Fifteen years old—an age so tender that even part-time work remained strictly illegal under Japanese law.
Beyond physical conditioning and dedicated study, Asou Akiya entertained no grand ambitions for the first half of the year. No shortcuts, no gambits—only the quiet, methodical work of growth: like a sapling reinforcing its core before reaching for the canopy.
Vvvvrrrrt—
Mid-lecture, a muted vibration trembled against his thigh—his phone, tucked just inside his pocket, pulsing with an alert. He didn't retrieve it. Discipline held him still: a good student honored the sanctity of the classroom, and distractions—however tempting—could wait.
Then, without warning, Geto turned in his seat, eyes alight, voice buoyant with unguarded delight:
"We got paid."
"The mission commission?" Asou asked, genuine surprise brightening his tone.
At the front of the room, Yaga Masamichi paused, chalk hovering above the blackboard. He glanced back, not with reproach, but the weary tolerance of a man long accustomed to youthful fervor—and after a beat, gave a single, generous nod.
"Go ahead. Check your phones. That's your official compensation, processed and disbursed by Jujutsu Headquarters after full review. Legitimate, after-tax income." His voice flattened, dry as old parchment: "A little reminder: even we jujutsu sorcerers file tax returns."
"…So little," Gojo murmured, flipping his phone lazily between his fingers. He watched, faintly perplexed, as Geto and Asou exchanged quick, exhilarated glances—their quiet jubilation almost tangible in the air.
"Ieiri!" he called across the room, voice ringing with theatrical dismay. "Right? Pathetic, isn't it?"
"…"
Shoko didn't turn. Absolutely not.
To answer would be to volunteer as Gojo's unwitting accomplice—dragging her into his latest bid for attention, and handing him a cudgel to swing at her own reputation.
Geto, ever the reluctant moralist, bristled. "That's not fair. Ieiri didn't even join our curse exorcism mission." His tone sharpened—not out of stinginess, but principle. This money wasn't pocket change flung from a balcony; it was theirs. His and Asou's rent. Groceries. Independence. With this first official payout, they stepped, finally, out of dependence and into the steady light of self-reliance.
"You think it's small?" Geto pressed, almost defiant. "Ieiri hasn't received anything yet."
"…"
Shoko's face remained perfectly neutral—but inwardly, she flinched. Why does it feel like Geto just cheerfully stomped on my foot while accepting a trophy?
Asou intervened—swift, seamless, like a curtain drawn between quarreling siblings.
"That's not quite accurate," he said, voice calm, even, yet carrying quiet authority. "Ieiri is, without question, the most indispensable support asset in this entire institution. If she ever instituted standard fees for her healing services? Frankly—this entire sum would vanish into her accounts before we finished lunch."
A beat passed.
Geto's defensiveness dissolved into contrition. "You're right," he admitted, turning to Shoko with sincere humility. "Thank you—for treating us pro bono." He remembered, too, the times she'd quietly reset his dislocated shoulder after hand-to-hand drills, or eased the swelling from his knuckles—never once mentioning it afterward.
"You're welcome," Shoko replied, her gaze as still and lifeless as a goldfish drifting belly-up in a sun-warmed bowl.
Gojo, meanwhile, found himself stranded—again—in conversational silence.
Last time.
The time before that.
And the one before that.
Same pattern. Utterly predictable.
Weird Bangs seemed magnetically drawn to the little Tangerine. And the instant Gojo so much as teased tangerine—even playfully—the Fringe would pivot, eyes sharpening, posture shifting, voice rising—finally engaging.
Rough calculation:
Annoy Orange —> Bangs notices you.
Gojo's thoughts, untethered from reason, began drifting toward the elegant simplicity of elementary-school logic.
"Gojo."
The voice—low, measured, edged with the faintest warning—cut through his daydream like a blade parting silk.
Unaware of the precarious scaffolding of Gojo's internal logic—or the fact that he'd narrowly just been spared from its collapse—Asou Akiya intervened at precisely the right moment, rescuing not only the peace of the classroom, but, unknowingly, himself.
"You've opened a bank account in your own name, right?" Asou asked, turning to Gojo. "In your own name—not under the family."
