Every night, when Gojo Satoru finally drifted off to sleep and darkness settled over the world, Asou Akiya began his own quiet ritual—reviewing the day, rehearsing what lay ahead.
This weekend's shopping trip required meticulous preparation.
"First stop: the high-end department store," he murmured to himself, mentally mapping out the plan. "I need to familiarize myself with luxury brands beforehand—learn each boutique's signature style, their location by floor, their aesthetic language. Price isn't the point. What matters is never looking lost or naive."
He knew the game well. "Those sales staff are human lie detectors. They can smell wealth—or the lack of it—from ten paces. They'd never dare underestimate Gojo Satoru."
After all, he'd done his research: a single pair of Gojo's custom-made sunglasses cost over a million yen.
"The real problem," Asou admitted with a sigh, "is me. My income has never even *dreamed* of treating money like dirt. I don't own a single decent casual outfit."
But he had a solution. "I'll just wear the same school uniform as Gojo. That's all I need."
In the public imagination, heirs of great wealth attended elite private schools with sky-high tuition. And Tokyo Jujutsu High's uniform—clean-lined, understated, yet undeniably refined—fit that fantasy perfectly. With Gojo Satoru beside him, radiating effortless aristocratic presence, Asou wouldn't need to prove anything. Simply standing there as his classmate would be enough to earn automatic respect.
This was his first line of defense against humiliation—and he refused to be caught off guard. Social class was a chasm carved over generations, a suffocating gulf of money and power that couldn't be wished away. Once they stepped beyond the school gates, he couldn't pretend it didn't exist.
He had to acknowledge Gojo Satoru's status.
He had to honor the sheer weight of the Gojo name.
And in that honesty, Asou found his greatest strength:
—he wanted nothing from the prestige of "Gojo."
As a reincarnator, he could build fortune with his own hands. And as someone who had lived two lives, he understood value far beyond what money could buy.
Still, he rehearsed every contingency, tailoring his strategy to Gojo's mercurial personality.
"If Gojo insists I buy something from the same store…" Asou winced inwardly. "Please, spare me. I really don't want—and absolutely can't afford—clothes that start at hundreds of thousands of yen."
But Gojo Satoru wasn't someone you could brush off with a polite excuse.
Swiping a black card was easy. Paying back the unspoken debt it created? Far harder. And the Gojo household would notice—especially if their records showed clothing purchases in two very different sizes.
Asou's frame was small; his measurements wouldn't match Gojo's. Unless… he deliberately bought something in Geto Suguru's size—but that was its own kind of risk.
Otherwise, the truth would surface instantly: Gojo Satoru was spending leisure time with an ordinary, low-ranked sorcerer.
And Asou had no desire to invite unknown dangers.
So he prepared his script carefully:
"I'll say the style doesn't suit me. That I prefer clothes with anime motifs—something casual, youthful… and, conveniently, inexpensive."
But he knew Gojo's moods. "If he's in a good mood, riding that wave of excitement—I must not refuse him. Not even a little. I'll go along smoothly, bury any rebellious instinct deep down… and when it's time to check out, I'll just stay silent while the salesperson takes the item away."
He allowed himself a small, grateful smile.
Thank goodness for the otaku persona he'd carefully cultivated at Tokyo Jujutsu High.
In his past life, even phone scammers knew the rule: if someone's social media profile used an anime avatar, they almost certainly didn't have money.
"I can't let him swipe that black card for me."
"I won't accept his charity—not when I owe him nothing."
Asou Akiya spoke these words to his reflection in the mirror, his eyes burning with quiet fire—dangerous, intense, yet tightly reined in.
"I am free."
"My dignity has always been, and will always be, rooted in that freedom."
Geto Suguru could take pride in his strength—but Asou Akiya held his head just as high, not for power, but for the sheer miracle of his second chance at life. Reincarnation itself was his inheritance, and it demanded no bowing.
"Never look down on yourself, dear Asou Akiya," he whispered.
He touched his forehead lightly, as if bestowing a blessing upon himself—a vow to guard his inner self from being warped by the world's expectations.
Again and again, he fortified his will—not for show, not for others, but so that one day, he might truly, authentically, become strong from within.
—
On a weekend in late May, the post–Golden Week sales euphoria had long faded. Prices across Japan had snapped back to normal, crowds thinned out, and a high-end department store in Tokyo's Ginza district stood nearly empty—its polished marble floors echoing with silence, its luxury boutiques gleaming under soft lights like sleeping jewels.
