Chapter 39
"Hey, Asou—have you stopped leaving campus lately?"
Geto Suguru was borrowing Asou Akiya's bicycle, and only now realized his classmate seemed to rarely go out anymore.
Dust had gathered in the bike's front basket like a soft gray shroud.
"Saving money," Asou replied, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and tossed the keys to Geto.
Ever since he'd filled his once-empty bookshelf with world literature and high school study materials, his spirit had found quiet contentment—and his material desires had dwindled accordingly. This month, his spending had tightened to the point of austerity.
That, combined with buying things for others—full sets of Naruto manga, cigarettes, beer—had thoroughly emptied his already meager wallet.
"If you're short on cash," Geto said easily as he swung a leg over the bike, "you can borrow from me."
Asou didn't respond to the offer. He didn't want complications. Instead, he simply said, "Be careful out there. Try not to wear your uniform. Those golden spiral-patterned buttons are a dead giveaway—you might as well be wearing a sign that says 'Jujutsu High Student.'"
"Huh?" Geto glanced down at his black school jacket, then waved goodbye with a carefree grin. "You're being way too cautious. I'll be fine."
Asou didn't see the world as a safe haven. Outside the gates, curse users lurked—they're all ruthless, cunning, and all too eager to prey on what they saw as soft, inexperienced new sorcerers.
Yet, it seemed, he was the only one who truly cared about that danger.
"Whatever," Asou muttered, giving up. "You've got Reverse Cursed Technique on your side."
As long as someone drew a single breath, Ieri Shoko could bring them back. And right now, there were barely a handful of sorcerers in the entire country capable of instantly overwhelming a Cursed Spirit Manipulator.
Kenjaku was waiting—patiently—for Geto to mature. Not just physically, but in power, in technique. It was like Hisoka from Hunter x Hunter cultivating his "little green apples": Kenjaku wouldn't strike until Geto had fully blossomed into a Special Grade sorcerer. Until then, he'd remain in the shadows, watching… biding his time.
Asou admired Geto's combat genius—but he didn't envy his technique. If he had been born the once-in-a-millennium Cursed Spirit Manipulator? He'd be living in constant terror.
Because your survival wouldn't be due to your strength—it would hinge entirely on your enemies choosing not to kill you yet.
Take Kenjaku's ultimate technique, for example: "Womb Profusion – Ubiquitous"—a fully open-domain expansion, one of his deadliest abilities.
Just *imagining* its complexity made Asou break out in cold sweat. With his current beginner-level grasp of barrier techniques like "Barrier" (Chō), the very thought of facing such a domain filled him with dread. He prayed—sincerely, fervently—that he'd never cross paths with Kenjaku, never lay eyes on that stitched-together face, whether on a man or a woman.
After all, Kenjaku had once inhabited the corpse of a Cursed Spirit Manipulator and, in doing so, shattered the natural boundaries of technique inheritance. He'd somehow replicated the previous host's unique ability—Itadori Kaori "Anti-Gravity"—and, with terrifying precision, constructed a Innate Domain, a feat normally reserved only for Special Grade sorcerers. On top of that domain, he'd achieved a form of Domain Expansion utterly unheard of in modern jujutsu history.
The original story described its difficulty as akin to creating something from absolute nothingness—like a flower blooming in midair, without soil, without roots, without cause.
Even at twenty-seven, as the founder of the Pan-Star Cult, Geto Suguru would stand no chance against Kenjaku.
The gap between them was simply too vast.
Although he knew full well that his focus right now should be on physical conditioning, Asou Akiya couldn't stop his mind from racing the moment Geto left. Before he could talk himself out of it, he was already heading straight to Yaga Masamichi's office, urgently seeking a shortcut to strength.
Yaga-sensei answered plainly, without embellishment: "You're asking how to learn New Shadow Style: Simple Domain? I've never studied it."
Ah… so your Grade 1 sorcerer certification might be a little… generous, Asou thought dryly, though he kept his face carefully neutral.
He understood, logically, that not every Grade 1 sorcerer mastered this technique—but disappointment still settled in his chest. Without it, a sorcerer was completely helpless against a Special Grade sorcerer or curse's Domain Expansion. There would be no defense, no evasion—only certain death.
New Shadow Style: Simple Domain had one defining trait: within its boundary, the user's attacks acquired a "Certain Hit" effect—guaranteed to land, no matter what.
For any sorcerer who possessed a technique and could manifest this Simple Domain, it was the first true indicator of potential to one day perform a full Domain Expansion.
Yaga-sensei pointed him toward the obvious solution: "You should ask Gojo Satoru. Heirs of the Three Great Families usually know it."
Asou's pulse stuttered. He masked his discomfort seamlessly—but inside, he cringed. Right. Because I'm supposedly "connected to the Gojo clan."
A fiction built on smoke and borrowed prestige.
"Yaga-sensei," he asked carefully, "is there… any other way?"
"Kyoto Jujutsu High…" Yaga began.