Gojo blinked, then nodded slowly, as if the concept were both alien and strangely impressive. "Yaga forced me. Dragged me to the bank after enrollment like I was some kind of fugitive."
A dark vein throbbed on Yaga Masamichi's temple. "Gojo! I was doing you a favor!"
If anything, the reminder only made it worse. Yaga could still vividly recall the bank staff's reaction—a blend of reverence, terror, and desperate sycophancy, as though Gojo weren't a fifteen-year-old boy but a deity who'd deigned to bless their branch with his presence. The bank had practically begged him to sign the paperwork, bowing so deeply their foreheads nearly kissed the marble floor.
To Japan's financial institutions, the heir of the Gojo Clan wasn't a student.
He was liquidity incarnate.
Asou smiled, warm and knowing. "Congratulations. From today on, you can live—truly live—without relying on your family."
Gojo propped his chin on his palm, his expression one of supreme, bone-deep arrogance wrapped in bored indifference. "Don't get it backward. I've never depended on the Gojo house. They're the ones clinging to me. And honestly?" He flicked a dismissive glance at his phone. "This amount? It's pocket lint."
Asou's fingers closed lightly around the edge of his own new card—matte-finish, unassuming, stamped with the school's discreet insignia. "True," he conceded, voice low and deliberate. "But when you use the family card? Every single purchase gets logged. And sent straight to the main house. Midnight calls from your grandfather, asking why you bought seven limited-edition ramen bowls? Or why your 'grocery run' included a full-size inflatable octopus?"
Gojo: "…"
"This card?" Asou tilted his wrist, catching the light. "Issued by the school. Zero tracking. Zero oversight. Buy whatever you want—no questions, no midnight interrogations." A pause, just long enough to let the bait sink. "Say… the complete Naruto manga set? First printing. Slipcase included."
Gojo's eyes—already wide—widened further. As though, in that instant, a door had swung open onto an entire wing of existence he'd never known existed.
Geto, unable to stay silent any longer, sighed. "He's a textbook gamer. He'd probably use the money to buy mini figures and Anpanman merch. Honestly, I can't picture him tearing up over a shōnen battle arc."
Asou turned to him, voice drifting like smoke from a dying candle:
"Care to wager on it?"
Geto's expression immediately tightened. "No bet. I forfeit. Whatever he does next—I won't be surprised."
Indeed, Geto's own allowance had nearly run dry. Now, clutching his salary card—its balance slightly higher than Asou's—he felt the first real stirrings of autonomy. Jujutsu High's mission pay was calibrated with cold precision: based on the grade and quantity of curses exorcised.
Among the three, Gojo led by a wide margin—his solo takedown of a Quasi-Grade 1 curse had earned him a princely sum. Geto followed, his steady record of eliminating multiple Grade 2 curses adding up reliably. Asou, assigned mostly to low-tier "mook" curses—swarms of weak, nuisance-level entities—had earned the least. Not for lack of effort, but by design: he was still being eased in, tested, measured.
Yet none of them begrudged the scale. It was fair. It was earned.
Geto turned to Asou, tone warm, practical.
"Asou—want to hit the supermarket after class? Stock up together?"
Asou Akiya had just drawn breath to reply—when Gojo lunged forward, swift and shameless, snatching *Little Tangerine* out from under Geto's nose like a prize in a playground heist.
"*Akiya.*" Gojo's voice rang with proprietary zeal. "Come with *me* to Akihabara!"
To his left, two boys—stubborn, competitive, radiating teenage alpha energy—stood locked in silent, unyielding opposition. Asou, caught in the crossfire, turned smoothly instead to his right: the calm harbor in this storm of testosterone.
"Ieiri—anything you'd like me to pick up for you?"
"…"
A beat. Then, under the weight of Yaga-sensei's looming, disapproving presence, Shoko murmured—voice low, resigned:
"…We'll text."
She dared not say *cigarettes*. Or *beer*. Not with Yaga watching like a hawk who'd just spotted a field mouse wearing sunglasses.
