Who would've thought, our MC turns out to have lore
Without any further to do, enjoy!
(Thousands of Years Ago)
The air on the ruined penthouse floor was thick with dust and the coppery tang of blood.
Mark Grayson, battered and broken in his supersuit, tried to push himself up on trembling arms.
Every movement sent searing agony through his body.
Through his blurred vision, he saw the hulking form of Battle Beast, the humanoid lion, casually swinging his massive mace onto his shoulder.
The monster's yellow eyes scanned the devastation with palpable disappointment. The New Guardians, scattered around the place in different states of beaten "I was promised this world offered worthy opponents" He growled, his voice a low rumble of contempt.
He began to advance towards Mark, each heavy footfall cracking the marble floor.
Mark tried to crawl backward, a futile, pathetic attempt to escape.
Battle Beast reached him in two strides and planted a foot squarely on his shattered leg, pinning him with a pressure that drew a choked scream from Mark's lips.
"But oh," Battle Beast sneered, leaning down, his hot breath washing over Mark's face. "How you disappoint" He raised his mace high, its surface stained with the blood of the young heroes "Killing you is an act of... mercy."
From a pile of rubble, Black Samson stood up, shoving the chunks of concrete off his body "Hey!" he shouted, his voice strained. He activated his power armour, but the system sparked and fizzled, delivering a painful jolt through his arms instead of energy. He was helpless.
Battle Beast's predatory smile widened. He started his swing, the mace whistling through the air toward Mark's stomach
But the blow never landed.
Something stopped it.
A hand, seemingly small and pale against the giant weapon, had caught the mace's handle mid-swing.
The impact didn't even make a sound; the momentum simply died.
Battle Beast's smile vanished. He turned his head, his eyes narrowing at the new arrival.
A man with hair the colour of platinum and eyes like deep crimson was floating serenely beside them.
He held the mace with an effortless grip.
"Mark" the man said, his voice flat and familiar, devoid of any urgency. "For someone who calls himself Invincible, you really get beaten a lot."
Mark's heart hammered against his ribs, but this time with a flicker of hope.
Aaden. Aaden Grayson, his cousin.
He'd arrived on Earth a few years after Mark was born, a Viltrumite child who had grown into a man his own father, Omni-Man, spoke of with a respect
Aaden was strong. Very strong.
"Well, what do we have here?" Battle Beast rumbled, a new, interested glint in his eyes. "Another prey?"
Aaden's crimson gaze remained fixed on the lion. "This is our planet" He stated, his tone leaving no room for argument. "So leave, before I make you leave. You don't want this fight"
"Oh" Battle Beast chuckled, a dark, eager sound. "I'm pretty sure I do"
In a blur of motion, Battle Beast released his mace and delivered a thunderous backhand across Aaden's face.
The sound of the impact echoed through the penthouse.
Aaden's head turned slightly with the force, but his body didn't budge an inch.
There was no bruise, no blood, not even a flicker of reaction in his eyes. He slowly turned his head back to face his opponent.
"Leave" Aaden repeated, each word dripping with cold finality. "My. Planet."
"You are going to have to kill me for that to happen!" Battle Beast retorted.
He unleashed a furious combo: a punch to Aaden's jaw, another to his stomach, and a powerful uppercut.
Each blow landed with the force to shatter steel, but Aaden remained an unmovable pillar in the air, his expression one of profound calm
As Battle Beast wound up for another punch aimed directly at his face, Aaden's hand shot up and caught the massive fist.
The crunch of the impact reverberated through the penthouse. Aaden then twisted his wrist, effortlessly contorting Battle Beast's entire arm and body with a sickening crackle of straining muscle and bone.
"I warned you," Aaden said, his voice still eerily calm.
"Finally!" Battle Beast grinned through the pain, his warrior spirit igniting.
Aaden's reply was a single, devastating punch to the lion's torso.
The air cracked, and Battle Beast was launched backward like a cannonball, smashing through the reinforced windows and out into the open sky.
Aaden glanced down at Mark. "He is way above your level. I will handle this." Then, with a soft whoosh, he shot after the flying beast.
