These past few days, Gojo Satoru had been utterly absorbed in a hot-blooded shonen manga—and committed a minor atrocity: staying up all night binge-reading it.
The feudal rot festering within the Three Great Families left him completely unmoved. Sure, he knew about it—but ignoring it was just as easy. He'd never felt the slightest obligation to reform the system; after all, it had been this way for a thousand years. What did it matter to him?
Whether those clan members without the Six Eyes lived well or suffered in obscurity was none of his concern.
He acted solely on whim.
The Gojo household had instilled in him one core principle: the strong dominate the weak.
And should reality ever clash with that creed—if the clan ever did something he truly despised—he wouldn't hesitate to cast the Gojo name aside, crush those old and rotten tangerines beneath his heel, and force them to weep as they groveled for forgiveness.
Gojo viewed the world with cold clarity, yet felt no debt to those who'd raised him. Even when he smiled warmly, joked with classmates, and joined them in calling the Three Great Families "trash," it didn't mean he supported anyone overthrowing their rule. He was just… enjoying the show.
At this moment in history, the true bedrock of the ruling class wasn't Jujutsu Headquarters—it was the universally acknowledged existence of the Six Eyes, the divine heir of the Gojo clan.
The era's most powerful sorcerer had never, in recorded history, betrayed his own class.
And it had never happened before.
"Even if the manga's good," a voice cut through the pre-dawn silence, "you still can't stay up all night."
At 4:50 a.m., the light in Gojo's dorm room was still on. Asou Akiya, having paused his morning training, hurried over with a spare key and let himself in. There, buried under the covers like a guilty raccoon, was the white-haired boy—feigning sleep, with a manga hidden beneath his pillow.
"Go to bed. Now."
Asou confiscated the comic without ceremony. Gojo grumbled and protested, but it was useless.
Enduring another round of being called "little tangerine," Asou fetched a warm towel and gently pressed it over Gojo's eyes to ease the strain. "Keep this up, and you'll age prematurely—wrinkles will start forming at the corners of your eyes before you're twenty."
The warm cloth couldn't blind the Six Eyes. Through it, Gojo still saw the world in cursed energy—thermal signatures of people glowing like embers in the dark.
He noticed Asou's mood had soured slightly.
Ah, Gojo realized with a pang of amusement. He regrets giving me all twenty-seven volumes at once.
"I won't get old," Gojo mumbled, still fixated on the plot. "I just wanted to know what happens next!"
Ignoring him, Asou smoothed the four corners of the blanket with firm, almost ritualistic care, effectively tucking Gojo in like a misbehaving child.
Gojo, now thoroughly energized by the attention, grinned. "Do I remind you of Kakashi Hatake?"
"Is Kakashi's face under that mask even close to as handsome as mine?"
"You remember that first time we met? The things you said—I understood them. But I've never been lost on the path of life. That time? It was just… traffic."
After a brief pause, Asou Akiya confirmed the towel was cool enough to remove—only to be met with Gojo Satoru's wide-open eyes, gleaming with alertness, utterly unclouded by sleep. Before Asou could brace himself, he found himself staring directly into those impossibly beautiful eyes—their blue so pure, so luminous, it seemed less like color and more like captured sky.
Perched halfway on the edge of the bed, Asou leaned in, his posture far more intimate than that of a servant ever would be. His voice dropped to a near whisper:
"If you lie down quietly and don't say another word… I'll tell you whether Kakashi Hatake is as handsome as you."
—Naruto had reached Volume 27 in its May 2005 serialization. Naruto Uzumaki had only just begun his journey.
Kakashi Hatake's true face wouldn't be revealed until the later side story Kakashi Gaiden: Shinden Fū no Sho/Book of Wind, a treat reserved for devoted future fans of the Hokage.
Gojo instantly fell silent. He gazed up at Asou—not with mischief now, but with quiet expectation.
The main light switched off. Only a soft, unobtrusive lamp glowed in the corner, casting a gentle amber wash across the room. The air grew still, light, suspended in a moment of fragile calm.
[He's trusting me.]
The weight of that trust pressed against Asou's chest—not for the first time, and certainly not lightly. He carried it always, this silent faith Gojo offered so easily.
