Chapter 20
On the morning of the second day of school, Asou Akiya pushed open his dorm room door, eyes heavy with sleep, his gaze deliberately avoiding the doorway across the hall.
"Morning, Asou," Geto Suguru greeted him with a bright, affable smile, blocking the corridor's exit as if by accident.
"Good morning, Geto," Asou replied with impeccable politeness—so perfectly mannered that not a single fault could be found. Then, without further acknowledgment, he walked right past Geto, heading straight toward Gojo Satoru's room. He knocked firmly and called out, "Gojo-kun, class starts at eight—you should get up. Also, please return my iron pot and wooden tray. I need to clean them."
Geto's cheerful expression froze for a split second—then instantly melted back into warmth the moment Asou turned his head.
"So… you lent him your pot just to make instant noodles?" Geto asked, chuckling lightly, convinced he'd uncovered the truth.
After the way Gojo treated him yesterday—kicking his door, shouting accusations—there's no way Asou just let that go.
"No," Asou said simply, his mask of amiability smoother than Geto's own. He acted as though the entire incident—the shouting, the collar-grabbing, the invasion—had never happened.
Inside Gojo's room, a commotion stirred—muffled footsteps, the soft slap of bare feet on polished wood.
The door swung open halfway. Gojo stood there, white hair wildly tousled from sleep, eyes half-lidded and drowsy, shoving the iron pot into Asou's hands without a word.
He'd stayed up late the night before—and without a servant to rouse him at dawn, his morning had inevitably slipped away.
Asou took the pot and immediately wrinkled his nose. Of course. He didn't wash it.
"And my wooden tray?" he asked, lifting his eyes toward the room's interior.
For the first time, the rest of the dorm's residents got a glimpse into the Gojo family's mysteriously outfitted sanctuary.
The room blended classical Japanese minimalism with modern luxury: warm, unfinished wood tones grounded the space, while an enormous ultra-thin display dominated one wall. Floor-to-ceiling shelves overflowed with manga volumes and shelves lined with childhood treasures—Digimon, Pokémon figures, and even a Doraemon plush tucked shyly in the corner.
On the entertainment console sat a pristine, untouched game system, its cartridges still sealed in factory plastic. The bed—sturdy, clearly custom-made—was piled high with a thick, supportive mattress, its pale blue sheets twisted into a chaotic, sleepy nest.
And there, forgotten on the dining table, sat the thick-bottomed wooden tray… with a pair of chopsticks neatly resting atop it.
Gojo darted back inside without hesitation.
Then—without warning—the white-haired boy snatched the tray right off the table and flung it toward the doorway like a reckless discus.
Asou Akiya reacted instantly. He raised the iron pot like a shield.
Clang!
The wooden tray struck the curved metal and slid harmlessly to the floor, its momentum deflected, no harm done.
"If you're late, you'll be made to stand in the hallway as punishment," Asou said coolly, already turning back toward his own room. "Try to keep that in mind."
He closed the door with a soft click behind him.
"Annoying—" Gojo's grumble was muffled instantly by the solid wood.
Asou headed back to his dorm to put away the cookware—only to find Geto Suguru trailing silently behind him. The dark-haired boy said nothing, but his gaze—laden with quiet accusation, the unspoken words "I thought I knew you"—pierced straight through Asou's back as he rinsed the pot at the sink.
Finally, Geto spoke. Not once, but three times—each sentence measured, each one cutting deeper than the last.
First sentence. "That smell lingering on the pot is sukiyaki."
Second sentence. "You gave me cup noodles."
Third. "So just because he's a Grade 1 sorcerer, he automatically qualifies for friendship?"
Not one word accused Akiya of unfairness, yet every syllable dripped with grievance.
Geto truly couldn't understand Asou Akiya's way of navigating relationships.
