I dust off my shirt, shaking out a crease, and glance over at her. "You good?" I ask, keeping my tone light, like I didn't just turn ten thugs into a pile of regrets. She nods, jerky and slow, her head bobbing like it's on a delay. She's too stunned to talk, her eyes flicking over me—the white hair, the glowing Six Eyes, the casual way I'm standing there like this is all just another Tuesday.
I sigh, stepping over the leader's sprawled-out body, and start picking through the unconscious thugs' pockets. I grab a wallet from the big guy's jeans—cracked leather, stuffed with crumpled bills—and another from the knife guy's shirt. "Don't mind me," I say, flipping one open and pulling out a wad of cash. "Just collecting my paycheck." I count it out, thumbing through the bills with a frown. A few twenties, some singles, a ten—barely enough to call it a haul. "Wow," I mutter, loud enough for her to hear. "Ten thugs and this is all you guys had? I should've robbed a bank instead." I shove the cash in my pocket, shaking my head like I'm genuinely disappointed in their life choices.
She finally snaps out of it, her voice cracking as it comes back. "W-Who are you?" she asks, barely above a whisper, her hands still pressed against the wall like she's not sure it's safe to move yet. I pause, stuffing the last wallet back into the leader's pocket, and turn to her with a grin. I think for a second, tilting my head, then shrug. "Just a really handsome guy with way too much free time, and trying to make a living." I say, winking at her. Before she can respond—before her brain can even catch up—I teleport out, vanishing in a blink, leaving her standing there in the alley, surrounded by groaning thugs and a whole lot of questions she'll never get answered.
After teleporting away from the alley and leaving the girl staring at a pile of knocked-out thugs, I decide it's time to figure out what I'm really working with here. This world's not like home—not even close—and even though I've got Gojo Satoru's body and powers, I can't just assume they'll play nice in a place where superheroes and aliens are the norm.
Confidence is great, but I'm not dumb enough to wing it without testing the limits. I need somewhere quiet, somewhere I won't draw a crowd. looking at the city with a quick sweep of the Six Eyes, I spot it—an abandoned industrial site on the outskirts, all crumbling warehouses and rusted machinery, far from prying eyes. Perfect. I teleport there in a flash, the cold wind of the jump biting at my face before I land on cracked concrete surrounded by silence.
I start with the basics—Infinity. It's been on since I woke up, a constant hum around me, but I need to know how it ticks here. I extend my hand, palm up, and glance around for something to test it with. There's a small rock half-buried in the dirt nearby. I kick it loose, pick it up, and toss it toward my open hand with a decent flick of my wrist. It goes through the air, then slows—like it's sinking into invisible syrup—until it stops completely, hovering an inch above my skin. I tilt my head, watching it float there, caught in Infinity's grip. No surprise, but it's still kinda cool to see.
Next, I walk forward, kicking up a cloud of dust from the dry ground. The particles swirl up around me, but none of it touches me. They curve away, bending in smooth arcs like I'm wrapped in a bubble. My shirt doesn't even flutter with the grit—it's all deflected, effortlessly. I grab a rusty knife from a pile of junk nearby, the blade dull and chipped, and press it against my palm, slow at first, then harder. Same deal—it stops, the tip hovering just shy of my skin. I ease off, letting my focus slip, relaxing completely. Normally, back home, Infinity needed intent, a conscious switch to flip it on. Here? I jab the knife again, lazy this time, and it still stops. It's automatic, running on its own like some built-in reflex.
"Tch," I mutter, tossing the knife aside with a clatter. "Am I just that powerful, or is this world weird?" It's intriguing, sure, but there's a tiny itch of annoyance too—like I've lost a bit of control over something that's supposed to be mine. I focus harder, willing Infinity to shut off, picturing it dropping like a curtain. It takes a second, a weird tug in my chest, but then a gust of wind hits my face—cold, sharp, carrying the faint smell of rust and smoke. The dust brushes my cheeks, and I blink, surprised. It was keeping out everything, even the air. That's new.
I reactivate it, the shimmer snapping back into place, and try something trickier—letting small stuff through while blocking solids. I kick up more dust, focusing on tweaking the barrier, imagining it like a filter. At first, it's a mess—the dust stops, then rushes in all at once when I push too hard. My head aches a little, like I'm flexing a muscle I didn't know I had. After a few hours of trial and error—standing there like an idiot, kicking dirt and waving my hands—I start to get it. The dust drifts over me, light and harmless, while a rock I toss later stops cold. It's not perfect, more like wrestling a reflex than fine-tuning a skill, but it's progress.
Next up, Six Eyes. I take a deep breath and let them flare to life—all six glowing bright, two on my face, two on my chest, one on each shoulder. The world explodes into detail, a flood of info crashing into my brain like a tidal wave. Back home, this was second nature—cursed energy flowed in clean, familiar patterns I could read like a book. Here? It's chaos. No neat lines, no cursed signatures—just a wild storm of something else, jagged and unfamiliar, pulsing through the air, the ground, even the rusted hulks of machinery around me. My vision swims with it—heat trails, energy spikes, the faint hum of something alive in the distance. It's too much, and a wave of dizziness hits me hard.