[I can't lie to him. I can't deceive him. I can't let something this precious slip through my fingers.]
[This trust is the Gojo clan's legacy—built over centuries.]
"Kakashi has a scar over his eye," Asou began, voice steady, deliberate.
"He lost his parents, his friends, his teacher."
"He's the sensei of Team Seven—but each of his students eventually went to train under someone else."
"Kakashi is handsome. Responsible. Noble. But he can't change the past. And he'll always carry that quiet loneliness—the ache of being left behind."
"He was lost on his path far longer than you've ever been stuck in traffic."
Asou paused, then added with quiet conviction:
"You have a future. You're young. Full of life. So—right now, in this moment… you're definitely handsomer than he is."
He answered not with flattery, but with a perspective only someone who'd studied both fiction and fate could offer.
Gojo was satisfied. In the little tangerine's eyes, he wasn't just good-looking—he was brimming with future. And apparently… that was the truest form of handsomeness there was.
The childish urge to compare mere appearances faded away. His snow-white hair fanned across the pale blue pillowcase like fresh-fallen drifts, soft and untamed. Without hesitation, he asked—eyes bright with unchecked curiosity—
"Can our family buy Weekly Shōnen Jump?"
Asou was momentarily stunned by the sheer, unfiltered audacity of the question.
"No," he said flatly.
Absolutely not.
Manga was sacred ground—a pure, untainted space for young hearts and wild dreams. He'd be damned before letting the Gojo clan's musty old traditionalists sully that world with their feudal greed.
—
Back in the classroom, Asou Akiya's seat remained exactly as it had always been—sandwiched neatly between Ieri Shoko and Geto Suguru.
Gojo Satoru got plenty of physical activity, drank an enormous amount of water, yet almost never joined the boys during break time to head to the restroom.
Instead, he'd vanish at odd intervals—always returning with a piece of candy already in his mouth. It was enough to make anyone wonder if he wasn't on a one-way path to diabetes.
Geto Suguru had started to grow quietly concerned. Leaning toward Asou, he asked, "What's his deal? He didn't train in hand-to-hand combat, isn't using his 'Limitless,' and eating this much sugar can't be good for him."
Asou shot back without missing a beat, "I'm not his surveillance camera."
"Ah… right." Geto rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly sheepish.
Seeing that Gojo's candy habit was spiraling, Asou pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let me think of something."
Geto perked up, curious—
—but before he could ask what that "something" might be, Gojo erupted like a startled cat, slamming both palms onto the desk. "Don't you dare think of anything! Don't say a word! It's none of your business!"
Instantly, both Geto and Ieri turned toward him, eyes gleaming with the unmistakable spark of people who smelled drama.
Wow—what an intense reaction.
The kind of telltale weakness that schoolyard bullies loved to exploit.
Asou sighed, tone suddenly grave and paternal. "There's a public restroom right here in the main building. The boys' dorm is pretty far from the classrooms. You can't keep relying on short-range teleportation to hold your breath all the way back just to use the toilet."
Gojo's face went slack with horror. He slumped back into his chair, utterly deflated. "…H-How… how dare you say that out loud?"
Asou blinked, genuinely puzzled. "Why wouldn't I? It's perfectly normal for high school guys to go to the bathroom together."
Gojo looked like his entire worldview had just cracked. "…It's… normal?"
Geto, ever the voice of reason, added helpfully, "We're not sneaking in there to smoke or anything. What's there to be embarrassed about?"
Ieri, however, had already pieced together the real issue—and couldn't resist stoking the flames. "Girls do it all the time, you know. We *like* going to the restroom together."
Seeing his two allies so perfectly in sync, Asou gave a satisfied nod and smiled. "You heard them, didn't you?"
Gojo: "…."
You're all freaks. Who the hell goes to the bathroom in a group?
He still couldn't get past the mental block—but his curiosity about ordinary high school life burned brighter than his pride. He decided: Fine. I'll try it. Just once.
So, the next time Asou and Geto stayed behind in the classroom during break, Gojo slipped out alone, heading furtively toward the public restroom. He'd barely stepped inside and let out a quiet sigh of relief at having done this "normal" thing—
—when the unthinkable happened.