If Asou could be this close to Gojo—cooking for him, caring for him, even enduring his rudeness—then why wouldn't he accept Geto as a friend? Geto didn't care about Asou's low sorcerer rank. Their conversations had been effortless, refreshing—marked by Asou's sharp insight, his calm wisdom, and his deep understanding of the jujutsu world. Those talks had eased Geto's transition into school life in ways no classmate, least of all any girl, ever could. It had felt like the quiet, natural beginning of a genuine male friendship.
Yesterday, Geto had resented being rejected.
Today, he resented the double standard.
He refused to believe Asou was the kind of person who treated others with cold indifference.
Gojo Satoru?
Not even a dog would willingly be friends with that guy!
Geto held firm to his conviction. He wouldn't surrender to Asou's so-called "friendship theory." As long as he and Gojo remained strangers—enemies, even—he could prove that Asou's reasoning was hollow, inconsistent, and ultimately false.
Without turning around, Asou replied flatly, "Helping Gojo adjust to living alone is simply part of my duty as his classmate."
Geto's voice tightened. "Does that 'duty' include cooking his meals?"
But he caught himself before it sounded like an accusation. Instead, he softened his tone—though his eyes remained sharp. "I'm just curious… what reason will you give me this time to make it all make sense?"
Asou Akiya said quietly, "You wouldn't understand."
A Cursed Spirit Manipulator had no need to comprehend the survival tactics of a mere Grade 4 sorcerer.
The arrogant only ever looked upward—at the sky above them.
Only the despairing ever saw the bottomless abyss beneath their feet.
And the Six Eyes?
They saw everything—yet cared for nothing.
In the end, such omniscience only ensured they'd be cast out by a world too tangled, too messy, too human to be neatly observed.
"Geto," Asou added, voice gentle but firm, "go find Gojo. Walk to school together."
"…"
The door slammed shut behind him with a sharp bang.
Having successfully driven Geto Suguru away with just one sentence, Asou allowed himself a faint, almost mischievous smile. A hundred-odd pounds of teenage boy, all stubborn bone and quiet rebellion.
"I suppose I've just added a little subplot to your youth," he murmured to no one in particular.
—
Inside the Tokyo Jujutsu High classroom, Yaga Masamichi entered to find all four students already seated. His first reaction was pure, unguarded relief.
No one skipped class. No one was late. Thank goodness.
But then his gaze fell on Asou Akiya—and instantly, his satisfaction curdled into self-reproach. Why on earth was I even content with the bare minimum?
"Absolutely no more fighting," Yaga declared, fixing Gojo and Geto with a stern glare.
Gojo responded with utter indifference, while Geto offered a polite apology: "Apologies, Yaga-sensei. I just couldn't win against him."
Hearing the word "apology," Yaga instinctively softened. "Well… as long as you recognize your mistake…"
Ieri Shoko covered her mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter.
Yaga's relief lasted half a second before fury surged through him. "What?! You're telling me you wouldn't have stopped unless you won?!"
Geto nodded earnestly. "Unless we settle it properly, Gojo will keep provoking me. It's just his nature."
Right on cue, Gojo demonstrated his provocation technique live: he stuck out his tongue and waggled his fingers beside his ears, "Weird Bangs—nyeeeeeh~!"
"See, Yaga-sensei?" Geto gestured helplessly.
Yaga pinched the bridge of his nose, fearing he might suffer cardiac arrest before homeroom even ended. He pivoted sharply to Asou. "You were there yesterday—why didn't you stop them?"
Asou lifted his textbook just high enough to hide his face, then peeked over the top with exaggerated, dewy-eyed innocence. "They insisted on fighting for me. What could I possibly do?"
Yaga stared. "Huh??"
Undeterred, Asou pressed on, voice dripping with mock remorse: "I'm so sorry, Yaga-sensei… It's just that my charm is too overwhelming. They simply had to settle who deserves me more."
Geto Suguru's expression was a masterpiece of conflicted emotions—bewilderment, irritation, and a begrudging flicker of amusement all swirling together.
Ieri Shoko watched the whole scene with the indulgent, twinkling gaze of someone enjoying a well-written campus comedy.