Asou shook his head so fast it was almost comical. "Not even a dog would willingly get involved with Kyoto High."
Yaga—longtime acquaintance of the Kyoto High principal—stared at him, stunned.
"…Not even a dog?"
He felt a sharp twinge of offense. "That's a bit extreme, don't you think?"
Asou gave a helpless shrug. "Can't deny it—they really are that terrible."
Kyoto High was steeped in feudal hierarchy to its bones. Any commoner-born sorcerer who stepped onto its grounds would be bullied, marginalized, and looked down upon by students from prestigious lineages.
And beyond that—in the original timeline, hadn't the Kyoto High principal been the one to carry out Yaga-sensei's execution?
Bound by alumni loyalty, Yaga couldn't openly condemn his old school. But Asou had no such ties. After letting his distaste show, he added lightly, "I'll go ask Gojo anyway—see how steep the price is to learn it."
Setting aside personal entanglements, Yaga refocused on Asou's growth. "Are you planning to take up swordsmanship?"
Asou had no idea whether a sword instructor even existed for him—but he nodded earnestly, shamelessly hopeful.
Yaga studied him for a moment, then said simply, "Give me some time."
Asou blinked. "Huh?"
"I'll learn swordsmanship myself," Yaga declared, "and then teach you. I should be able to help you with the basics."
Here was a man—a master of modern taijutsu, a veteran sorcerer forged in real combat—volunteering to learn an entirely new martial discipline just so he could pass it on to his student.
Asou's eyes instantly lit up, wide and shimmering with pure, unguarded awe.
Yaga actually flinched. "Whoa—don't get carried away! And for heaven's sake, stop looking at me like that! I only meant I'd show you the very beginning!"
But it was too late.
Asou felt like his heart might burst from gratitude. A teacher who would go so far as to study a new art just to guide his student—that was the kind of devotion he'd only ever read about in stories.
"Yaga-sensei, you're absolutely incredible!"
"..." Yaga Masamichi's rugged face flushed faintly pink. He scratched the back of his head and stared blankly out the window, avoiding eye contact.
If only I'd learned swordsmanship first before saying anything…
—
Back at the boys' dormitory, Asou Akiya spent a quiet afternoon brewing two full liters of homemade milk tea—two large bottles, carefully prepared to taste. One was lightly sweetened, served at room temperature; the other was standard sweetness, poured over ice.
He delivered the first to Yaga-sensei as a token of gratitude. Then, with the second in hand, he made his way to Gojo Satoru's room, where the white-haired boy was sprawled out in post-training repose. Asou came with a question: Was there any way he could learn the New Shadow Style: Simple Domain?
Gojo took a big gulp of the milk tea—and immediately lit up. The sweet, creamy chill was an instant hit.
Still flipping through a manga with one hand, he answered casually, "That style doesn't have many rules. The only hard limit is: you can't teach it to outsiders. When I learned it, I didn't bind myself with a 'Binding Vow.'
"But—some old tangerine back home did make a 'Binding Vow' with the lineage. They swore I couldn't pass the New Shadow Style: Simple Domain to anyone outside the Gojo clan."
He glanced at Asou—then sighed dramatically, as if making a great personal sacrifice. "But… you don't count as an outsider. I'll teach you."
Asou, however, surprised him by shaking his head. "No, thank you."
"Hah?!" Gojo snapped the manga shut, tossing it aside with wounded pride. "Still mad about me calling you names? Look, you deliberately called me 'divine heir' like some weird cultist, so I snapped and called you 'shorty tangerine'! Is that why you've been punishing me with spicy food ever since? Medium-spicy is literally unbearable for me!"
(What Gojo called "medium-spicy" was, in Japan, barely more than a gentle warmth—what most would call "mild.")
Asou blinked, the picture of innocence. "I'm the one cooking every day, you know. My taste preferences matter too."
Gojo narrowed his eyes. "You're forcing me to order takeout!"
Takeout? Asou's mind flashed to memories from another life—endless domestic skirmishes in Chinese households over who cooked, who cleaned, and who got the last dumpling.
"Gojo," he said gently, "do you remember you came here to live alone?"
"..."
"I'm refusing your offer," Asou continued calmly, "mainly because I'm worried you're not actually good at teaching. I don't want to waste your time."
"What's so hard to understand? It's simple!" Gojo insisted, waving a hand.
Asou let out a dry, knowing chuckle.
Ah, yes—the word every average student dreads most: "simple," as spoken by a genius.
He arched an eyebrow. "Simpler than you willingly cleaning your room or cooking your own meals?"
Gojo's eyes sparked—and just like that, he discovered the art of verbal sparring.
"Absolutely!" he shot back, leaning forward with smug confidence. "I've got the Six Eyes—I can see cursed energy like it's printed on the air! You've got the best teacher in the world standing right in front of you, and you're daring to doubt me?"
He crossed his arms, voice dropping into a tone of mock offense. "My barrier technique is already better than Yaga's. Teaching you this will be a piece of cake. If you can't learn it? That's your problem—not mine!"
