improve grammar (make Gojo more accurate in rezer verse - he has memory loss from Gluttony) "Blood, blood, blood—smells like an invitation to me."
Gojo sang to himself as he hopped down a flight of stone steps, hands folded behind his back like a tourist on a leisurely stroll.
The street noise of the city was nothing more than a distant memory; he'd followed whatever tugged at the edges of his curiosity into a lower, colder place—corridors of worn stone and iron doors, the kind of undercroft that keeps secrets for generations. His footsteps echoed. His humming drifted off into the hollow spaces.
Why shouldn't he enjoy a little detour? He was untouchable, after all. The strongest. A little scavenger hunt through this ruined city's guts sounded entertaining. He'd breeze through, poke at what he found, and figure out later how to explain it to Suguru. That ought to be an amusing conversation.
A heavy metal door, rust eaten around the hinges, blocked his way.
He pressed a casual hand to it; cursed energy pooled and flowed like water in his palm.
Then, the steel bucked and caved inwards, before it tore free at the hatches with a single shove. He stepped over the fallen slab as if it were a loose doormat.
The room beyond was less a chamber and more a tomb carved from basalt: low ceiling, damp smell, the faint copper of recently drawn blood.
The reason for that stench being right before his eyes, bodies lay scattered, hunched in unnatural ways—stabs, slashes, puddles dark and still. Gojo's grin did fade at the sight, but he did also tilt his head.
"Ah. So that's what I was smelling...."
His attention was immediately elsewhere, figures in black robes hunched in the shadows—faces covered, daggers glinting like teeth. Coward's work, the kind that feasted on the quiet and the weak.
Embarrassing, really.
Gojo's raised hand cracked forward in a move that was almost lazy. Blue light braided around his fingers; before the robed figures had time to realize a threat had appeared, an invisible force yanked one forward and pinched his windpipe like a vise. The man's eyes bulged; his throat crushed. Gojo didn't bother watching him die. With clinical indifference he hurled the corpse to the stone, fist slamming the head into the floor. A crater spidered out where the face hit.
Daggers flew—a dozen blades arcing toward him. Where anyone else would have dodged, Gojo allowed them to hang in the empty space like ornaments. They hovered, impotent. He strolled through them, unconcerned.
"I dunno what's going on down here...." he said, voice soft, almost conversational.
"And it's not my business—"
He stopped walking. The daggers that should have cut right through him recoiled as if a hand had pushed them aside. They hung motionless in midair.
"—Still, imma get involved. Just 'cause, who's gonna stop me?"
"Not any of you, that's for sure.... not anyone for that matter actually, because we~"
Each step he took made the suspended blades shudder and fall back.
"—Are the strongest~ you get what I'm saying?"
The next step he took, his body blurred—the motion so sudden the robed killers didn't even have the luxury of panic before a thunderclap of impact split the stillness. Gojo's fist drove into a cultist's midsection, ribs collapsing like torn paper from the impact.
The man flew, a ragdoll arcing into a wall and staying there without any response.
Three attackers converged as soon as they could. A decent enough response, though a pathetic execution. Gojo's hands folded behind his back again and he arched down, as if stretching to casually duck the dagger that swung for his throat.
"Your shoe's untied~"
A gesture, a flicker of his fingers, and the world obeyed. The nearest cultist's foot snapped free from the floor; a scream of cracked bone answered. He slammed into the next man, and the motion carried—a sweep, a twist, a sudden roundhouse kick from nowhere that sent two bodies colliding like puppets with their strings cut.
They slid, left a smear of red, and did not rise.
Then, there was cursed energy, barely perceptible, but it was approaching.
In fact, it was completely average, even by Japan's standards, but it was there nonetheless—not a mountain of raw force like Subaru, but honest, human-flavored negativity.
Gojo paused, palm open. The blade he had frozen with the slightest pressure trembled before his fingertips, held in place by the infinite space between skin and steel. He let it drop, clattering uselessly to the stone, and sighed.
"It's a meager amount...."
He kicked a cultist's corpse over with the toe of his shoe.
"Probably no more cursed energy than the average salaryman in Japan. But—"
He placed a hand against his chin in thought, before snapping his fingers.
"That can only mean one thing!"
He looked up. Beyond the smashed arches and hanging corpses, beyond the echo and the drip of water from somewhere deeper, there was that little itch again—the sense of an unfamiliar, yet strangely nostalgic presence. Not Suguru. Not anyone he could name at the moment, which made the hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth grow wilder.
The sound of metal striking metal echoed through the chamber—sharp, rhythmic, deliberate.
Each step rang like a countdown as a lone silhouette emerged from the shadows.
