Out of sheer sentiment, Takasaki Tatsuhiko, working as a bartender here, had received many elderly patrons over the years.
Guests this young, however, were an unprecedented first.
The moment he overheard their conversation, Takasaki Tatsuhiko realized that his uncle's consent had been far too hasty. The people who had booked out the bar this time were not youths aged eighteen to under twenty, but first-year high school students celebrating a female classmate's sixteenth birthday.
He quietly committed to memory the black-haired boy's remarks about the bar.
A centennial establishment twenty years from now, a place to drink and chat for a lifetime—those words sounded as though they came from an old soak.
And yet, he liked customers who spoke like that.
After all, who didn't enjoy a bit of sweet talk?
Takasaki Tatsuhiko could tell at a glance that among the four of them, the girl had the strongest tolerance for alcohol. The way she drank completely overshadowed the others; the boys felt more like accompanying props at the table. The different drinks they chose, too, subtly reflected the inner worlds of each person.
"Pineapple beer, with ice." That was the order placed by the suit-clad boy with a lock of bangs falling across his forehead.
He had a solid, athletic build, a pair of long, narrow fox-like eyes, pupils on the small side, tinted a deep, shadowed violet. When he hunched slightly as he sat on the barstool, the buttons of his white shirt dotted with black specks strained against his chest, giving off an air of premature maturity.
At first, Takasaki Tatsuhiko had assumed he was a sports enthusiast, or perhaps even a professional athlete. But as time passed, he realized the boy never wore an open, sunny smile. Compared to someone who chased victory beneath blue skies and white clouds, he seemed more like a figure standing silently beneath the eaves, in the shade.
Takasaki Tatsuhiko's assessment: average alcohol tolerance. He could drink, but had no intention of getting drunk—he was going for the all-nighter, steady-and-sustained survival route.
"Dazai Osamu once said that sake is a comedy, while whisky is a tragedy." That was spoken by the sharp-eyed boy in a black suit and white shirt. He opened his mouth already quoting a writer, carrying with him a distinctly literary air that Takasaki Tatsuhiko found appealing.
Beneath the bar's languid jazz music, the black-haired, black-eyed boy did not betray the unique impression he had left at first glance.
"He was addicted to whisky, often drinking himself into a stupor, destroying what remained of his sound mind."
"I want a comedy, not a tragedy."
"But then again, I find comedies hard to drink, and tragedies far too strong."
"So I'll choose the drink that Sakaguchi Ango favored—Golden Fizz."
"It contains gin, one of the milder hard liquors, while still preserving the classic charm of traditional cocktails. Most importantly, the lemon juice is refreshing and clears the head. Oh, and no ice—I'm health-conscious. Starting in November, I don't drink iced beverages."
Under the dim lighting, the smile on the black-haired boy's face was elusive, difficult to pin down.
Takasaki Tatsuhiko: "..."
He'd been talking all this time, thinking the boy was a fan of Dazai Osamu—only to discover he'd actually switched allegiance to Sakaguchi Ango?
Takasaki Tatsuhiko's assessment: alcohol tolerance—unknown. He could drink, and he knew how to drink, but wasn't it a bit early in life to already be talking about health regimens?
After the three of them finished ordering, only the white-haired boy who insisted on wearing sunglasses indoors remained.
Takasaki Tatsuhiko had already handed him the drinks menu some time ago, deliberately choosing the bilingual version, worried that the boy might have foreign blood and not fully understand Japanese.
"So, what should I order?" the white-haired boy pondered aloud. Under the lights, a beautiful face only grew more striking, his skin seeming to glow faintly.
"So annoying—let's just get everything on this page!" He slapped the table.
Takasaki Tatsuhiko froze in shock, too late to stop him, as the white-haired boy's classmates immediately began to complain.
"Gojo, do you think you're ordering desserts?"
"I wouldn't mind him splurging—being generous is Gojo's greatest virtue—but if you put an entire table of drinks out, they'll go past their best and taste awful."
"No, calm down. I don't want to carry you home."