He caught up to Battle Beast mid-air, grabbing him by the throat.
What followed was a brutal exchange of blows as they spun through the sky, a whirlwind of fists moving faster than the eye could see.
They plummeted to the street below, landing with a cataclysmic BOOM that carved a deep crater into the asphalt and sent shockwaves through the city blocks.
Battle Beast staggered to his feet in the crater, licking a trickle of blood from his nose. A wild, ecstatic light burned in his eyes. "Finally! A worthy battle!"
Aaden rose from the debris, dust falling from his immaculate clothes. "You talk too much," he stated, and flew forward.
Battle Beast roared and leaped to meet him. Their hands met in a colossal clash of strength, fingers interlocking in a contest of pure power.
The ground beneath their feet couldn't withstand the force
The pavement shattered and tore apart as they stood locked in their deadly grapple.
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(Gojo Satoru's POV)
The plastic bag of chips crinkled obnoxiously as Gojo shoved another handful into his mouth.
He was perched sideways on the bench next to the vending machines at Jujutsu High, one long leg dangling, the other tucked under him.
An assortment of candy wrappers and empty drink bottles littered the ground around him, a testament to a productive afternoon of doing absolutely nothing of official importance.
The familiar, measured cadence of dress shoes on pavement reached his ears even before the man turned the corner.
A grin spread across Gojo's face beneath his blindfold.
"Nanamiiii!" He shouted, waving the half-empty chip bag. "How's my favorite salaryman doing? Back from the grindstone already?"
Kent Nanami didn't break stride.
He stopped in front of the bench, his expression as perpetually weary as ever.
He didn't even acknowledge the greeting, simply pulling a slim manila folder from his briefcase and holding it out.
"Here," Nanami said, his tone flat. "Your information."
Gojo snatched the folder with a flourish, scattering a few chip crumbs. "Ooh, that was quick! You're getting efficient in your old age."
"We had the names. It was a simple matter of cross-referencing school registries," Nanami replied, adjusting his tie. "It's not exactly tracking a curse."
"Did you make sure the big families didn't get a whiff of this little inquiry?" Gojo asked, his tone light but his intention sharp as he flipped the folder open.
"Yes. I used a private, off-the-books contact. I'm still wondering why the secrecy, however."
Gojo's grin widened. "Just don't want those old fossils sticking their noses into something interesting before I've had my fun. They'd just try to lock those girls away or marry them off to some useless clan heir, or just mark them as Curse Users and be done with it" He scanned the first page. "Soubu High, huh? Curious. A regular school, no noted jujutsu affiliations…" He flipped to the next page, and a genuine chuckle escaped him. "Oh, nice! They've got an open-door Cultural Festival this weekend. That's so nice"
Nanami watched him, his arms crossed. "What do you plan to do, Gojo?"
Gojo snapped the folder shut, his head tilting up to face Nanami, a wide, mischievous smile visible below the edge of his blindfold.
"Well, Nanami-san," he said, his voice dripping with faux innocence. "It's a beautiful autumn weekend. The kids are putting on a show. How about we," he paused for dramatic effect "Go enjoy a school festival?"
Nanami's stoic expression fractured into one of pure, unadulterated dread. He pinched the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses, already feeling a headache coming on.
"Absolutely not"
-----------------------------
(Third Person POV)
The clearing looked less like a training ground and more like a meteor strike zone.
Craters, some deep enough to hide a person, pockmarked the earth.
Splintered trees lay at unnatural angles, and the air itself crackled with the ghostly aftertaste of cursed Energy.
In the epicentre of this stood Yoshioka Akira, completely untouched.
His simple dark tracksuit was pristine, not a smudge of dirt or a drop of sweat to be found.
From their vantage point, the spectators saw the coordinated assault unfold in all its magnificent futility.
"Whoa," Lala whispered, clutching Peke. "Shigeo-kun and his friends are so strong!"