At the sound of Gojo Satoru declaring himself "the best teacher in the world," Asou Akiya nearly lost his footing—metaphorically blown backward by the sheer audacity of it.
Please, he thought, have a little self-awareness about your teaching skills!
"I'd rather you teach me 'Black Flash,'" Asou said dryly.
"Oh, well… that's not impossible," Gojo replied with a careless shrug. "Once I learn it myself, I'll teach you."
The same promise, spoken by Yaga-sensei, would have brought comfort.
Spoken by Gojo? It sent a chill down Asou's spine.
He couldn't help but imagine Gojo's "teaching method": learning Black Flash, then immediately punching him with it—just so Asou could "experience up close" the spatial-distorting, explosive impact that defined the technique.
"Though honestly," Gojo added, studying Asou's posture with sudden focus, "you're still a bit short of the baseline for Black Flash." Surprisingly, he offered something genuinely useful: "Your strength is precision in cursed energy control. If you train your body hard for another six months—shake off that sluggishness you show in combat—and get a little lucky… maybe, just maybe, your physical form and cursed energy could finally sync up."
Gojo himself hadn't used Black Flash yet—not because he couldn't, but because he'd never faced an enemy who required it to defeat.
Asou, on the other hand, was held back by his own body—still dulled by the rhythms of a peaceful era, unable to match the split-second demands of true combat.
"Thank you," Asou said, smiling softly with genuine gratitude. Clarity, at last, on the path ahead.
Gojo froze.
This was the first time—ever—since enrollment that Asou Akiya had thanked him. And like any spoiled prodigy presented with kindness, Gojo seized the opening with zero restraint.
"I want sukiyaki for dinner tonight!"
"Okay."
"No spice. You'll play video games with me after. And from now on, you'll make me milk tea regularly!"
"Okay."
"You've finally learned to please me instead of talking back," Gojo declared with smug satisfaction. "Not bad at all."
Asou tilted his head. "Did you take your underwear out of the dryer yet?"
"…No."
Gojo promptly returned to his carefree life as Tokyo Jujutsu High's golden boy, blissfully offloading all mundane chores onto Asou.
"Want to go shopping for new clothes this weekend?" Asou asked patiently, folding the freshly dried underwear. He'd noticed Gojo almost never wore casual attire—likely because he disliked the styles the Gojo household kept sending him.
"And your slippers need replacing too," Asou added, glancing down at their matching fleece-lined house slippers, both worn thin at the heels.
"You're so naggy," Gojo grumbled, already flipping open a new manga. "Just handle it however you like."
Asou gave the faintest, almost imperceptible smile.
Dressing up Gojo Satoru?
Is this some new limited-edition cosplay simulation game?
After tidying the wardrobe, Asou Akiya walked over to where Gojo Satoru lounged on the opposite side of the room.
"Give me your hand."
"Time to trim your nails."
The soft snip-snip of the clippers filled the quiet space. The dark-haired boy, eyes lowered with quiet focus, moved with such gentle grace that he resembled a night-blooming water lily—serene, unhurried, unfolding in silence.
Those already elegant hands emerged even more refined under his careful attention.
Their conversation drifted sideways.
"Are your lips dry?"
"Not really."
"Want some lip balm?"
"What's that? Lipstick?"
"No," Asou corrected gently. "It's a hydrating product—super popular with young people these days. Keeps your lips soft. A bit of a fashion essential, actually."
"Weekend. We're buying some," Gojo declared, already turning a page in his manga without looking up. "Now stop bothering me—I need to focus. I'll call you for games later."
Asou simply replied, "The sukiyaki's gone."
"Damn it! What do you—fine, fine! If you've got the stuff, just use it already!"
It turned out that emotional intelligence wasn't entirely absent in Gojo Satoru—just deeply buried, and occasionally coaxed out under pressure.
His expression remained cool, his gaze sharp as blades, and his flawless adolescent features radiated an aura that screamed do not approach. Yet now, his lips were coated in a thin, even layer of matte balm—smooth, subtly glossy, undeniably softer. The effect was unexpectedly delicate… even faintly alluring.
One glance in the mirror, and Gojo—predictably—was instantly charmed by the subtle boost to his already staggering looks.
"I'm definitely going to get love letters now," he announced with supreme confidence.
[Don't get too cocky.]
Asou thought automatically, recalling Gojo's famously… unstable luck with romance—fluctuating wildly between zero interest and overwhelming attention depending on the timeline.
But then again—he reconsidered—handsome men weren't exactly rare in the world. Truly radiant young men, however, the kind whose beauty shimmered with vitality and youth? Those were one in ten thousand.
What harm was there in letting the world send Gojo Satoru one more love letter?
Besides—if the price was right, Mei Mei-senpai, with her famously insatiable love of money and keen eye for future "loner kings," would almost certainly be delighted to take the job.
Honestly, Asou had to give thanks for his senior's impeccable greed.
Most people wouldn't dare take on a commission involving Gojo Satoru—but Momo-senpai? She'd probably charge extra.