Asou Akiya arrived with Gojo Satoru, who—after much negotiation—had finally agreed to come shopping for clothes.
The sales staff swarmed them with practiced warmth, especially the moment they laid eyes on the tall, lithe white-haired boy.
He wore an unfamiliar school uniform—clearly a high schooler—with round sunglasses obscuring most of his face. Only the lower half remained visible: smooth skin, a perfectly shaped jawline, and lips that looked soft, dewy, and effortlessly elegant. His posture alone—refined, unhurried, exuding the quiet authority of a noble upbringing—made him stand out like a beacon in a sea of ordinary shoppers.
Were he to ever attend a gathering of the Three Great Families and choose to exert his presence, the Six Eyes' divine heir could command the room without uttering a word.
But Asou held no illusions. Away from the Gojo estate, this white-haired boy was less aristocrat and more untamed stallion—striding through life with six kinds of swagger and zero regard for social norms. Just getting him to wake up on time and step out the door had taken Asou the equivalent of nine oxen and two tigers' worth of effort.
"Try these slippers first. Do they fit?"
To spare them the hassle of repeated outfit changes, Asou Akiya had already asked the sales associate to bring over the latest models.
The chosen pair was a crisp white spring-summer style—open-toed, semi-casual, and perfectly complemented by Gojo Satoru's pale high-cotton socks. Practical yet stylish: no risk of chilly toes, and versatile enough to pair seamlessly with almost any ensemble.
Gojo didn't say a word. He simply slipped off his school shoes and stepped into the new slippers with surprising compliance.
A staff member swiftly gathered his discarded Jujutsu High footwear onto a velvet-lined tray, handling them with the reverence usually reserved for museum artifacts. She'd noticed the quiet, attentive way the dark-haired boy spoke—gentle, considerate—and realized with mild astonishment that he was the one steering today's shopping expedition, not the dazzling white-haired heir.
"I remember your preferences," Asou said smoothly, stepping forward. With practiced ease, he unfastened Gojo's school jacket, his nimble fingers deftly releasing the golden spiral-patterned buttons one by one. Beneath it lay a pristine white shirt, and just visible at the collar—a glimpse of a black undershirt.
Gojo tilted his head, intrigued. "How'd you know I like blue?"
Asou's lips curved faintly. "Because I, too, am drawn to cerulean."
Drawn to that very shade—the color of an unburdened soul.
Behind his dark lenses, Gojo's eyes sparkled with lively curiosity; his lashes fluttered as he grinned. "You've got good taste."
Asou gently nudged him toward the fitting room to change into the trousers, then calmly requested the boutique to close its doors temporarily—clearing out lingering customers and staff alike.
Under the silent, overwhelming authority of the Gojo family's black card, the sales associate readily agreed to this "small request" from a very wealthy young patron.
One minute later…
Asou Akiya officially launched "Miracle Nikki: Jujutsu Kaisen Edition."
Gojo, brimming with energy, showed no sign of fatigue—standing like a flawless mannequin as outfit after outfit graced his frame. Thanks to his near-supernatural proportions and presence, even the most unconventional pieces somehow looked natural on him.
Good news: Gojo had become utterly addicted to the thrill of trying on clothes.
Bad news: the moment he stepped out of the fitting room, he demanded commentary—and wouldn't accept anything less than lavish praise.
"Akiya," he declared, striking a pose, "I want your opinion."
"The style suits you perfectly…" Asou said diplomatically, already running out of adjectives. "…If you like it, just buy it."
Truth be told, this playful, preening version of Gojo was undeniably endearing. Indulging such harmless whims felt less like a chore and more like second nature.
"Sales associate, would you mind sharing your professional thoughts as well?" he said smoothly, deftly shifting the burden before it could settle fully on his shoulders.
He was, after all, the most amiable of classmates—never envious of Gojo Satoru's impossible beauty or sculpted frame. In fact, he made a point of inviting female staff to admire fifteen-year-old Gojo up close, letting them marvel at the white-haired boy's ethereal grace. After all, the women at Tokyo Jujutsu High were notoriously immune to such charms; someone ought to remind the world just how dazzling he truly was.
They visited every boutique worth stepping into. For security reasons, Asou decided against shipping purchases directly to the school. Instead, he called the on-campus store, paid a premium, and arranged for trusted internal staff to personally collect and deliver the items.
As the afternoon wore on, Gojo noticed—truly noticed—how intently Asou focused on curating his wardrobe. And in that moment, a thought took root in Gojo's mind, one Asou would dread most of all: the spirit of the "outfit simulator" had now possessed Gojo too.