"Are they?" Shindou mused, scratching his chin. "Or is it that their teacher is just on a completely different plane? Look. He's not even trying to attack. He's just... made every attack they make useless "
Mitsue remained silent, but her eyes were narrowed in intense analysis. She saw what the students, in the thick of the fight, could not "He taught them everything they know," She murmured, "and he knows everything they will do before they even think of it. That is a weakness for them, they haven't developed their personal style yet"
The sound of Saeko's blows connecting with Akira's blocks, the only substantial impacts of the entire fight, echoed across the clearing to the spectators.
"He's a monster," Shindou finally said, the smirk fading into genuine awe. "A calm, polite, utterly terrifying monster"
Takeda gave a slow, solemn nod. "That is a Special Grade Sorcerer"
Finally, the last student standing, Saeko, was redirected into a stumbling fall against the ground, and the fight was over.
Their coordinated assault, a whirlwind of their strongest techniques and combined martial prowess, had been utterly and completely dismantled
It had been a masterclass in futility
Zaimozuka had unleashed his "Black Oblivion Flames of the Dark Kingdom" a sphere of terrifying black fire that hurtled towards Akira.
Their teacher had simply extended a palm, and the sphere had collapsed in on itself, erased from existence before it crossed half the distance.
Shigeo, trying a different approach, had focused his "Telekinesis", not on Akira directly, but on the ground beneath his feet, attempting to rip a chasm open.
The earth shuddered, but Akira remained standing on a perfectly stable island of soil, the energy washing around him like water around a stone.
Their teacher's unique Cursed Technique made a perfect negation field around himself that negated all cursed energy before it could reach his body
Yuria's razor-sharp "Threads" which could slice through steel, couldn't even latch onto his form.
They dissolved into faint sparks of energy inches from his body.
Hana, their trump card, had tried to use her "Devolution" absorbing the damage thrown at her from consecutive punches from Saeko and converting it into a concussive blast of raw Cursed Energy.
The blast, powerful enough to possibly crater a wall, simply vanished against Akira's passive defence.
The only ones who had forced him to move were Miko, Mai, and Saeko.
Miko, her "Seventh Sense" flaring, had been a blur of predictive motion. She'd dodge a feint, block a strike she knew was coming, but Akira's speed was such that her precognition was only good for desperate, last-second blocks and evades.
Mai had been a ghost on the battlefield thanks to her "Phantom Veil". Using her technique to erase her presence, she'd flanked him, her kusarigama's chain whispering through the air.
Yet, he always seemed to know. He'd block her kunai with a forearm, parry her strikes with minimal movement. Her greatest contribution had been her pure, refined hand-to-hand skill, forcing him to actually block and deflect.
And then there was Saeko. A force of nature. Her attacks, fueled by her Heavenly Restriction, were the only ones that produced a sound of substance, the sharp, percussive crack of flesh impacting against Akira's blocks. She was faster, stronger, and more durable than any human had a right to be.
For a few fleeting moments, they had exchanged a blistering series of blows that looked less like a like a clash between titans. But even she could not break his defence.
He moved with an economy of motion that was terrifying, every block and parry using the absolute minimum force required, his face a mask of serene concentration.
He was dissecting their every move with an experience that made them felt like newbies (Which they were)
He was a monster. A calm, precise, and utterly untouchable monster.
Akira's gaze swept over the panting, bruised, and defeated forms of his students. "The exercise is over" He announced, his voice cutting through the heavy silence. "You did good."
From her spot flat on her back, Mai pushed herself onto her elbows with a pained grunt. "Did good?" She spat, wiping a trickle of blood from her lip. "We didn't even make you sweat, Sensei. How is that good?
"You lasted two minutes and fourteen seconds longer than my initial projection for your current level" He replied, his voice as calm as always "That constitutes measurable improvement. You coordinated your assaults better than last time. Miko directed Saeko's openings. Mai provided distractions. That is 'good.'"
Mai just let out a long, defeated groan and flopped back onto the grass, staring at the stars.