Gojo Satoru, momentarily robbed of his usual targets for mockery, turned to Asou Akiya and made a theatrical gagging sound—"Ugh!"—complete with a disgusted grimace.
Yaga Masamichi felt as though he'd just been strapped into a rollercoaster with no seatbelt. Words failed him. Sensing the teacher's fraying nerves, Asou finally dropped the act and spoke with quiet sincerity:
"I'm sorry, Yaga-sensei. The truth is… I wanted them to become friends. I just didn't expect it to backfire so spectacularly."
Compared to his earlier, outrageously theatrical excuse, this was refreshingly reasonable. Yaga sighed, rubbing his temples. "Fine. But you're still a troublemaker. Since I didn't catch you yesterday, you're writing a formal apology letter."
Without hesitation, Asou pulled a neatly folded document from his bag—already completed, ink still fresh. It was a model of contrition, articulating his "mistakes" with poetic depth and textbook-perfect humility.
Yaga stared. "You've… already finished it?"
Akiya remained perfectly composed, his smile carrying the serene auspiciousness of three goats greeting the spring.* "Yaga-sensei, it's only a small matter."
*{Note: In Chinese, 'goat' rhymes with 'positive energy', and so three goats suggests positive things, but especially the arrival of spring when the positive energy of the sun was in the ascendant.}
Numbly, Yaga accepted the letter, skimmed it in seconds—and found, to his dismay, not a single flaw.
This boy hadn't just defused classroom chaos; he'd finished all his homework, submitted extra assignments, and, rumor had it, even provided emotional support to the assistant supervisor after the last incident…
He placed the apology letter over his face and said nothing. There were no words left.
…
Of course, stopping the fights was impossible.
Especially now that the two boys had locked into a cycle of bickering—and especially since the Gojo family's private construction crew had arrived on campus to rebuild the training field at Gojo Satoru's sole expense.
It was as if their friendship was a gate that could only be unlocked through combat: until they acknowledged each other as equals, they would remain sworn enemies.
Fights broke out every other day. Apology letters piled up like unread mail. Geto refused to yield, his mind endlessly scheming new battle strategies. Gojo, meanwhile, had discovered the sheer joy of sparring with someone his own age—and couldn't care less about Geto's simmering grudges.
In the staff room, Yaga Masamichi was at his wit's end. He summoned Asou Akiya, desperate for a solution.
His voice was grave, heavy with exhaustion. "This cannot go on."
Asou stood obediently for a moment—then quietly moved behind Yaga's chair. With gentle, practiced hands, he began massaging the teacher's tense shoulders. The rigid, weary homeroom teacher gradually softened under the unexpected kindness, and heard his star student murmur.
"You're overestimating me, Yaga-sensei," Asou said gently. "The crux of this whole situation lies with Geto. As long as he refuses to admit defeat—and as long as Gojo is perfectly happy to cover the full cost of rebuilding the field every time they blow it apart…"
"Stop," Yaga cut in, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "Akiya, do you actually have a solution? If this keeps up, it won't just be a school matter anymore. The Six Eyes and the Cursed Spirit Manipulator tearing each other apart? Jujutsu Headquarters will send inspectors asking questions."
Asou's eyes flickered with quiet calculation. He lowered his voice, almost tenderly. "Has the cherry blossom season started outside?"
Yaga, buried under weeks of exhaustion, tried to remember. Then it came to him—his wife had mentioned it over dinner. "Ah… yes. I hear they're blooming beautifully. Shame I haven't had time to see them."
Asou smiled, soft and knowing. "Then let's organize a cherry blossom viewing for everyone."
Yaga hesitated. "You barely have time to focus on your studies as it is. Summer missions are just around the corner…"
"Life is long," Asou replied with quiet certainty. "We won't miss anything by taking one day. But missing this—that would be a true regret."
He offered a suggestion, careful and considerate: "Yaga-sensei, bring your wife along. You could introduce us as your students—children from distinguished families in Tokyo and Kyoto. Nothing too unusual."