Once the murmur of plans had settled, Yaga seized the opening. "Enough!" he barked, cutting through Gojo's coercion with the authority of a man who'd long since mastered the art of silencing chaos. "Gojo—silence. What Akiya does after class is his own business. Now—back to the lesson!"
Geto bit back a grin. Well played, Yaga-sensei.
After school, Asou returned to his dorm, dropped his satchel by the door, and sat cross-legged at his low desk. With meticulous care, he drafted a Monthly Living Expenses Plan—columns neat, figures sobering, margins filled with tiny reminders: Rice: ¥800/week. Train Pass: ¥10,000/month. NO IMPULSE BUYS. He committed to rational spending, a vow sworn not in haste, but in hard-won awareness.
His calculations were grimly realistic: a Grade 4 sorcerer's monthly income roughly matched that of a mid-tier office worker in central Tokyo—enough to live, yes, but not to indulge. Luxury remained a distant dream.
The real wealth pooled at the top—Headquarters, perched high above like gods on a fiscal Olympus, and the elite sorcerers of Grade 2 and above. Down here, at the foot of the mountain? Just enough to keep breathing. Just enough to keep fighting.
Sigh.
Grade 4 curses. Grade 3 curses. Barely worth the ink on the mission report.
"I need to save," he muttered.
The more he tallied, the more his pulse quickened—each line item a fresh revelation of how badly he'd underestimated his daily outlays. His famously serene, refined features—often likened to a Song-dynasty ink painting—darkened with quiet distress. His delicate brows drew together, a furrow of worry marring his forehead. All traces of the earlier jubilation—his first real paycheck, clutched like a promise—had long since evaporated.
Still. He had promised Shoko. Today, at least, he'd run her errand.
Keys in one hand, a reusable shopping tote in the other, he walked toward the boys' dorm, where bicycles were chained beneath the shade of a towering zelkova tree.
And stopped.
His breath caught.
There—his bicycle. His bicycle—the one Yaga-sensei had gifted him with gruff kindness—stood trapped between two culprits, its wheels tilted at an unnatural angle, a faint, ominous squeeeak groaning from the front axle with every nudge.
Geto leapt back as if scalded, hands raised in instant, theatrical surrender. "Not me! I swear—I tried to stop him!"
Gojo rose with effortless grace, dusting off his knees, and tossed aside the twisted remains of the lock—now less a security device, more a piece of modernist sculpture.
"I'll replace it," he said, tone breezy, as if offering to buy a snack.
The truth was plain: Gojo's curiosity—ever a force of nature—had been piqued by the humble padlock. A flicker of Cyan—tiny, precise, devastating—had slipped into the keyhole like a serpent into a crack. The lock hadn't stood a chance. Geto, arriving too late, had valiantly attempted repairs—tightening bolts, realigning pins—only to watch, helpless, as the mechanism collapsed further under his hands.
Inside, Asou chanted silently, mantra-like:
[It's fine. They're young. They don't know better. Patience. Patience…]
If only I could win in a fair fight, he thought darkly, they'd each be sporting a walnut-sized lump on their foreheads by now.
Aloud, he summoned his most magnanimous tone—laced, just faintly, with withering irony:
"How utterly grateful I am for your… enthusiastic troubleshooting." He shot them both a look that could curdle milk, then hoisted the bicycle upright, wheeling it onto the smooth stone path. The shopping bag—neatly folded—settled into the front basket with a quiet thump.
Strength wasn't uniform. Stamina wasn't shared.
His ride from the school's outskirts into central Tokyo took at least an hour—no detours, no delays. Repair shops shut their shutters early. He couldn't afford to linger. Not tonight.
Asou Akiya assumed departure would be smooth.
He swung a leg over the frame, settled onto the saddle, and gripped the handlebars—only for the rear wheel to sink abruptly, violently, as though an invisible sumo wrestler had just dropped onto the back.
Asou: *…???"
A chill of foreboding prickled his spine.
Slowly, stiffly, he turned his head.
There—perched with shameless, radiant audacity on the narrow rear rack—was Gojo Satoru.
The white-haired boy seemed permanently clad in uniform—black jacket, black trousers—his lanky, adolescent frame already stretching toward an imposing 185 centimeters. He balanced with the giddy focus of a child on a carnival ride, hips braced, knees bent high, his absurdly long legs dangling like twin pillars, feet scuffing the pavement in a frantic search for purchase.