In the end, the black-haired boy's second intervention was the most decisive. "Someone who's never had alcohol before should start with milk beer or fruit wine. Pick one—do you want something fragrant and silky-smooth, or something sweet-and-tart?"
The white-haired boy answered without a moment's hesitation. "One of each. I want them all."
He then turned to the person beside him and complained, "This is fine, right, Akiya? You promised you'd teach me how to drink."
This time, no one stopped him. Everyone was more than happy to watch a classmate be led astray into drinking.
Takasaki Tatsuhiko let out a quiet sigh.
Takasaki Tatsuhiko's judgment: can't drink, has never drunk before, comes from a wealthy family—an absolute beginner coaxed here by his classmates just to have fun.
Out of consideration for a novice, Takasaki Tatsuhiko deliberately slowed down his mixing. He made sure the tallest one—the white-haired boy with the strictest family upbringing—had plenty of time to lean over and sniff the aroma of his classmates' drinks.
Gojo Satoru, with ill intentions, picked up a straw and tried to stick it into someone else's glass.
Ieiri Shoko guarded her drink, dodging nimbly.
Geto Suguru simply stuck out his tongue and licked the large ice cube floating in his beer, successfully grossing Gojo Satoru out and driving him away.
Gojo Satoru's straw descended toward Asou Akiya's glass—
A flicker of hesitation and mischief crossed Asou Akiya's eyes. He weighed whether to let the game run a little longer or cut it short. Recalling that the original canon ranked Gojo Satoru's alcohol tolerance dead last, he warned him, "There's thirty milliliters of hard liquor in my drink. It's not suitable for you. I suggest you behave yourself and stick to beginner drinks—maybe then you'll last a bit longer."
Gojo Satoru ignored him completely, his mind filled with a single thought: he wanted to taste it.
Just one small sip!
The room-temperature liquor carried a sharp edge, threaded with a faint, biting sourness.
Asou Akiya turned to the bartender, who was watching the spectacle unfold, and smiled. "Could you please bring the prepared drinks for Geto and me first?"
Takasaki Tatsuhiko: "?"
Asou Akiya pointed at the white-haired male classmate. "He's already done for."
The moment those words fell, the students who were drinking froze mid-motion, staring in dumbfounded silence at the person who had collapsed onto the table with a dull thump.
Geto Suguru, who had no idea about Gojo Satoru's alcohol tolerance, shot to his feet in shock. Rough yet careful at the same time, he grabbed a handful of Gojo Satoru's hair and lifted his head, while his other hand swiftly snatched away Asou Akiya's glass, worried that there might be something wrong with the drink itself.
Geto Suguru shouted, "Stop drinking, all of you!"
Gojo Satoru's cheeks flared crimson, as if set ablaze.
Cold sweat beaded across his forehead.
Those exquisitely beautiful pale cerulean eyes grew unfocused and dazed, utterly stripped of their usual lofty, all-seeing pressure.
In the nighttime bar, jazz music swayed and seeped into people's hearts. After confirming that there was nothing wrong with the drinks, the other three classmates resumed drinking. Completely ignored, the white-haired boy lay limply sprawled across the table, his hands and feet weak, mumbling incoherently, "Where's… my drink…"
Ieiri Shoko clicked her tongue in disdain. "You're really useless, Gojo."
Asou Akiya finally couldn't hold it in anymore. Holding his glass, he laughed as he drank, letting out several hiccupping belches in succession.
Geto Suguru bumped his elbow lightly against Asou Akiya's shoulder. "Was this within your expectations too?"
Asou Akiya laughed until tears welled up. He wiped the corner of his eye and said, "I only guessed that his alcohol tolerance would be terrible, and I even mentally prepared myself for him to go on a drunken rampage. I never imagined it could be this bad."
So what about the all-powerful "Six Eyes" divine prodigy of the Gojo family?
When it comes to drinking—he's a complete dead weight!
Geto Suguru pulled out his phone and searched: "With his physical condition, how could he get drunk from a single sip? What's the principle behind this?"
Asou Akiya leaned over to look at the search results on the screen: [What kind of people get drunk easily?]