Yaga's mind immediately conjured the image of Gojo Satoru at his most chaotic—loud, reckless, utterly impossible. "I'm afraid someone will cause a scene."
"I believe it'll work wonders," Asou said with serene confidence.
"Yaga-sensei," he added, his voice low and soothing, as if easing a wound only the teacher could feel, "they may bicker and brawl all they like—that's our Jujutsu High family affair. But Gojo isn't the type to act out in front of outsiders. And who knows? Perhaps seeing you and your wife together—happy, ordinary, grounded—might remind him that even prodigies can be good kids, just for an afternoon. He might even sit quietly with us under the blossoms."
There was something quietly magical about Asou Akiya—a rare gift for calming the restless heart. Yaga, who had never once spoken to his wife about the realities of the jujutsu world (she believed he taught at a private religious school), suddenly felt the weight of that silence press heavier than ever.
"Give it a try, Yaga-sensei," Asou urged, his voice like warm sunlight on still water.
"Your marriage, your family—they shouldn't have to be sacrifices to the jujutsu world."
The words were gentle.
But they struck Yaga like ice down his spine.
Why would Asou say something like that unless…
…unless his wife was already starting to feel the distance?
—
In April, when sakura petals drifted like pink snow across the city, Tokyo Jujutsu High leveraged its authority to secure an exclusive cherry blossom viewing spot—a secluded grove near a quiet riverbank. In exchange, the school took full responsibility for the area's security, ensuring that no cursed spirit would disturb the fragile peace of the season's most cherished tradition.
The four students—dressed in identical gray vertical-striped kimonos—were unusually well-behaved, huddled together in hushed conversation.
"Yaga's wife?"
"Call her 'ma'am', Gojo!"
"She looks completely ordinary."
"Ieri, that's exactly why Yaga-sensei can feel peace when he goes home—because she's not part of the jujutsu world."
Without Asou Akiya's quiet orchestration, they might never have met this woman—not even once before graduation.
Yaga's wife stood beneath the cherry blossoms, watching the group with gentle curiosity. "After all these years of teaching," she murmured, "this is the first time I've seen your students."
Her eyes lingered on them—on the striking beauty of the white-haired boy, whose posture in kimono exuded the grace of an ancient Kyoto noble, and on the other three, each radiating their own quiet charm. Gojo, ever the mischief-maker, was gleefully shaking the trunk of a sakura tree, sending a blizzard of petals swirling down onto their heads like confetti.
"They come from… exceptional families," Yaga said, regurgitating the line Asou had carefully rehearsed with him. "They can't appear in public lightly. That white-haired boy—this is the first time he's ever left home to attend school. In fifteen years."
"Ahh," his wife breathed, understanding dawning in her eyes. "So you've been instructing children from these secluded, elite lineages…"
Teaching ordinary children and teaching heirs of hidden, influential families—those were worlds apart. In that moment, she finally understood the unspoken weight her husband carried, and why families of such stature would entrust their most precious children to him. He wasn't just a teacher—he was a guardian of legacy.
Miscommunication between spouses could erode a marriage from within. But slowly, carefully, Yaga was learning to let her see—just a little—into the world he protected.
And so, in her mind, Tokyo Jujutsu High transformed into something gentler, more poetic: a secluded academy for the heirs of hidden clans.
---
"See, Weird Bangs? I'm the useful one!" Gojo crowed, having watched the entire exchange between Yaga and his wife with crystal clarity.
He'd also seen straight through Asou Akiya's carefully laid "conspiracy" with Yaga-sensei: this sakura outing wasn't just leisure—it was a tactical peace mission. Get them off campus, distract them with beauty, and maybe—just maybe—they wouldn't reduce the school to rubble for a few days.
Geto was genuinely surprised. He'd expected Gojo to sneer at civilians, to treat ordinary people as background noise. Yet here he was, behaving—almost—like a normal teenager.