A figure—fairly built, the glint of his helm dulled by grime and blood. His left arm was gone, the stump heavily bandaged. He wore a cloak that looked like it had seen better decades, let alone days.
He stopped. One boot rested on the steel door Gojo had torn from its hinges.
"Eh…" The voice that came from behind the iron mask was low, tired, and laced with disbelief. "Why're you of all people here?"
Gojo blinked, one brow quirking above his shades. Then, with an easy smile, he leaned forward, hands tucked back into his pockets.
"Just on vacation, y'know, old man~"
The lean wasn't just casual bravado—it was deliberate. The Six Eyes snapped into focus, dissecting every inch of the man before him. Information flooded his brain: muscle density, heart rate, mana flow. Layer after layer peeled away under that perfect perception until—
What the hell…?
There was something inside him.
It wasn't Cursed Energy. It wasn't the atmospheric mana of this world. It was a swirling darkness, coiling like smoke around a point deep within the man's center. A void. A distortion in the fabric of reality that his eyes couldn't decode.
Impossible.
These eyes didn't miss things. They couldn't.
Gojo's grin faltered for the first time, genuine shock flickering across his features.
"…Haaah, I've really got no time for jokes like this, dude...." The helmeted man sighed, his voice edged with a heavy, practiced annoyance. "If you're not here to help, you should just go back to Subaru and the others—"
Gojo tilted his head, the playful tone evaporating. His voice turned sharp.
"I dunno who you're talking about, but I've got questions for you."
In the blink of an eye, he stepped forward.
His right arm tightened, Cursed Energy coiling like a blue flame along his forearm. He didn't use a technique—he didn't need to. He just threw a fist, fast enough to compress the air into a solid wall of force that rocketed forward to take the stranger's head off.
It struck true—
—or it should have.
But the man moved before the fist could fully swing.
It wasn't clean technique. It wasn't honed reflexes. It was something raw, ugly, and perfectly timed. His legs bent, spine twisting as he lurched aside, the punch grazing past his helmet and obliterating the stone pillar behind him instead.
"Hrk—what the hell was that for?!"
The man barked, skidding back, cloak snapping behind him.
Gojo exhaled through his nose, calm again—but the faintest trace of mania lingered in his expression.
"Sharp one, aren't ya~…"
He straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve, then gestured lazily toward the man's chest—right where that strange void pulsed.
"I held back since you're from Japan, just like me…" Gojo said evenly. "But tell me—what is that?"
His index finger tapped his own sternum with quiet emphasis.
"That.... thing inside you."
A pause. His tone dropped, colder.
"And why… can't I see it?"
The armored man froze. The air in the dungeon seemed to stagnate.
"…What the hell are you talking about, Gojo?"
His hand slipped behind him, fingers finding the hilt of the curved blade at his back. The scimitar sang softly as he drew it halfway—a gesture of instinct, battle-forged paranoia.
Gojo's smirk returned—smaller this time, sharper.
"And how.... do you know my name?"
"—What are you…"
The man's voice faltered mid-sentence. He stared at the sorcerer, the dark eyes visible to Gojo through the helmet slit widening. Then, slowly, his posture shifted—less guarded now, more… resigned. Like a puzzle piece had just clicked into place.
"Oh… oh, wow." His tone carried something between disbelief and pity. "So that's what happened, huh? You're really one unlucky dude, I guess. Or maybe…" He tilted his head slightly, the faint echo of a chuckle rattling beneath the helmet.
"Maybe you're actually lucky. 'Cause by all means, getting eaten by Gluttony? You shouldn't even be awake right now. You should be a vegetable. A shell."
Gojo blinked once, tilting his head with lazy curiosity.
"...You're not really making any sense to me, and that takes some skill, man. But whatever—"
The grin returned. That same sharp, manic grin from earlier. The one that didn't belong to a student, or even a sorcerer—just a pure-born predator itching for a challenge.
Such is life as the strongest.
"Dodging my punch... even at your level, that isn't something just anyone can do...."
He said, tone rising with a playful, dangerous rhythm. The wild grin on his face twitched as he raised a balled fist again.
"And with your pathetic amount of energy, it's obviously not because of that. So how about you show me what's up, huh~?"
Aldebaran froze. He looked at the fist, then at the destruction behind Gojo.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold it! Time out!"
His hand shot up in mock surrender, the scimitar clattering back into its sheath.
"I surrender, alright? I give up! Not tryna spend a few thousand more tries being used as a test dummy for a monster like you. Repetition's the first sign of insanity, and I'm not insane!"
Gojo stopped mid-step, lips curling into an exaggerated frown.
"…Shame. I was actually looking forward to that."
The air lightened—barely. The tension still hummed like static between them.