A flood of results popped up, all related to liver function and kidney function disorders.
Asou Akiya spoke softly, "My guess is that it has something to do with the 'Six Eyes.'"
Geto Suguru stopped scrolling.
On the one hand, he was curious about how sensitive the Six Eyes might be to alcohol; on the other, he knew that some matters were better discussed after they went back.
"Given your personality, why didn't you stop him?" Geto Suguru asked Asou Akiya.
"Because it's fun," Asou Akiya replied jokingly. "He was going to drink sooner or later anyway. Better that he does it in front of us, rather than one day getting picked up by who-knows-who out there."
"Really?" Geto Suguru pressed, sharp as ever. "Or is it that you just can't refuse him when he acts spoiled?"
"Hmph, you underestimate me," Asou Akiya snorted.
He poured the drink Gojo Satoru had tasted into the bar sink, then accepted a glass of milk beer from the bartender. Tilting his head back, he drank the sweet-leaning liquor in one go. His jawline was sharp and clean, his side-seated silhouette strikingly beautiful—youthful, like a willow branch by a lakeside at night, tender to the eye yet edged with a sharpness you could only feel upon touching it.
With a single sentence, Asou Akiya laid bare a young man's utter lack of restraint.
"Anything that can be obtained too easily will never be cherished. What can't be obtained is always the best—human nature works that way, and Gojo is no exception. So tell me, when do you think I'll deal that overconfident guy a head-on blow?"
Asou Akiya smiled, sly and calculating.
The role of the Gojo family's companion student was a time bomb—
and also the sharpest weapon to use against Gojo Satoru's state of mind!
The situation at Tokyo Jujutsu High was gradually tilting in his favor. Even if his identity were exposed by the Gojo family, he would still have Yaga Masamichi's protection. He dared to act, dared to take responsibility, relying entirely on his own wits—there was nothing he would be afraid to admit.
As long as he was strong enough, independent enough, and capable enough to bear the weight of being Gojo Satoru's classmate—
This world bullies the weak, yet acknowledges the strong.
At the same time, Asou Akiya gently laid his hand over Gojo Satoru's forehead, and beneath his palm there was a damp, clammy warmth.
"Be good, close your eyes. Good children aren't allowed to eavesdrop."
Under the assault of alcohol, the "Six Eyes" were overwhelmed, and Gojo Satoru's mind sank into vertigo.
A brain that had long been forced to process vast torrents of information, once pushed beyond control, left Gojo Satoru as though he had been struck by a blow of "Unlimited Void" itself—sluggish, vacant, his body moving only by instinct. He could hear everything, see everything, yet was incapable of doing anything at all.
Gojo Satoru's mind entered a self-preservation state, forcibly suppressing the chaos of his thoughts.
[What is Akiya saying…]
[Overconfident? Me… haven't I always been confident…]
[So annoying… take your hand away… why are you blocking me… I want to see…]
[Why is Suguru laughing… Shoko's talking too… hurry… treat me already…]
[Ugh… alcohol… it tastes awful…]
Ieiri Shoko slyly stretched out her right hand. The glow of reversed cursed technique flared—visible only to the two jujutsu sorcerer students who were still sober. "Want me to take over? He's already out this fast—doesn't that feel like a waste? Let him drink a few more times."
Asou Akiya and Geto Suguru looked at the white-haired boy slumped limply over the bar.
Today, the birthday celebrant's word carried the most authority.
"Please~."
With the consent of the other two, Ieiri Shoko pressed her palm against Gojo Satoru's head.
Heal—dispel the alcohol!
The flush across Gojo Satoru's face faded away, and he suddenly jolted upright as if a dying patient had startled back to life.
"What the hell happened to me?"
His mind snapped back into clarity all at once. Gojo Satoru frowned as he questioned his classmates—there was a clean break in his memory.
Asou Akiya quietly hid the now-empty milk beer, passing it behind his back to Geto Suguru to dispose of the glass. On the surface, he remained gentle and composed as he handed over the fruit cocktail prepared by the bartender. "It's nothing. Your drink is here."