"You act like you're fearless," Geto murmured, half to himself, "like you could blast anyone with Blue and never care what regular people think…"
Gojo shot him a look usually reserved for common criminals. "Impossible!"
This grove was reserved for dignitaries and aristocrats. Even Gojo, for all his arrogance, held back. He didn't snap the sakura branches—he simply shook them with childish delight, savoring the cascade of falling petals. It was a sight he'd seen countless times in Kyoto, yet here, now, it tasted different—lighter, sweeter, almost nostalgic.
Grinning, he teased, "I know exactly what this world is like. You're the ones who don't get it."
The world as seen through the Six Eyes was unlike any other.
To Gojo Satoru, there was no fundamental difference between curses, cursed spirits, sorcerers, or curse users—they were all just fragments of the same chaotic whole.
But he'd never say that aloud. The Gojo clan had taught their divine heir well: hide your true thoughts. Bury your inhuman perception beneath the mask of a spoiled, eccentric young master. Let the world believe you're merely arrogant—not alien.
Geto, sensing a sliver of that hidden depth, felt his rebellious streak flare. "Maybe… Asou understands."
Gojo wrinkled his nose in instant disdain.
"He's so weak…"
…the world he sees could never be the same as mine.
"Then let's go ask him!" Geto grabbed Gojo by the arm and dragged him over.
Asou Akiya was busy helping Ieri Shoko take photos, carefully adjusting the angle to avoid any unflattering "death shots."
When Gojo and Geto approached, Ieri instantly lost her relaxed air.
She stepped away, snatching back her phone with a polite smile. "Asou, they're looking for you. Go ahead and talk—I'll go take some pictures of Yaga-sensei and his wife."
Asou turned—and was startled to find Gojo Satoru glaring at him with icy composure, wearing that unmistakable "I haven't done anything wrong" expression.
What did I do this time?
Geto, clearly incensed on Asou's behalf, spoke first. "It's Gojo again. He's acting all high and mighty, insinuating he alone sees the true nature of this world—and the rest of us are just blind fools."
Dressed in his gray-striped kimono, Asou stood with hands folded, serene and composed, as he listened to Geto's embellished summary.
Then, with calm objectivity, he replied, "When it comes to the microscopic level, we truly can't compare to Gojo-kun."
Gojo's metaphorical tail nearly shot straight up into the sky. He lifted his chin proudly, his dark sunglasses hiding his eyes completely, radiating smug superiority.
And then—as if fate enjoyed dramatic timing—Asou delivered the next line, instantly deflating Gojo's ego like a punctured balloon.
"But when it comes to the macroscopic level on the other hand—"
He paused, then added mildly, "—unless I'm very mistaken, Gojo, you're exactly the type who falls asleep during history class and skips your clan's ancestral lectures altogether."
Gojo's triumphant posture wavered.
Asou continued, voice gentle but edged with scholarly precision:
"An ancient text says: 'Use history as a mirror, and you will understand the rise and fall of nations; use others as a mirror, and you will discern your own strengths and failings.'"
"And let's be honest—someone who scores zero in politics has no grounds to judge the world as a whole."
He finished speaking at a leisurely pace, then caught the thoughtful look on Geto's face—and gave a small, almost imperceptible smile.
Finally, with exaggerated sympathy, he turned to Gojo and said, "I do hope I haven't discouraged you, Gojo."
And then, as if out of sheer mischief, he added in the tone of a doting elder brother: "But really—you should try paying attention in class. It's not too late to fix your… extreme subject imbalance."
Because of the constant operation of his Limitless technique—which demanded immense mathematical precision—Gojo had always excelled in math.
But in politics?
In history?
He was, quite frankly, hopeless.
"…" Gojo stood frozen.
Wow. That was vicious.
I totally misjudged you, little tangerine!
You're definitely not from the Gojo bloodline!
—
"Use history as a mirror, and you will understand the rise and fall of nations; use others as a mirror, and you will discern your own strengths and failings."
— From the Old Book of Tang, Biography of Wei Zheng