Kamo Itsuki remained blissfully unaware that his "favor" had sent seismic waves far beyond the clan's walls. The initial mass mobilization had been a beacon; the subsequent, undeniable surge in the clan members' power was a declaration. Envy curdled into a quiet, desperate anxiety across the other great families. Most could only redouble their own training, swallowing their frustration.
But in the Gojo Clan, the reaction was more pointed, tinged with a peculiar insecurity.
An elder, clinging to the fading memory of having once held the infant Gojo Satoru, dared to ask, "Satoru… do you possess a technique, like Kamo Itsuki's, that can elevate the entire clan?"
Gojo Satoru's face twisted into a mask of theatrical annoyance. "I awakened the *Limitless*, not a bloodline buffet! My apologies for the disappointment!" His voice dripped with sarcasm.
The elder's crestfallen expression was the final straw. In a flash of irritation, Gojo teleported away, leaving the opulent halls of his clan behind. He floated high above the clouds, the world reduced to a diorama beneath his feet.
"Satisfied…" he muttered, the word tasting strange. "Since when did having the Six Eyes and Limitless become merely 'satisfactory'? Since when did I start measuring myself against a different yardstick?"
The realization was a cold splash. He, Gojo Satoru, had unconsciously absorbed the narrative that Kamo Itsuki's feat was the new gold standard. That his own unparalleled inheritance was somehow… insufficient.
A fierce, prideful heat flared in his chest. "What's remarkable isn't Blood Manipulation," he declared to the empty sky. "It's *Kamo Itsuki*. He's the anomaly. Not the technique." A smug, defensive smile touched his lips. The logic soothed his ruffled ego.
But the solace was fleeting. The howling wind seemed to mock him. He stopped dead in the air, the self-satisfaction curdling into something darker, more visceral.
Something's wrong with me.
I am Gojo Satoru.
A torrent of repressed frustration—the weight of being the strongest, the boredom of a world without peers, the gnawing need for a true challenge—erupted within him. It wasn't about the clan's expectations anymore. It was a personal, burning *need*. A need to shatter limits, to feel the strain of a real fight, to prove his supremacy not to them, but to himself.
And there was only one person in the world who could possibly offer that.
"Itsuki," he whispered, the name a target. "This time, you will fight me."
He vanished from the sky, reappearing moments later outside Kamo Itsuki's home. It was, predictably, empty. Itsuki, besieged by seekers, had long since retreated to his impenetrable research base.
Undeterred, Gojo pulled out his phone, his thumb jabbing the speed dial.
The line connected. "Hello, Itsuki. Where are you?"
There was a pause, the faint sound of glassware clinking. "I'm at… a place. Why?" Itsuki's voice was guarded, deliberately vague.
"Fight me," Gojo demanded, his voice stripped of its usual playful edge, raw with intent. "I need to fight. Now."
On the other end, in the sterile quiet of his lab, Kamo Itsuki frowned. The sudden call had broken his concentration. A delicate petri dish, held in a precarious balance of cursed energy, wobbled and then—**BANG**—exploded in a small shower of glass and viscous fluid.
He looked at the mess, then back at the phone, a long-suffering sigh trapped in his throat. Gojo's timing, as always, was impeccably terrible.
The explosion in his lab and the frustration of a ruined experiment made Kamo Itsuki's response short and decidedly uncharitable. "If you're pent up, find a toilet!" he snapped, ending the call before Gojo could even clarify.
The dial tone in his ear felt like a personal insult. "He hung up on me!" Gojo snarled, his pristine phone crumpling into a sad lump of plastic and circuitry in his fist. "Doesn't matter. I'm not giving up."
In a flash of displaced air, he was gone, reappearing at the serene, newly constructed headquarters of the Bansei Cult. Sunlight bathed the clean lines of the building, a stark contrast to the turmoil in Gojo's chest.
Inside, Geto Suguru was in his element—a compassionate bishop offering solace and practical aid. He was mid-exorcism for a trembling believer, his movements gentle and precise. Gojo, for all his impatience, recognized the sanctity of the moment and forced himself to wait outside.
But the line of petitioners seemed endless. One after another, each with their own small hauntings and great fears. The sun climbed higher. The gentle breeze did nothing to cool the simmering frustration bubbling inside Gojo Satoru.
His limit, already hair-trigger, was reached. He stomped to the back of the growing line and shouldered his way in front of a middle-aged man in sunglasses.
"Hey! The line's back there, pal!" the man barked, indignant.
Gojo slowly turned his head. Even through the blindfold, the intensity of his glare was a physical pressure.
The man swallowed, his bravado evaporating. "Oh… uh, my mistake. Sorry. Eyesight's… not great. Please, go ahead."
The condescending pity in the man's corrected tone was the final spark. Gojo's knuckles turned white, his cursed energy flickering dangerously for a nanosecond before he wrestled it under control. Causing a scene here would guarantee Geto's refusal to help. He needed a guide, not another enemy.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, turned back around, and fumed in silence, a supernova of impatience contained within a human form, waiting for his turn in a line for spiritual counseling. The strongest sorcerer in the world was trapped in the most mundane of hells: a queue.
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