precise—stung just enough to rob Geto of his rebuttal.
Asou's smile remained gentle, refined as polished jade. The hallway light stretched his shadow into a long, elegant diagonal, casting him like a scholar of old—composed, dignified, carrying an unspoken grace in his bones. Behind him, the open dorm revealed a simple desk stacked with textbooks, evidence of late-night study. No game consoles. No manga. Nothing but quiet discipline.
He met Gojo's gaze once more, serene and unshaken.
"Well, Gojo-kun? Satisfied?"
"…"
Gojo's hope of catching the "little tangerine" red-handed had evaporated into thin air.
Watching the two naive high school boys, Asou subtly reclaimed control of the situation without ever raising his voice. "You tracked dirt onto my floor," he said evenly, "and violated my privacy. Now it's your turn to give me an explanation."
Gojo stomped his foot lightly, as if to prove the floor was spotless. "I had 'Limitless' active the whole time! And Weird Bangs never even stepped inside."
Geto chose silence—the wisest armor in that moment.
Then Asou dropped a quiet bombshell:
"So… are you planning to force me into a Binding Vow next?"
Geto paled. Without another word, he grabbed Gojo by the arm and yanked him away. Remarkably, Gojo didn't resist. He let his technique drop, allowing Geto's fingers to make contact.
As Gojo was dragged off down the hallway, he twisted his head back, his Six Eyes locked onto Asou with unnerving intensity. His gut screamed one truth: This boy is no ordinary orphan.
His lips moved—silent, furious, beautiful in their petulant anger—as he mouthed a threat only Asou could read:
[Don't you dare let me catch you!]
Asou tilted his head, then replied with the exact same silent language:
[How amusing.]
Gojo's cheeks flushed crimson.
Just moments ago, he fumed, this guy was playing the wronged commoner—and now, the second Geto's back is turned, he's smirking at me like he's won some secret game!
—
Back in his own dorm—Gojo's personal sanctuary—he immediately dialed the Gojo estate.
The clan head answered with immediate concern. "Satoru-sama, you're still growing—please remember to eat on time. And if you're having trouble getting along with your classmates… we can arrange a transfer to Kyoto Jujutsu High."
Gojo, stomach growling, snapped back, "What?! Stop talking nonsense! I'm doing fine here—I'm eating plenty, drinking plenty!"
Then, as if on instinct, he launched into a litany of complaints about Tokyo Jujutsu High, demanding improvements. "The training field is a disgrace—get someone to fix it! And these damn shoes rubbed a blister on my heel today!"
The clan head agreed to every trivial request without hesitation.
Then Gojo's tone shifted—sharp, serious. "Look into three people for me: Asou Akiya, Geto Suguru, and Ieri Shoko."
Beneath his brash exterior, Gojo—despite his casual brawls with Geto—already understood the value of intelligence.
"And I'll ask you one more time," he said, voice low and cold, "—you didn't send that little tangerine to spy on me, did you?"
"No, Satoru-sama," came the prompt reply. "We did not."
Just before Gojo could hang up, the clan head spoke quickly, his voice urgent with foresight:
"Please be wary of Jujutsu Headquarters, Satoru-sama. They've never seen eye to eye with us, and they sorely underestimate the power of the Six Eyes. Those reclusive bureaucrats… they've had their own ideas about you for a long time."
Gojo listened—and instantly added Jujutsu Headquarters to his personal list of "rotten tangerines," ranking them even lower than the old-fashioned elders back home.
So… is he a pawn of the Headquarters then?
Gojo Satoru narrowed his eyes.
We'll see. If he is… then that little tangerine can get the hell out of my life.
He quickly ran through the day's events in his mind—and realized, with grudging clarity, that Asou Akiya had been playing him. But his motive was surprisingly simple: he'd wanted nothing more than for Gojo and Geto to become friends.
Gojo scowled inwardly.
Damn it… Weird bangs' fighting style actually… kinda fits mine. He's a real-life Pokémon Master!
—
It was nine o'clock at night—normally the hour when the Gojo heir would already be tucked into bed.
But tonight, freshly bathed and sprawled across his plush mattress, Gojo rolled around like an overgrown cat, free from the watchful eyes of servants who used to nag him about posture and decorum.
"I'm starving! My head's spinning!" he groaned aloud.
"Don't wanna cook!"
"I want dessert! I want Kyoto-style sukiyaki!"
His brain screamed for sugar.
His stomach growled for meat.
After burning through an absurd amount of cursed energy today, his body desperately needed replenishment—but his laziness had fully taken over, leaving him with zero desire to lift a finger in the kitchen.
Then—tap tap.
Two soft knocks at the door.
Gojo bolted upright, eyes sharp with suspicion—then instantly lit up with the Six Eyes' unmistakable gleam of delight.
No one stood outside.
But on a wooden tray by the door sat a steaming bowl of sukiyaki—perfectly arranged, rich with broth, glistening with tender beef and fresh vegetables.
Gojo: "…."
He made a theatrical show of "inspecting" it—just for formality's sake—only to find everything perfectly tailored to his taste: balanced savory-sweet notes, but noticeably sweeter than store-bought versions, just the way he liked it.
He devoured it without hesitation.
The handmade meatballs alone melted on his tongue like clouds of umami bliss. Every other thought—his mental catalog of desserts, his grievances, his suspicions—vanished beneath a single, overwhelming declaration: Delicious! This guy really gets me!
He finished the entire bowl in record time, thoroughly satisfied.
Then, without delay, he dialed the Gojo estate—rousing the clan head from sleep—with a voice that was both aggressively demanding and strangely, inexplicably sweet:
"Don't you dare lie to me! Do you hear me? Do you hear me?!"
—
In Kyoto, at the Gojo residence, the clan head sat up in bed, utterly bewildered.
What on earth has that little mastermind gotten himself into now?