The rain had just ceased, but the air remained heavy, thick with lingering moisture clinging to the walls of old buildings. Wisps of steam curled from the pavement, rising like the city itself was exhaling after something unspeakable had passed. The dim glow of streetlights flickered against the mist, their feeble light struggling to push back the encroaching darkness.
Through the narrow alleys and empty roads, something was wrong tonight. Too still. Too silent. Even the wind that skimmed across the rain-slick asphalt seemed to hesitate, unwilling to disturb whatever lurked in the shadows.
And then, there were the footprints.
A puddle in the center of the street—its surface should have reflected the neon signs above, but instead, it gleamed dark. Crimson trails smeared across the wet ground, forming erratic patterns, like a child's reckless brushstrokes on a canvas they couldn't quite control. Blood. Fresh.
Nearby, something stood.
Not something—someone.
Their silhouette was blurred by the haze of the dimly lit street, yet something about them was... off. Unnatural. Their breath was slow, heavy, as if suppressing something that clawed at their throat. At their fingertips, a droplet formed—hesitated—then fell.
Drip... drip... drip...
The sound cut through the silence like a blade.
The street was empty. No witnesses. No one else should be here.
And yet—
The wind shifted.
And in that moment, the air changed.
A tremor, subtle but undeniable, rippled through the space. The streetlights flickered erratically, like candles caught in a phantom gust. The shadows stretched, deepened—elongated in ways that defied logic, as if the city no longer belonged to the living.
Footsteps.
Measured. Unhurried. Coming closer.
A voice emerged from the darkness—low, cold, laced with something almost amused. "You again," it mused, tone almost teasing. "Why is it always you?"
Silence.
Not an answer. Not even a breath.
And then—
A flash of violet lightning split the sky. Not the kind born of nature, but something else. Something foreign. Like a wound tearing through the heavens, exposing whatever lay beyond.
And in that moment, this night—this city—would never be the same again.
───⭑⭒⚊奈落の顎⚊⭒⭑───
The sky above Tokyo was dull and lifeless, shrouded in a dense layer of clouds that refused to part. The air carried the faint scent of wet soil, mingled with the crisp bite of fallen leaves. Within the hidden grounds of Jujutsu Academy, away from the eyes of ordinary people, a man stood in quiet contemplation, his gaze fixed on the timeworn structure before him.
Itadori Yuuji.
He was no longer the reckless teenager who relied solely on brute force to survive. His frame was broader now, his stance more grounded, his eyes sharper—holding the weight of countless battles fought and lessons learned. Time had carved its mark into him, shaping him into something different. Yet, one thing remained untouched—the unwavering resolve burning inside him.
Behind him, footsteps approached. Light, deliberate.
"Sensei," a voice broke the silence.
Yuuji turned. A student stood there, clad in the academy's uniform, still crisp and new. Their expression was a mix of curiosity and hesitation—the look of someone standing at the threshold of an unseen world, unsure if they were ready to step forward.
"What is it?" Yuuji asked, his voice calm.
A brief pause. Then, "Why did you choose to become a teacher?"
Yuuji raised a brow, caught off guard by the question.
The student continued, carefully choosing their words. "With your strength... wouldn't it make more sense for you to be on the front lines?"
For a moment, Yuuji didn't answer.
The first name that surfaced in his mind was Satoru Gojo. A man who once stood in his place, a man who had taught him everything. But that wasn't the only reason he was here.
After a beat, he finally spoke.
"Someone once told me," Yuuji said, his voice steady, but tinged with nostalgia, "'Our job isn't just to fight. We're here to make sure others can keep smiling.' "
He let those words hang in the air for a moment before adding, "I think... that's a good enough reason to stay."
The student didn't respond immediately, as if digesting the weight behind his words.
But before the conversation could continue—
BOOM.
A sudden, heavy impact rattled the academy's walls, shattering the tranquil evening.
Yuuji exhaled slowly, already anticipating what had happened. "...Looks like the first class is already a disaster," he muttered to himself.
Without another word, he strode toward the academy. His posture was relaxed, yet there was an unmistakable weight in his steps—an invisible burden he carried, but refused to let show.
Today, he stood where his teacher once did. And like Gojo Satoru before him—
He would keep moving forward.
───⭑⭒⚊奈落の顎⚊⭒⭑───
The air within the classroom was oddly still, save for the faint rustling of the wind slipping through a half-open window. The golden hue of the evening sun streamed in at an angle, casting elongated shadows across the aged wooden floor.
The students sat in varying degrees of tension. Some stiff-backed, alert. Others tried to appear relaxed, but their eyes flickered toward the man standing at the front of the room.
For most of them, he was more than just a teacher. He was a legend. A man whose name had been whispered through academy halls, whose story had been recounted time and time again—one of power, one of chaos, one of a fate entwined with something that should never have existed.