Akira began his detailed critique, his crimson eyes missing nothing. "Zaimozuka. Your flame technique was good, but you rely too much of forms and shaping, you waste too much energy shaping your attacks. Your technique is fire, using accordingly and then, we you have mastered it better, you can try shaping it. Yuria, you use your threads too directly. Think in webs, not single lines, you can shape them in different forms, not only as cutting power for your hands. Hana, you take too much time using your damage conversion and let yourself receive too much damage. In a real fight, you would receive more damage than you can hold, and probably die instantly" His gaze finally landed on Shigeo, who was trying to sit up. "And you, Kageyama. Your reliance on technique is a crutch. Without it, your footwork is clumsy, your guard is non-existent. Against another opponent that could negate your cursed technique, you will die. You have the physical potential. I will correct this fault. Personally."
Shigeo, too exhausted and humbled to do more than nod, suddenly felt a gentle presence beside him.
Lala knelt and offered him a towel and a bottle of water. "Here you go, Shigeo-kun! You were amazing!" She chirped, completely undeterred by the carnage.
Miko, whose bruises were already fading under the soft glow of her Reverse Cursed Technique, watched the interaction with a wry smile. "It's still incredible to think about" She mused aloud. "We officially have an alien princess in our training group."
Zaimozuka, being healed by Hana, chuckled. "Well, credit where it's due. This one didn't try to kidnap us"
Yuria, stretching her sore shoulders with a wince, quipped, "Which attempted kidnapper are we talking about? The one this morning with the large tentacles, or the Serpo that your group fought?"
Mai, from her stargazing position on the ground, smirked without opening her eyes. "The Serpo at least had a weird alien psychic gimmick That moron who tried to grab Miko at the school was just another one of Lala's 'illustrious suitors'. Mamoru didn't even need to transform fully to turn him into a chew toy." She turned her head toward Shigeo. "But seriously, who would've predicted our resident shy guy, would end up a knight in shining armour, defending a princess's honour from interstellar political marriages."
Shigeo's face burned a brilliant crimson as Lala beamed, wrapping him in a tight, affectionate hug. "Yep! He is my brave knight!"
Yuria, now healed thanks to Hana, looked at Miko with a sigh of mock resentment. "It's ridiculously unfair that you can heal yourself with Reverse Cursed Technique. The rest of us are stuck waiting for Hana to play medic."
Akira, who had been observing the chatter silently, chose that moment to interject. "The catalyst for learning Reverse Cursed Technique is often a near-death experience and a profound understanding of one's own Cursed Energy flow. If you wish to learn it, Yuria, I can arrange a situation of equivalent peril. Similar to the one that unlocked it for Miko."
Yuria's eyes widened, and she shook her head so vigorously her pigtails whipped around. "No! No, thank you, Sensei! I'm perfectly good! I'll just be more careful!"
The conversation then drifted to the upcoming Soubu High School Cultural Festival.
Mai stated "My class decided with a haunted house, and I'm in charge on promoting it on the festival"
Miko replied "My class decided to make a play. Thankfully, they didn't cast us. We were just on decoration and stage crew duty"
Saeko having finally caught her breath, brushed dirt from her pants. "Our festival was long ago. My class responsibilities were minimal, so I'll was free to walk around" Then, she turned to Akira, her expression turning uncharacteristically serious. "Sensei" she said, her tone formal. "May I speak with you privately for a moment?"
He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before giving a single, curt nod. "Very well."
They walked a fair distance away, stopping near the edge of the treeline. They were still visible to the group, but well out of earshot. Mai's eyes narrowed suspiciously as she watched them go.
Once they were alone, Saeko took a steadying breath. "Sensei," she began, her gaze fixed on a point just past his shoulder. "I want to apologize."
Akira simply raised an eyebrow, a silent command to continue.
"I asked you a personal question in your home. About the woman in the drawing. I overstepped my boundaries. It was improper and intrusive of me." She finally met his eyes, her own filled with genuine contrition.
He studied her for a moment, then let out a quiet, almost inaudible sigh. "So it was that" He said, his voice softer than usual. "There is nothing to apologize for, Saeko. It was I who took a simple question, born of innocent curiosity, too personally. The fault was mine. You meant no offense."
Saeko felt a wave of relief, and a small smile touched her lips. "Thank you for understanding, Sensei."