"Akiya, hurry over here!" Gojo called out, eyes gleaming. "You try this set on!"
"Of course," Asou replied with a practiced smile. He'd anticipated this exact scenario days ago. Calmly, he made his way to the changing area.
Inside the fitting room, he carefully folded his Jujutsu High uniform and placed it atop the discarded clothes—not to hide his modest means (the Six Eyes had seen through his every thread long ago), but simply out of habit. The owner of those eyes had never cared about his class or background.
He slipped into the luxurious garments—soft, impeccably tailored, undeniably expensive—and handled them with deliberate care, avoiding wrinkles. Not because he valued them, but because they were temporary. All of them would be shed soon enough.
"Sorry," he said once he stepped out, "I really prefer clothes with anime motifs."
"Oh…" Gojo's enthusiasm dimmed slightly.
They spent the entire day sweeping through luxury boutiques. Somehow, they even finished ahead of schedule. So Asou led Gojo to a more modest shopping complex, where quality met whimsy at accessible prices.
Gojo immediately latched onto a Digimon-print T-shirt, cradling it like treasure, while turning up his nose at exquisitely embroidered high-fashion pieces.
Asou didn't mind in the slightest. "Look over here," he said cheerfully, pointing to a rack of soft cotton tees. "All 100% cotton. It's comfortable and breathable. I'm sure you'll find a design you love. We can buy as many as you want. If they fade or tear after washing? We'll just toss them."
He eagerly selected a generous stack of affordable, cheerful outfits for Gojo, then turned to the cashier with a firm request: "Please charge full price and issue a proper receipt. No discounts. If you offer one, we won't buy anything."
But when it came to underwear, Asou drew a hard line. He gently but firmly stopped Gojo's hand as the boy reached for a mid-tier brand. "No. Stick to top-tier labels for undergarments. I'm no expert, but I know men's intimate apparel needs to meet certain standards."
Gojo, riding high on shopping euphoria, hated being told "no."
"Nuh-uh! Just hand me your card—I'll buy whatever I want!"
Asou didn't flinch. "Do you honestly think the Gojo family won't tear this store down by tomorrow if they find out you wore substandard undergarments?"
Gojo pulled out his Jujutsu High student card with a smirk, proud of his quick thinking. "I've got my own card! Using this solves everything."
Still, Asou refused. "Gojo! Those racks are crawling with bacteria. There's no way to guarantee sterility."
So dirty. The words doused Gojo's excitement like a bucket of ice water.
Just as he was about to throw a tantrum, Gojo heard Asou lean in and whisper—soft, urgent, careful not to offend the store owner:
"Please… I'm begging you. Let's go to an official collaboration store, one that has licensing rights to the designs."
Gojo Satoru might be stubborn as stone—but he melted the moment someone spoke to him with gentle sincerity. Hearing the little tangerine plead so sweetly, he relented instantly.
"But you better not lie to me," he warned, narrowing his eyes behind his sunglasses.
"Where? When have I ever lied to you?" Asou shot back, arching a brow. "You'll need evidence if you're going to accuse me."
"I just know it!" Gojo insisted stubbornly.
"Then say it," Asou challenged. "Out with it."
"Why didn't you want the clothes I picked out for you just now?" Gojo blurted—grasping at straws, but unknowingly striking right at Asou's most vulnerable point.
"You're so stingy," Gojo declared, stating what his Six Eyes had laid bare: the quiet truth beneath the surface. "You keep wearing your old clothes even when they're worn thin. You won't buy new ones. The only things you own that are actually good quality are your Jujutsu High uniform and shoes."
"I'm an orphan," Asou said simply—no shame, no defensiveness, just quiet fact. He refused to give Gojo the embarrassed reaction the boy seemed to expect.
"Didn't those old tangerines give you any allowance?" Gojo pressed, his voice sharpening as he cut straight to the heart of it. "If you're short on cash, just use my card. I don't care if you buy things for yourself."
"I do care," Asou replied. Then, with a mischievous flick of his wrist, he plucked Gojo's sunglasses off his face and slipped them on himself. "Do I look handsome? I'd love to be as stunning as you."
It was a double-edged line—playful on the surface, layered with meaning underneath.
"You could never be as handsome as me!" Gojo fired back instantly, blissfully unaware of the subtext. His mind was clear as a cloudless sky, sweeping through the world without a trace of doubt or shadow.
"Whoa—it's so dark," Asou muttered, stumbling slightly. The lenses were so heavily tinted he was practically blind.