"Anyway then.." Gojo continued, straightening his posture. "What's your name, old dude?"
The man tilted his helmet slightly, his voice dry.
"Feels weird being called an 'old dude' by you. Guess it's easy to forget that underneath all that power, you're still just a brat, huh."
A small vein pulsed on Gojo's forehead.
"Rude—"
"—Aldebaran." The man cut him off quickly, as if to spare himself a lecture. "Name's Aldebaran. Al works too. Errr… nice to… meet you. Again?"
Gojo raised a brow.
"Yeah sure, 'again' huh? I've got a damn good memory, old man. I'd remember meeting a one-armed cosplayer like you."
He gave a lazy shrug.
"Moving on, what're you doing here? And while we're at it, what's up with this place? I wake up in a wrecked city and no one's handing out a map. Even I can't help but feel a little bit lost."
Aldebaran exhaled, the sound echoing hollowly inside the helmet. He scratched the side of his neck through the fabric of his cloak.
"Haaah… you're a lot more annoying than before, dude… is this character regression?"
Gojo grinned, unbothered by Aldebaran's weird choice of words.
"I dunno what you're talking about, but I do try my best to please~!"
"...Right.." Al muttered, before letting out a sigh and speaking once more.
"This..." He waved vaguely at the stone walls around them. "Is the Watergate City—Priestella. And yeah, it's under attack, if that wasn't obvious enough. Witch Cult's the culprit. Real nasty lot, if the name didn't give it away."
He adjusted the cloak around his shoulder, his tone turning a bit more serious.
"That's all you need to know for now. Oh—and if you ever run into a guy named Subaru? Don't start swinging just 'cause it seems fun. He probably wouldn't appreciate it...."
Gojo tilted his head again, his grin lazy and lopsided.
"You make no sense, old man. But whatever. Another guy from Japan I suppose, then? 'Subaru' huh…"
He paused, finger tapping his chin.
"Typically, in tropes like this, I thought I'd be the one sent to another world solo. But this is fun too. Maybe I should find some of these 'cultists' attacking the city.... maybe some of them could dance with me for a while."
Gojo was curious, after all.
Back in Japan, the only person he could truly compare himself to was Suguru. He hadn't met that other Special-Grade sorcerer yet, so her strength existed only as rumor and speculation.
"I wonder if Suguru got sent to this place too? That would be fun. Might stay a bit longer if that's the case."
Aldebaran seemed confused by the name, and was about to retort, but stopped himself, opting to remain quiet.
But here, in this strange world, that question clawed at Gojo's mind—
Could the peak of warriors here match Earth's sorcerers?
Or maybe… even surpass them?
It was an exciting thought. A dangerous one too, but one that only kindled Satoru's growing excitement.
He wasn't exactly thrilled about being dropped into a drowned, half-destroyed city though—a blood-soaked ruin wasn't anyone's ideal vacation spot. And with the Six Eyes amplifying every trace of death and decay around him, the sight was pretty off-putting.
Still… if this world could give him a decent fight, maybe he'd forgive it for the mess.
Then after that, he'd find a way to leave. He had no intention of staying, no matter how fun it might all be.
His fingers interlocked, threads of azure flickering between them, pulsing in quiet anticipation. He glanced over his shoulder one last time at Aldebaran, who still stood silently by the shattered door.
"Maybe I'll see ya around, old dude. Try not to look too suspicious while I'm gone, yeah~?"
Aldebaran scratched the side of his helmet.
"…It's that obvious, huh?"
Gojo's grin widened beneath the shades.
"Well, I've got pretty good eyes. Can literally see with them closed, so maybe I'm not the best guy to ask for that one."
He paused, shoulders rising in a lazy shrug.
"Anyway, Ciao~"
In the next instant, space rippled around him—a flare of blue light twisting reality itself—and Gojo was gone, leaving only the faint hum of warped air in his wake.
———————————————
"Ah, ah ah... is this thing on...?"
The crackling voice cut through the static of the broken city—trembling at first, then rising, carried by the battered remnants of Priestella's broadcast system. The sound echoed through the hollow streets, bouncing off shattered glass and half-submerged ruins until even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
Gojo didn't.
At least, he pretended not to.
He stood on the edge of a crumbling balcony, coat rippling in the dying sunlight. The horizon bled orange into the flooded streets below, the surface of the water glinting like molten gold. A gust of wind blew through his white hair, brushing strands across his face.
His hands remained buried in his pockets, his eyes hidden behind tinted lenses. He stared out over the ruins with a blank expression, lips pursed into a thin, bored line.
Denial was easier.
It always had been.