Yaga Masamichi, homeroom teacher and staff member, made an unexpected detour… and walked straight into the same restroom.
"AAAAAH! GET OUT!!" Gojo shrieked, voice cracking with panic.
"Gojo! What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Yaga Masamichi barely had time to register his own shock before Gojo Satoru—face burning crimson from neck to earlobes—shoved him bodily out the door with panicked, flailing force.
The white-haired boy stood there, trousers still clutched in one hand, utterly incensed, screaming at the top of his lungs that Yaga-sensei was a pervert. His voice cracked from sheer volume, teetering on the edge of breaking entirely.
The entire ancient school building seemed to shudder in response.
Dust rained from the ceiling beams.
Ieri Shoko, leaning out the window, tilted her head upward with mild interest. "Did Yaga-sensei just get beaten up?"
Geto Suguru, astonished, rushed to the window beside her to gawk. "Who did it? Who's got that kind of nerve?"
Meanwhile, Asou Akiya calmly stacked his textbooks, serene as ever—the quiet architect of this chaos, glory hidden, reputation intact.
In any case, the suffocating overprotection of the Gojo household had finally been shattered. And in one fell swoop, Gojo Satoru's little… quirk… had been forcibly cured.
The cost?
Yaga Masamichi returned moments later, dragging a scowling Gojo behind him—his forehead already blooming with an ugly bruise.
"That damn Yaga," Gojo muttered darkly, shaking off the teacher's grip and bolting straight back to his seat, as if trying to vanish into the floorboards.
Yaga wanted to shout, to reprimand—but Gojo looked so utterly violated, so wronged, like he'd just survived a national tragedy. To Yaga's chagrin, he knew this humiliating memory—being accused of perversion by his own male student—would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The moment class resumed, Yaga's voice boomed like thunder: "Gojo! You're a boy! Have some goddamn backbone!"
Gojo turned his head away petulantly. "What part of me isn't manly enough?"
Yaga immediately pointed to his other students. "Geto and Akiya would never overreact like that to a teacher!"
Gojo flushed with embarrassment.
Yaga pressed his advantage, voice rising: "I was just looking for you! Your reaction made me feel like I'd accidentally walked into the girls' restroom—not a shared space that *any* of us are allowed to enter!"
Gojo shrank in his seat, voice small and sullen. "…I'll get used to it. But it's still super weird…"
The Six Eyes sees everything.
From every angle.
Who unzipped their pants. Who flushed the toilet. All of it—panoramic, unavoidable, inescapable.
Understanding the unique burden of that ability, Yaga swallowed his irritation and spoke with deliberate firmness: "You need to adapt to the real world. When you're out on missions, you can't expect everyone to clear a private restroom just for you or cater to your personal discomfort."
Gojo slumped onto his desk, arms folded over his head, utterly defeated—too mortified to face the world.
Unnoticed, Asou Akiya lifted his phone, snapped a quiet photo of Gojo hiding his face between his arms like a child refusing to accept reality, and slipped the device back into his pocket.
"Yaga-sensei," Asou Akiya continued in a gentle, soothing tone, "we're his classmates. Of course we'll look after his feelings while he's at school—until he's fully adjusted."
He cast a soft glance toward Gojo, whose entire posture screamed wounded dignity. "The main thing is, he really shouldn't overreact and punch us so hard we go flying. Unlike you, sensei, we're not saints—we might not be so understanding of his… shyness around others."
Geto Suguru's scalp prickled. "Him? Shy?"
Ieri Shoko, however, offered a different perspective. "Gojo might seem loud and careless, but he's actually really easy to embarrass."
She pictured the scene in her mind—Gojo Satoru, caught alone in a restroom, utterly flustered—and instantly filed it away as prime black-history material.
"Asou," she nudged his arm, "send me that photo."
"As soon as I turn it into a meme," Asou replied with a knowing smile. He was well-versed in the rhythms of modern social media.
"I want it too," Geto added, eager for his share of Gojo's humiliation.
"Damn it, damn it…" Gojo muttered under his breath, cheeks burning. His toes curled inside his shoes, desperately trying to suppress the flush of embarrassment. Back at the Gojo estate, no one had ever dared mock him. Now, it seemed, everyone felt entitled to gossip about his private moments.