"And," He continued, his gaze drifting away from her, towards the dark forest, "to answer your question properly... it was a someone I knew. Someone who helped me through a... difficult period, long ago. She is no longer in this world. I made that drawing to ensure I would always remember her"
A pang of sympathy hit Saeko. "I'm truly sorry to hear that, Sensei. She looked... very beautiful."
He turned his head away slightly, the moonlight reflecting on his eyes "She was." After a moment of silence that felt both heavy and respectful, he refocused on her, his teacher's demeanour returning. "Now, returning to your combat performance. You still fight as if you were a normal person. You rely on what you see and what you hear. But you are not normal. Your Heavenly Restriction enhances every sense to its peak. Let the world itself guide you. Feel the shift in the air pressure before a punch is thrown. Sense the minute vibrations in the ground from your opponent's footwork. Let the world itself whisper to you"
"I understand," Saeko said, nodding firmly. "I will work on that. Thank you, Sensei." She hesitated, then pressed on. "I wanted to ask... I heard from Takeda-san that there was a famous sorcerer, or rather, a famous non-sorcerer, who also had a Heavenly Restriction"
Akira looked at her, crossing his arms over his chest. The mention of the name seemed to bring a new layer of stillness to him. "Zen'in Toji," he stated. "In his final years, he went by Fushiguro Toji. He was born into the Zen'in clan, a family obsessed with Cursed Technique inheritance. He was an anomaly, a man born with absolutely zero Cursed Energy, but in exchange, a body pushed to the absolute pinnacle of human physical potential. He was so reviled by his clan that he left and became a contract killer, a weapon for hire. He used strategy, cursed tools, and his overwhelming physicality to hunt and kill some of the most powerful jujutsu sorcerers of his era. He fought against the two strongest sorcerer of his time... and he won. He only lost when one returned for a final rematch in which he finally died"
"You seem to know a great deal about him, Sensei," Saeko observed, noting the specific, almost personal detail in his recounting.
A faint, distant look entered Akira's crimson eyes. "Hmm. I was... younger when I learned of him. He became a figure of certain... note. His path, one of violence, solitude, and lack of trust, is one you should never emulate." He paused, his voice dropping "But he, a man who was given nothing by the world of jujutsu, a man who was considered less than nothing by his own blood, became a being so feared he was spoken of in whispers 'The One Who Left It All Behind,' they called him. A man defined by his overwhelming intensity." His eyes locked with Saeko's, the weight of history in his gaze. "Remember him as a lesson in potential and consequence, not as an example to follow. Now, let's go back to the group. They look like they're planning something inadvisable"
As they walked back, Saeko couldn't shake the feeling that her sensei hadn't just been reciting history.
He had been talking about the Sorcerer Killer as if he'd known him.
Or, at the very least, as if he had studied him very, very closely
--------------------------------
The silence of his apartment was a familiar cloak as Akira slid the door shut behind him.
The usual ritual followed: placing his shoes neatly in the genkan, hanging his clothes, the quiet sounds of a solitary life.
But tonight, his routine felt different.
The conversation with Saeko had stirred the deep, still waters of his memory.
He didn't bother with tea.
Instead, he walked into his spartan living room.
From the wall, he pulled it down, the drawing, rendered in charcoal on thick, yellowing paper.
It was a portrait of a woman, her eyes hidden and a gentle smile, her hair flowing in a way that suggested a soft breeze.
The lines were confident, loving, etched by his own hand in a time that felt both an instant and an eternity ago
Even if he couldn't see her eyes, he inwardly knew they carried comfort and kindness
He sat on the zabuton, the frame held gently in his hands.
He had told Saeko the truth. She was someone who had helped him.
But the words were a dam holding back an ocean.
He could feel the pressure now, the weight of the "difficult period" he had so glibly mentioned.
It had been more than a period; it had been a crucible.
And she had been his solace.
Her loss was not just a memory of sadness; it was a phantom limb, an ache for a warmth that had been violently extinguished, and could never return to
His thumb traced the line of her jaw.
He had seen worlds burn and empires rise.
He had been a villain, a hero, and everything in between.
He had faced down horrors that would shatter mortal minds.