He wasn't an idiot, no matter how hard he pretended to be for the sake of annoying the elders. That act—the lazy arrogance, the grin that made people want to punch him—was armor. Beneath it was something harder to face: the truth that he had no idea where he was, no way home, and no plan beyond "keep walking."
The great Satoru Gojo, one of the two strongest sorcerers alive, reduced to a lost kid in a world that didn't even know his name.
Normally, the freedom would be intoxicating. No clan politics, no missions, no one telling him to mind his manners.
But... he didn't want to be alone in this adventure.
What was the point of seeing a new world if he couldn't laugh about how stupid it looked with him?
"—I refuse to sit back and let those villains defeat us all!"
The voice boomed again, louder now. Determined.
Gojo tilted his head slightly. His lips twitched, a scoff rising in his throat, but the sound caught before it could escape. He turned his gaze back toward the horizon, but the voice clung to him, persistent, impossible to ignore.
"Fight, and fight, and fight! Keep your heads up high—until every last cultist is taken care of!"
The echo of courage—real courage—carried across the water. It didn't belong here. It was too earnest. Too much for him to currently feel motivation.
Gojo had heard dozens of sorcerers shout about hope before. Teachers at Jujutsu High always said the same thing: protect the weak, stand tall, fulfill your duty.
But this voice… it sounded desperate. It sounded like someone who was terrified, someone who wanted to run away, but was choosing to scream into the void instead.
And it was getting under his skin.
"..."
He'd been trying not to think about it—how the word 'strongest' felt heavy when it was singular. Back home, power meant he and Suguru could do anything. Here, it just meant he was the last one standing in a city that he didn't know a damn thing about.
"—They've taken people from me too..."
"Friends. A teacher. Both, actually."
Gojo froze. His fingers twitched inside his pockets.
That line hit harder than it should have.
He forced a breath, trying to drown the feeling with sarcasm.
"Teacher, huh? Must've been a pain in the ass. Can't imagine being stuck with someone like that."
But even as he said it, he found himself looking sideways—half-expecting to see a flash of black hair, a loose uniform, a pair of narrow eyes rolling at his joke.
You'd hate this kind of speech, Satoru. Too sentimental, right?
He could almost hear the voice. He should have heard it.
But the rooftop was empty.
And Gojo's chest ached like he'd forgotten how to breathe.
"Keep your heads up high, and don't let the Witch Cult win!"
The speaker's tone cracked. Passion overrode fear, and somehow that made it worse. The voice wasn't trained or commanding. It was human. So very human.
"All might seem hopeless—all might seem dark—but… am I really the only one who still thinks there's a chance to win?"
Gojo's jaw tightened. The voice was so loud now it drowned out everything—the wind, the water, the silence in his own head.
His fists clenched until his knuckles popped. But he didn't stop listening.
"If that person next to you is someone important to you, grab their hand and believe! Believe in us! If they're a stranger, stand by them too! Keep on fighting!"
He turned his head fully now, the Six Eyes sweeping across the horizon. His vision stretched far—through the city walls, through flickers of life still clinging to rooftops and bridges. He saw people grabbing hands. He saw fear turning into resolve.
For a second, he imagined it.
Just reaching out.
Just grabbing that shoulder that should have been there.
—Suguru.
But there was only air.
"As long as all of you keep on fighting..."
"Then I'll keep fighting too! I'll fight—and win!"
The words struck like a heartbeat. Gojo exhaled slowly, the sound caught somewhere between a sigh and a humorless chuckle.
He looked down at his reflection in the floodwater below—the faint azure glow of his eyes shimmering like fractured glass. For the first time, he saw not strength, not the pinnacle of sorcery, but loneliness staring back at him.
"My name is Natsuki Subaru!"
"The Spirit Knight who defeated the Sin Archbishops of Sloth and Gluttony—and overcame the Pleiades Watchtower! So leave the rest to me and my allies!"
Gluttony…
He didn't know why that name pissed him off, but it did.
The broadcast peaked in static, cutting through the air like thunder.
"…Sounds familiar, that old dude said it before too. Guess it's Japanese."
Gojo rubbed his neck, the ghost of the headache fading as quickly as it came.
"Stupidly optimistic, too. Naive. Bet he smiles like an idiot when he says stuff like that."
"Hold the hand of that special someone next to you...."
"And blow away all that despair and fear—AND LEAVE THE REST TO ME!"
The last line echoed long after the signal cut. Silence fell again, heavier this time, pressing against the ruins of the world.
Gojo didn't move for a while. He just stood there, eyes fixed on the horizon, the last traces of sunlight spilling over his face.
"....Natsuki Subaru, huh?"
He tested the name on his tongue. It tasted like a challenge.
"Well... at least someone's having fun."