"You're too heavy—get off," Geto snapped, grabbing Gojo's sleeve with righteous indignation. "Akiya can't carry you."
"No!" Gojo shot back—and with a flicker of Infinity, sealed himself in an untouchable bubble, shrugging off Geto's grip like dust.
"Get. Off." Geto's voice tightened.
"I saw you carry Akiya home last week!" Gojo retorted, voice sharp with wounded pride. Short-range teleportation was exhausting—far from effortless, impossible to chain, and utterly impractical for shuttling between school and downtown. Being left behind stung. "You ditched me."
He clung to the metal strut beneath the front seat like a sailor to a mast in a gale. "I'm buying manga. Deal with it."
Asou didn't argue. Didn't sigh. Didn't even raise his voice.
He simply dismounted, planted both feet firmly on the ground, and turned—calm, collected, eyes steady as still water.
"Let me rephrase," he said, voice low and even. "I'll buy the manga for you. Now—can you please get down?"
"…Huh?"
"The shop closes early," Asou continued, tone reasonable, almost gentle. "A bike with no lock can't be left unattended. I suggest we stop wasting time on this… negotiation." He looked between them, one eyebrow lifting, ever so slightly. "Or—if you prefer—I can hand the bicycle to Geto. He's heading out anyway. Given his superior stamina, he could carry you into the city far more efficiently than I ever could."
For half a second, Gojo's grin faltered.
Then—before Geto could even open his mouth to protest—he dropped the act. His smile vanished like a snuffed candle. In one fluid, furious motion, he vaulted off the bike, kicking the rear fender hard enough to make the frame wobble violently.
"Fine!" he spat, voice brittle. "Enjoy your little outing. I'm out."
And just like that—he was gone, white hair flashing in the late afternoon light, shoulders rigid with indignation.
Gojo Satoru was angry.
He didn't understand. It was one thing—just one small, harmless thing: riding on the back of a bicycle. Why did it become a battlefield? Why was he the only one denied?
[Who even wants to be carried by Weird Bangs?]
[Stupid Tangerine!]
[Short Tangerine!]
He decided, right then and there:
This person is officially loathed—for the next twelve hours.
Geto watched him vanish, baffled by the sudden storm—but far more attuned to the quiet tension radiating from Asou beside him.
"Sorry," he began, guilt already creasing his brow. "I didn't expect him to—"
"Don't apologize for him," Asou interrupted—softly, but with steel beneath the silk. "Not in front of me. If he refuses—even scorns—the most basic courtesy of reading a room… then we're not classmates. We're staff. Servants. And I didn't sign up for that."
Geto exhaled sharply. His opinion of Gojo had always swung like a pendulum—admiration, exasperation, loyalty, resentment—leaving him perpetually drained. "He's… impossible to understand."
"Why must we be the ones to understand him?" Asou countered, voice quiet, but carrying the weight of a turning tide. "Why isn't it his responsibility to understand us?"
Geto stared. A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face. "Your tone's changed, Akiya. I seem to recall someone telling me, in my own moments of anger, that he's just a kid—that we should forgive him."
Asou glanced at him—just a glance, fleeting, layered.
"No," he said. "It hasn't changed. I simply remember… you're the youngest among us."
Geto's expression fractured—eyes widening, color draining, then flooding back in a rush—like a photograph developing in reverse.
So that time… you were deliberately stoking the fire.
And now? You're not even bothering to hide it.
He swallowed the surge of exasperation—thick, bitter, like burnt coffee—and forced a smile onto his lips. Sweet as honey. Sharp as a scalpel.
"Akiya," he purred, voice dripping with mock civility, "how about I give you a ride instead? Let you experience a speed even faster than last time?"
"Men who go too fast, tend to crash before they even reach the corner" Asou shot back without missing a beat,
He swung a leg over the humble grocery-getter bicycle—its basket still bearing the faint scent of rice and nori—and gave Geto one final, parting instruction, tossed over his shoulder like a coin into a wishing well:
"Tell Gojo one thing for me."