Yet, this single, quiet grief, this personal, human loss, was a sting that all his power, all his experience, could never fully numb.
He thought he had boxed it away, filed it under "lessons learned." But it seemed some wounds, no matter how old, never truly scar over.
They just learn to hurt more quietly
He looked at the drawing one last time, the face of the woman smiling serenely back at him, unaware of the centuries of silence that followed their final parting.
"If only" He whispered into the stillness of the room. The two words hung in the air, containing universes of regret and unanswerable questions.
'If only I had been stronger. If only I had chosen differently. If only I could have shown you the quiet life I've found'
With a slow, deliberate motion, he returned the drawing to its drawer.
The past was a place he could no longer visit.
Tonight, the weight of it felt heavier than usual.
For the first time since arriving in this peaceful, chaotic world, the idea of simply sleeping, of escaping the constant hum of his own thoughts, felt necessary.
He moved to his futon, lying down without even changing his clothes.
He closed his crimson eyes, not to meditate, not to plan, but with the genuine intention of surrendering to sleep, to true, dreamless unconsciousness.
And that was when he heard it.
A voice, not from the room, but from within the very fabric of his soul.
It was a voice he had not heard in a thousand lifetimes, yet one he would recognize until the last star blinked out. It was caring, calm, and held an echo of patience and warmth
"Ashen one, hearest thou my voice, still?"
-------------------------------------
(???)
Time was a meaningless concept in the Undead Asylum.
It was a place of stagnant air, of dust motes dancing in the slivers of gray light that fell through cracked stone, of the constant, low moaning that was less a sound and more a decoration to the silence
It was the sound of Hollowing, of minds eroding into nothing, leaving behind only a desperate, animal hunger.
How long had he been sitting in this cell?
Akira did not know. Days? Months? Centuries?
It was a nuisance, a trivial detail.
He had been held by pink-coloured chains for more time than this.
What once seemed like a dream come true, turned into a living nightmare, one which he could escape-
So, this cell, with its rusted bars and straw-strewn floor, was a gilded cage compared to the metaphysical prison that held him.
This was not an end.
This was a necessary step.
A prelude.
The first move in a long, patient game to kill his jailer.
So, he waited. He sat cross-legged in the darkness, his form clad in armour rusted by the humidity of the place he called home for who knows how long
He did not move. He did not hunger.
He simply was.
A statue of silent purpose in a hall of screaming madness.
Then, he heard it.
A sound that was not a moan.
The clank of metal boots on stone, approaching.
He tilted his head up, the movement causing flakes of rust to fall from his pauldrons. Through the small, barred opening in the ceiling of his cell, he saw a figure in familiar Elite Knight armour.
The figure paused, and a second later, a corpse, wrapped in a burial shroud, was unceremoniously dumped through the opening.
It landed on the stone floor with a wet thud.
The knight above left without a word.
A low, grating sound, like stone grinding on stone, came from within Akira's helm.
A chuckle.
"Finally," he muttered, his voice a dry rasp.
He rose, his armour protesting with a chorus of creaks and rattles.
Each movement was slow, deliberate, heavy with the weight of untold years of stillness.
He knelt beside the corpse, his gauntleted hands methodically searching the body
His fingers, cold and unfeeling, brushed against a cold, hard shape.
He pulled it free: The Dungeon Cell Key
He stood, walked to the heavy door, and inserted the key.
The lock turned with a sound that was obscenely loud in the perpetual twilight, a metallic clunk that echoed like a gunshot.
He pushed, and the door swung outward on groaning hinges.
The dim light of the asylum's halls hit his helm.
This was it.
The first breath of freedom after an eternity of waiting.
It was not a moment of joy, but of grim satisfaction.
The plan was in motion.
He took a step forward, out of the cell. The moans of the hollowed seemed to grow louder, as if sensing someone new in their chorus of madness
"Let's go, partner," he rasped to the empty air, to the silent presence that was his only constant companion.
From the depths of his soul, a voice echoed back, flat and resonant, filled with a shared purpose that had endured across ages.
[Yeah]
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Next chapter: Red meets Blue