And yet, standing before them now—
He was simply their sensei.
Yuuji leaned casually against the desk, crossing his arms, letting his gaze sweep across the room. He allowed the silence to stretch—an unspoken challenge.
Then, at last, he spoke.
"Alright," his voice carried, steady and deliberate. "Before we begin—can anyone tell me what the role of a Jujutsu sorcerer is?"
A pause. A few exchanged glances. Then, hesitantly, a boy with short hair cleared his throat and raised his hand.
"To protect people from Curses?"
Yuuji gave a slight nod, but his expression remained unreadable.
"That's one part of it," he acknowledged. "But is that all?"
A girl seated in the middle row spoke up, her tone confident. "To exorcise Curses before they can harm others."
This time, Yuuji smirked. "Textbook answer," he mused, eliciting a few small chuckles. "But not quite there."
He turned his back to the class, strolling toward the chalkboard. With an effortless motion, he picked up a piece of chalk, dragging it across the surface in slow, deliberate strokes.
And when he stepped aside, only one word remained on the board—
"Survive."
The chalk made a faint screech as it hit the board. Yuuji Itadori turned, his sharp gaze scanning the students before him.
"Most people think our job is to fight. That we exist only to kill curses and clean up the mess." He let the words hang in the air, watching for reactions. "But what they forget—what they never bother to understand—is that we carry more than just strength."
He set the chalk down and leaned casually against the desk.
"We carry choices."
Silence settled over the classroom.
"You're all here because you have something others don't. Power." His voice was steady, but there was an edge to it. A weight. "The question is—what will you do with it?"
Some students lowered their heads, lost in thought. Others kept staring, waiting for him to elaborate.
Then—
A muffled explosion.
It wasn't big, but strong enough to rattle the windows.
Yuuji sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Oh, for god's sake… Don't tell me it's them again."
He didn't wait for a response. With a practiced ease, he pushed off the desk and strode toward the door, moving like a man who had seen this scenario far too many times. But the moment he stepped outside, his expression shifted.
From relaxed—to alert.
A thin trail of smoke curled up into the sky from the academy's courtyard. The scent of something burned lingered in the crisp afternoon air. Students peeked from the windows, murmuring in hushed voices.
Yuuji's eyes landed on the center of the disturbance.
Three figures stood amidst the settling dust. Two of them—boys—looked guilty, their shoulders tense. The third one stood motionless.
Not nervous. Not defensive. Just… still.
Her.
Red eyes, dark as dried blood, met his. There was no defiance in them. No fear, either. Just something eerily steady—like staring into the abyss and realizing the abyss was staring back.
Yuuji felt it instantly.
Something was wrong.
The air around her felt dead. The sunlight filtering through the courtyard didn't seem to reach her. The wind, which had rustled the leaves just seconds ago, stilled when it brushed past her figure. Even the faint chatter from the students dimmed, as if sound itself was reluctant to touch her presence.
Reika.
A name from the new student list. Yet, seeing her now, Yuuji had the strangest feeling—like he had seen something like this before.
His brows furrowed slightly. He shifted his attention to the boys beside her. "Explain."
The messier-haired one jolted, clearly nervous. "W-We were just practicing a simple technique, but then—" He swallowed, pointing at Reika. "Something just happened. Sensei, I swear, I didn't do anything! But she—"
Yuuji's gaze returned to her.
She didn't react. Didn't move.
Just watched.
Something coiled in his gut.
He took a step forward, keeping his voice even. "Are you hurt?"
For the first time, Reika blinked. As if she had only just now registered his presence. Then, with a voice that was almost too quiet—yet carried an eerie resonance—she spoke.
"I'm fine."
A chill prickled down Yuuji's spine.
Her voice wasn't strange. Not in the way most people would notice. But to him, it felt off. There was a thin, distorted echo to it, like words being spoken in two places at once. The moment he heard it, the back of his mind recognized something.
A memory slammed into him.
"Don't worry, I'll handle it. Just trust me, okay?"
A voice from the past.
A man with snow-white hair and sunglasses, standing casually—yet exuding a presence that bent reality around him.
Satoru Gojo.
Déjà vu struck like a punch to the chest.
When Yuuji had first met Gojo, he had felt it, too—that sense of something that shouldn't exist in this world. And now, standing before him, was someone who radiated that same unnatural stillness.
His eyes flicked to her wrist. A bracelet. Old. Tarnished. Not an accessory—a seal.
His fingers twitched. He had seen enough of these things to know one thing: They weren't placed for decoration.
Yuuji made a quick decision. "Alright," he said, leveling her with a serious gaze. "You're coming with me."
Reika didn't protest. Didn't ask why. She simply followed as he turned toward the building. As he walked, his mind swirled with one relentless question.
Who the hell is this girl?