During taijutsu class, Gojo threw himself at Geto with reckless aggression—clearly trying to vent his frustration—but Geto, a natural in hand-to-hand combat, effortlessly dodged and countered, leaving Gojo spinning in circles like a disoriented top.
Meanwhile, Asou opted for a gentler role, partnering with Ieri Shoko as her practice dummy. He moved with the languid, flowing grace of tai chi—soft, yielding, almost comically ineffective. Ieri was perfectly content; she treated it as nothing more than a light warm-up, a pleasant way to stretch her limbs.
Not long after, Asou and Geto began deliberately avoiding the same restrooms as Gojo. The moment they spotted his white hair in the distance, they'd quietly veer off toward another facility without a word.
Peace was thus restored—fragile, but functional.
Then came the day Jujutsu High dispatched them on a mission to Tokyo's most popular amusement park—specifically, its notoriously haunted house attraction.
After exorcising a small cluster of curses born from visitors' fear, the three students and their teacher grabbed a meal inside the park. But afterward, they faced a dire dilemma: the public restrooms were swarmed. Lines snaked endlessly—queues so long they looked like human rivers.
Gojo stood there in silence, staring at a world that refused to grant him even basic privacy.
Asou couldn't suppress a quiet chuckle. He stepped aside and called over one of the park staff members who'd assisted them during the exorcision.
Leaning in, he murmured a few words into the attendant's ear.
There was no VIP lane—but thanks to a little social finesse, they were swiftly granted access to a private, single-use restroom.
Asou shot Gojo a look that said, Don't worry—I've got you
Geto and Ieri stood guard outside, chatting and laughing as they kept curious park-goers at bay. Neither teased Gojo. Instead, they swapped stories about the park's best rides, their casual banter forming an invisible shield around his dignity.
Inside, Gojo found himself unable to name the strange warmth blooming in his chest.
He'd been… taken care of.
Not protected out of duty or fear—but cared for, simply and sincerely, by classmates who asked for nothing in return.
It was a sensation entirely new to him.
Later, in private, he pulled Asou aside and asked, voice uncharacteristically small: "Does Weird Bangs want anything? Should I catch him another curse as a gift?"
Asou Akiya almost laughed—half exasperated, half fond—but he brushed aside the quiet melancholy pooling in his chest and, with seamless ease, erased himself from the equation entirely. His voice was calm, neutral, as if stating simple fact:
"Right now, there's no suitable holiday coming up—he won't accept your gift so easily. My advice? Leverage the Gojo clan's connections. Use Ieri as the reason. Arrange a private weekend outing for them—full park access, no lines, no bills. A seamless, exclusive experience."
He paused, then added, almost gently:
"You already have everything."
All it would take was for Gojo Satoru to share the smallest fraction of his privilege, and countless people would line up to call him friend.
He has to learn to wield the Gojo name—not as a burden, but as a tool.
How could a heavenly-born prodigy waste his time standing in queues, squandering the immense resources at his disposal? Gojo shouldn't just follow the world's rules—he should reshape them. Be extravagant. Be indulgent. Master the system so thoroughly that society itself bends to accommodate him.
"The world should revolve around you," Asou murmured, his breath warm against Gojo's ear. "Let me help you."
He wasn't just offering advice—he was teaching Gojo how to rewrite reality. How to transform those future afternoons spent waiting in line into hours of effortless joy. How to make every moment at Jujutsu High—so often dismissed as mundane training time in the original timeline—into something luminous, purposeful, valuable.
Gojo Satoru's youth was priceless.
His time was a luxury commodity.
His very being was like the moon—high, brilliant, untouchable—too proud for petty schemes, too honest to disguise his heart even when facing a cruel world.
And with every passing second, Gojo's mere existence deepened the meaning of Asou's enrollment at Jujutsu High: Because I am part of something monumental. Because my words, my actions, are witnessed by the Six Eyes. Because even my ordinary life now thrums with upward momentum.
"Before graduation," Asou whispered, resolve threading through his quiet tone, "I will guide you well. Please—try to understand this world… O' divine heir."
—Stop floating above the mortal realm.
—Come down. Look around. See me… and the ten thousand lights of the human world below.