Jorale's commands were useless; bullets and explosions had no effect on the demon. Every time the flames and smoke cleared, he remained unharmed.
Whenever he teleported onto a warship, an invisible force would sink it. Only after putting on the special glasses provided by his superiors did Jorale finally see the cause of destruction.
A flash of purple light—brief and residual—ripped through the ship's hull and seawater like a blade, unobstructed.
The resulting waves from the evaporated seawater crashing back into the void were colossal, but Jorale no longer noticed. His heart had turned cold.
Forty-one seconds.
To be exact, it could be measured in milliseconds. Every warship under Jorale's command had been sunk, leaving only the aircraft carrier he stood on.
He and the other soldiers aboard fell into despair. Some dropped to their knees, praying to God.
Through blurred vision, Jorale saw a figure—a tall, white-haired man. His appearance was stunning, even by differing aesthetic standards.
But none of it compared to his eyes—vaster than the sky, deeper than the ocean, more beautiful than any gem Jorale had ever seen.
"You're the commanding officer, aren't you?"
The man spoke in flawless English, his voice clear and cold. Jorale snapped out of his daze, barking hoarsely, "Fire!"
The soldiers opened fire, but the bullets stopped mid-air, forming a hovering shell around the demon.
"Oh God..."
A soldier whispered, frozen in awe and terror. With a soft whoosh, the bullet shell scattered, revealing the untouched figure within.
Gojo Satoru took another step forward. The soldiers, minds broken by fear, could no longer fight. What they saw defied reality.
This was no man—this was a demon, a god, or something worse. And the God they had prayed to never came.
Driven by the survival instinct, Jorale reacted. Drawing his handgun in a flash, he fired directly at Gojo.
The bullets halted before they could reach those cerulean eyes.
Clink.
They dropped to the deck. Gojo gripped Jorale by the neck and soared into the sky.
"No... no!"
Through his glasses, Jorale saw another flash of purple. He screamed, but the man didn't respond.
Below, the last aircraft carrier sank, and the surviving soldiers floated like helpless ants in the ocean.
Jorale, pale and broken, could only whisper, "What do you want...?"
"Peace. Don't worry. It'll be quick. You won't feel a thing."
Before the thought fully processed in his mind, Jorale ceased to exist. A piece of wreckage fell, barely making a ripple.
Gojo Satoru looked into the distance, then vanished.
...
Though the deterrent mission had only one operative, others weren't idle. Official forces scrambled to rescue the surviving soldiers, who were then placed under containment.
Ironically, they owed America thanks for entering the area. Their own coasts had suffered, but information control ensured the public remained unaware of the fleet's annihilation.
At Tokyo Jujutsu High, representatives from factions across the Jujutsu World gathered. The waiting period, though short, felt excruciating.
When footsteps echoed through the room, Gojo appeared at the doorway. His smile said everything was under control.
"It was a success."
Everyone exhaled. The government official present wiped the sweat from his brow.
Though the operation clashed with official plans, they couldn't oppose it. Too many ties bound the Jujutsu World and the government.
They needed the sorcerers to resolve the crisis. In turn, the sorcerers acted autonomously while officials managed damage control.
Fortunately, the strategy worked. The American fleet had been destroyed, a brutal but effective show of power.
The next phase involved smoothing things over diplomatically. The surviving U.S. soldiers would be returned. The aim was peace, not war.
By demonstrating power—power capable of threatening even America's foundation—an uneasy peace began.
When your neighbor barks, show him your teeth. Then he talks.
Under Gojo's lead, conservative factions like Zen'in and Kamo were pressured into making token concessions for negotiation leverage.
America wouldn't let go easily. Neon, a global player, was still no match for U.S. influence.
When force failed, economic pressure would follow. With Curses now revealed, the threat was real, and their resolve absolute.
Thus came the new plan: "cooperation."
Foreign spellcasters lacked organization, often just master-disciple or bloodlines. They couldn't match Japan's old jujutsu families, whose knowledge and influence endured.
Despite jujutsu's decline since the Heian era, things had shifted with the Gojo family's divine child.
Even without titles, these families retained power, making them more valuable than wild, self-taught foreign spellcasters.
So, Japan offered scraps of jujutsu knowledge to stabilize the West. Once they understood Curses, their obsession might fade.
Someone once said: destroy their roots. In this case, give them crumbs.
Negotiations began. Tensions eased. Cooperation replaced confrontation.
Some nations suspected the truth. A fleet doesn't disappear without notice.
Yet America, shamelessly resilient, sat at the table with their executioners.
Outrageous demands faded. Foreign spellcasters stranded in Japan were quietly taken back. What became of them remains unknown.
...
"Fuxk..."
President Palmer swore loudly. As the U.S. head of state, he'd helped plan this operation—and was now paying the price.
He still remembered the moment the urgent report arrived: the fleet destroyed by a single airborne individual.
His first thought? A rival nation trying to provoke war.
Then came the details: not a country. A person. Flying.
"Superman? Are they high?" he'd snapped.
But the name stuck: Gojo Satoru. The strongest jujutsu sorcerer.
He'd heard it before—those self-proclaimed Curse Masters had mentioned him. Palmer didn't believe them then. A fleet—his fleet—wiped out by one man?
He convened an emergency meeting. Then the man himself appeared.
White-haired. Calm. Holding a severed head—Jorale's.
He placed it on the table.
Palmer nearly choked. How did he get past security?
And then—nothing. No violence. No words. Just presence.
When other officials arrived and saw the head, silence fell. They understood: their lives hung in the balance.
The worst part wasn't Gojo's power—it was that no weapon could hurt him.
They had no choice but to negotiate.
Even now, Palmer shuddered recalling that day.
Suddenly, a knock.
The door creaked open.
"Mr. President..."
Palmer scowled. "You again."
Suguru Geto strolled in, smirking, bypassing all guards.
"What do you want now?" Palmer said, voice cold.
Geto lounged on the sofa, smiling knowingly. "I warned you, didn't I? They're strong."
Palmer narrowed his eyes. He had warned them, yes—but not like this.
"Mr. President," Geto said, "our goals align. I have a proposal."
"Then talk."
"Remember the true nature of Curses?" Geto asked.
Palmer said nothing.
"They're born from human negativity. But what happens when the public knows they exist?"
Palmer's eyes widened. "You want to reveal them? That's insane."
"No," Geto said. "Not globally. Just in a contained environment, like..."
---
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