Then he pushed off.
The black-haired boy shot forward—silent, swift, a shadow unspooling down the path—leaving behind only the whisper of tires on stone and the fading echo of his voice, cool and unyielding, hanging in the air like smoke:
"Make up tomorrow."
…
The cold war held—unbroken—until the next morning.
By first period, the desk at the far left of the classroom had become a shrine: a towering, teetering stack of manga volumes, shrink-wrapped spines gleaming under the fluorescent lights—Naruto, One Piece, JoJo's Bizarre Adventure… a collector's dream, freshly minted, still smelling of ink and paper.
Gojo Satoru, meanwhile, had survived the night on nothing but the sugary dregs scavenged from the dorm fridge—twelve hours without a proper meal, his stomach growling like a caged beast. Compounding the misery? Asou's barbed reminder from yesterday: Every purchase on the family card is logged.
Did he really want the Gojo elders—those old tangerines—to see a receipt reading Seven Cup Noodles, Midnight?
The very thought made him gag.
He strode up to Asou's desk, one hand shoved deep in his pocket, posture rigid with wounded dignity.
"Don't think for a second," he declared, voice low and venomous, "that I've forgiven you."
"Please don't," came the reply—not from Asou, but from his left.
Geto, leaning back in his chair, chin propped on his knuckles, offered the words with a beatific, utterly insincere smile.
"Oho?" A new voice—light, curious, laced with quiet delight—rippled from Asou's right. Shoko, arms folded, eyes gleaming like a cat watching mice circle a trap. "Did you two… fight?"
Silence.
Then—the only person who hadn't spoken yet—moved.
Slowly. Deliberately.
He glanced left. Glanced right. Took in the shifting currents of tension, the unspoken alliances. And then—as though executing a flawless tactical retreat—he rose, hoisted his satchel, and walked—not away, but across—to settle, without ceremony, into the seat that had, until yesterday, belonged solely to Gojo Satoru.
Shoko: "…Wait."
You can't just—!
Geto inhaled sharply through his teeth. Oh no.
This wasn't collateral damage.
This was friendly fire—and Shoko, poor unsuspecting Shoko, had just been vaporized by the blast radius.
Gojo's carefully constructed outrage shattered in an instant.
"Get up!" he barked, voice cracking with disbelief. "How dare you take my seat?!"
Asou didn't flinch. He merely lifted a hand—calm, precise—and batted Gojo's reaching fingers away like a fly.
"I made a bet with Ieiri," he explained, tone matter-of-fact, as if discussing the weather. "I asked her to determine—objectively—who the most handsome boy in class is. Her verdict? The winner gets the seat beside her." A pause. A faint, self-deprecating smile. "I freely admit—I pale in comparison to Gojo-kun's legendary looks."
Gojo's eyebrows shot skyward—higher than they'd ever gone, loftier than the school's flagpole—his entire face blooming with smug, sunburst satisfaction. Sweetness flooded his veins. Sweeter than daifuku. Sweeter than victory.
"Of course it's me—" he began, chest swelling—
—only to halt, mid-gloat, as his gaze snagged on the manga mountain.
He lunged for the stack.
Whap.
Asou's hand came down again—firm, unyielding—smacking the back of Gojo's knuckles with the crisp finality of a judge's gavel.
"Mine," Asou said, voice soft but absolute. "Paid for with my money."
Gojo straightened, eyes narrowing, a predator circling its prey.
"Your money?" He smirked—slow, arrogant, utterly unrepentant.
"Your money is my money."
"No," Asou replied—sweetly, almost tenderly—as he produced a sleek, obsidian-black credit card from his inner pocket. He held it out, palm up, like an offering at a shrine. "This? Still very much mine."
"…"
Gojo's instincts flared—a primal, hair-raising warning. To take that card now would be like accepting a beautifully wrapped box wired to a detonator.
He hesitated. Then scowled. The longer he stood there, the more the air thickened with his mounting agitation.
"What do you want?" he finally snapped, voice tight.