Gojo Satoru stood there blankly, accepting the fruit wine. Its color was dazzling, like a glass of exceptionally delicious juice.
He had always practiced absolute trust in his classmates, so right in front of everyone, he took another drink without hesitation.
"Ugh—this is awful!"
He downed it in one go. His tongue went numb, and he fanned his mouth with his hand, exhaling again and again.
The entire world began spinning wildly before his eyes once more.
His head swam, his body tipping outward, but this time—perhaps thanks to a bit of "immunity"—he at least had the presence of mind to grab onto the arm of the person beside him, preventing himself from collapsing embarrassingly onto the floor.
"Shoko, you're up," Geto Suguru said, lifting his arm. "We can't let Gojo bail out halfway."
"Even though I feel a little bad about it," Asou Akiya said as he steadied Gojo Satoru, "dear classmate Gojo, being bad at drinking is entirely your own fault, and tonight's birthday party is still a long way from over."
That night, Gojo Satoru entered a never-ending loop of fake resurrections—faceplanting, then springing back to life, over and over again.
The angel in white had transformed into a devil in white.
Just how wildly did Ieiri Shoko laugh on her birthday?
It was an unprecedented level of delight—so much so that even Geto Suguru, one of the infamous "problematic DKs," felt his scalp prickle in alarm.
By the latter half of the night, Geto Suguru finally couldn't hold out anymore. He pretended to be drunk and hastily slumped forward, only for Asou Akiya to expose his act twice before finally letting the pitiful Geto Suguru off the hook. After that, Asou Akiya ordered two cups of hot milk for himself and Shoko, sipping them slowly to ease the discomfort in their stomachs.
When Ieiri Shoko had finally had her fill of chaos and finished off the troublesome DK, she asked him, "You took hangover medicine tonight, didn't you?"
Asou Akiya laughed softly. "You know me best, Shoko."
Ieiri Shoko's gaze was hazy—not drunk, merely savoring the exquisite sensation of being pleasantly tipsy.
"Only when you're by my side do I feel as though the whole world is in my hands, as though I have the power to do what others cannot."
"Shoko has always been incredible—far more incredible than me. I could never save that many people."
"You're being far too modest, Asou."
"I'm not being modest at all. At my core, I'm arrogant," Asou Akiya said lightly. "That's why I like you, Shoko. I have a weakness for talented people."
"Talent… what a damned way to put it."
Ieiri Shoko reproached Asou Akiya. His cheeks flushed, his eyes hollow, and he accepted the criticism without protest.
Mimicking the others, Asou Akiya slumped against the bar, tapped his glass gently, and murmured, "Shoko, let's take a photo together."
Ieiri Shoko asked, "Who's sitting in the middle?"
Asou Akiya immediately perked up, straightening his back. "I've heard that whoever sits in the middle is bound to run into something bad!"
Ieiri Shoko glanced at their arrangement. She herself was on the far left, then to her right sat Asou, then Gojo, then Geto—and Gojo, by all accounts, seemed to have the toughest luck of them all. Unable to help herself, she asked, "…Are you actually looking forward to something bad happening?"
Asou Akiya replied, "I think I made myself pretty clear."
He went on in a casual tone, almost offhandedly, "I hate pure tragedy, but I also don't like stories that are nothing but comedy. What I love is the grand, turbulent process of living—and an ending with just a little surprise, a little unpredictability."
And so, the scene for the photograph became unexpectedly interesting.
The bartender stepped out from behind the counter to take the picture for the four of them, yet the seat in the very center was left conspicuously empty.
No one sat in the middle.
Asou Akiya placed all four of their phones on the central seat instead.
If they lived, they lived together; if they died, they died together—no one's contact information left behind, no one excluded.
Each of them was treated once by Ieiri Shoko, restored to clarity, and then struck what they believed to be their best poses, facing the camera for the group photo.
The four of them raised their glasses and said in unison, "To Tokyo Jujutsu High—cheers."
With a sharp click, the moment was frozen in time.