He tried to step aside to avoid bumping into Gojo—but today, riding high on the joy of their shopping spree, Gojo moved closer, stopping right in front of him. He said nothing. Just stared.
Those impossibly clear blue eyes—now unshielded—glinted with a cool, analytical light, like a scientist examining an anomaly they couldn't quite decipher.
Even though Asou couldn't see a thing, he felt it: the Six Eyes piercing through the absolute darkness, dissecting every micro-expression on his face as if reading a manuscript written in flesh.
"So you want to wear my sunglasses?" Gojo's voice dropped, low and probing. "But do you even have what it takes to see the world clearly?"
"Why wouldn't I?" Asou countered.
"Guess this," Gojo said, his tone shifting like quicksilver. "Am I laughing because you've turned yourself into a blind fool? Or am I just waiting for you to trip and fall?"
Asou fell silent.
Drawing on everything he knew of Gojo, his instincts told him the other boy was smiling as he said it—that familiar, teasing lilt threading through his voice.
But then—no.
A memory flashed like lightning:
["If there's nothing fun happening, I can't laugh. And I don't want to."]
For someone who'd never truly seen him—who'd never placed him in the center of his world—would Asou blundering around blind even be funny?
A noble heir of the Three Great Families might sneer at a commoner classmate.
But Gojo Satoru wouldn't.
In this golden, glittering stretch of youth—bright as polished gold—it was Gojo who brought laughter to everyone around him.
"I'm guessing…"
Asou Akiya reached out through the darkness, searching for the gaze of the Six Eyes.
He could rehearse Gojo's reactions, anticipate his moods—but not everything could be deduced through calculation. Sometimes, he had to silence his overthinking mind and learn to trust his heart instead. To trust the sincerity Gojo had shown in the "Jade Within" arc—the unblemished core beneath the arrogance.
That flawless jade had never shattered.
It was Geto Suguru who broke in the "Jade Shattered" chapter—
and it was Gojo whom Geto had pushed, bleeding and unwilling, toward the abyss.
Geto, in his agony, would rather drown in darkness himself than let a single stain touch Gojo's purity.
"You're not laughing at me," Asou said softly, "and you'd never just stand by and watch me fall."
Gojo's expression froze.
"You're—"
Asou wasn't afraid of the future, even if it yawned before him like a bottomless chasm. With a quiet smile, he let himself tumble toward the unseen.
"—figuring out exactly when to reach out and catch me."
[Grab my hand!]
[Don't you dare hesitate, Gojo Satoru!]
In his mind, he was no longer in a Ginza boutique. He was in Shibuya—standing before the phantom of the 28-year-old Gojo Satoru, breath ragged, white hair matted with sweat, eyes wide with defiance as the Special Grade cursed tool Prison Realm sealed him away. Asou stretched out his hand, desperate to seize him before it was too late.
He would trade the future for the present.
[If you hesitate, I'll walk away. But if you don't—if you reach for me without a second's doubt—I'll fight my way through hell to meet you… to meet the 28-year-old you.]
As Asou fell, his wrist dropped limply—no hand met it.
But then—a firm grip seized his shoulder.
Gojo's voice came close, warm and exasperated: "You're such an idiot, little tangerine. Just take off the sunglasses if you can't see!"
But that was the point. Asou hadn't wanted to see the face of cold and indifferent 15-year-old Gojo Satoru.
"Because you weren't smiling at me," he murmured.
That moment held no joy, no humor. So neither of them should pretend otherwise with clumsy tests.
[Gojo… I guessed right! So who's the real fool here?]
Asou handed back the sunglasses. Gojo took them, studied his face—and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, smirked.
"I said I don't sell smiles," he declared. "So how are you gonna repay me for catching you?"
Asou Akiya smiled. "Next time, I'll let you ride on the back of my bike."
Gojo wasn't satisfied. He pressed closer. "Not enough. I don't want something that's already been used by someone else. It has to be unique. Think of something better."
Asou curled his index finger and flicked it gently against the forehead of the white-haired boy—still wearing those borrowed sunglasses.
"Then… this holiday," he said softly, "I'll stay at school with you. Just wait for you."
After all…
he hadn't planned on leaving the sanctuary of Jujutsu High anyway.
That promise earned him Gojo Satoru's full, radiant smile—bright enough to melt winter frost.
This spring, Asou had strictly controlled Gojo's sugar intake…
yet somehow, the sweetness between them kept rising.
So much so that—
if he were to take even a single bite, he was certain his teeth would ache from the sheer, dizzying sweetness of it.