"Think about it," Asou said, gaze steady, gentle almost. "Someone spends their evening—after a fight—running errands for you. Carries your manga home. And receives not a single word of thanks." A faint, sorrowful curve touched his lips. "That… hurts."
"…" Gojo blinked. "You mean you? You're hurt?"
Asou tilted his head—just slightly. Smiled—just barely.
"You tell me."
A beat.
Then—like a switch thrown—the realization hit Gojo with cartoonish force. His eyes widened. His posture snapped upright.
"Oh."
"Ohhh."
"Fine! Thank you." he blurted—loud, theatrical, arms flung wide, as if announcing a royal decree to the entire classroom. "Thanks for the manga!"
Geto and Shoko both flinched as if struck by simultaneous static shocks.
Impossible.
Inconceivable.
The heavens must be collapsing.
Gojo Satoru—the boy whose default mode was entitled, whose baseline expression hovered between bored and disdainful—had just thanked someone. Voluntarily. Audibly.
Before the echo of his gratitude could fade, Asou rose—again—with unhurried grace, collected his satchel, and walked back—back—to the seat beside Shoko.
Gojo's jaw dropped.
His composure shattered.
"You're doing it AGAIN?!" he roared, jabbing a finger toward Asou, voice cracking with betrayed outrage. "That's my seat!"
Asou moved faster than thought.
A single, elegant motion—palm flat, wrist firm—and he slapped Gojo's offending finger down with the crisp, resonant thwack of a master calligrapher correcting a student's brushstroke.
Then, turning to Shoko with serene composure, he asked—softly, yet carrying the weight of a verdict:
"Ieiri. Who, in your honest opinion, is the most handsome boy in this class?"
"Asou!" she answered instantly—voice ringing with the fervor of a drowning woman clinging to driftwood.
"Alas," Asou murmured, a glint of quiet triumph in his eyes, "my own opinion hardly matters. What counts is consensus. The will of the group outweighs any single voice." He let the words settle—each one a carefully placed stone in the trap he'd laid days ago.
Then, with surgical precision, he turned to Geto. "Geto—do you agree with Ieiri's aesthetic judgment?"
Geto's conscience had long since gone on permanent leave. Whichever side Asou sat on, he remained the neighbor. Loyalty, today, wore a very convenient shape.
His usual sleepy-eyed smile deepened, his weird bangs slipping artfully over one temple like a rakish scholar's ink-stained hair. There was something fox-like in his expression now: sly, gleeful, utterly delighted. Together with Asou and Shoko, he watched—openly, shamelessly—as Gojo stood frozen, face contorting in slow, magnificent fracture.
"Traditionally," Asou mused aloud, gaze drifting toward the window, "Japanese beauty idealizes black hair and dark eyes—harmony with the land, the seasons. White hair, azure irises? Exotic. Foreign. Beautiful, sure—but imported."
Shoko nodded sagely. "How could anyone not admire Asou's features? They're like a classical ink painting—balanced, refined, and timeless."
Geto stroked his chin, deadpan. "If someone doesn't see it… well. They must be blind."
The words hung in the air.
Then—all three turned, in perfect, devastating unison—to the white-haired boy wearing sunglasses.
Gojo stood there—mouth agape, sunglasses slightly askew, utterly poleaxed.
A blind man, branded by the unanimous tribunal.
…He looked, for the first time in his life, genuinely pitiful.
The three shameless conspirators locked eyes—one heartbeat of perfect, wicked synchrony—before erupting, in flawless unison, into peals of unrestrained, thunderous laughter.
"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"
It rolled through the classroom like a summer storm—bright, deafening, utterly merciless.
Schoolyard bullying?
Activated.
High-output. Precision-guided. Laser-targeted to the ego.
—
Author's Note:
A gentle reminder regarding Akiya's height: please keep expectations realistic.
Even as an adult, Akiya will never surpass Gojo in stature—Gojo is simply too tall. At 28, he stands at a staggering 193 cm (6'4")—a veritable giant among men.
Picture it:
A supersized, long-limbed feline—snow-white fur, piercing blue eyes, stretching luxuriously across the sunlit floor of a shrine.
That's Gojo Satoru.
A creature of impossible grace, absurd proportions, and zero regard for normal human scale.