The world, for a four-year-old, was a universe of endless discovery. For Ryouta, it was a data stream of infinite complexity that he was perpetually trying to throttle. The years between infancy and true childhood had been a masterclass in controlled perception. He had learned to erect mental floodgates, to filter the torrent of information pouring through his Primordial Six Eyes into a manageable stream. He could now, with conscious effort, see the world as others did: a simple, solid place of colors and shapes, unburdened by the glowing threads of cursed energy, the swirling vortexes of human emotion, and the conceptual weight that underpinned every object. But it was an act, a constant, exhausting performance of normalcy.
His only respite was in the presence of his twin.
Satoru was a force of nature, a small, white-haired hurricane of boundless energy and infectious laughter. In the sprawling gardens of the Gojo estate, he was a streak of motion, chasing butterflies with explosive bursts of cursed energy that left scorched patches on the meticulously manicured lawn. He was chaos and joy, a blazing sun of a child who drew the eyes and hearts of everyone around him.
Ryouta, by contrast, was the quiet moon. He would sit under the shade of an ancient cherry tree, watching his brother. To their attendants, he was a calm, contemplative child, perhaps a bit too serious for his age. But in reality, his mind was a whirlwind. While Satoru chased a single butterfly, Ryouta's All-Perceiving Eyes were tracing the intricate web of life force that connected the entire garden. He saw the network of roots beneath the grass, the flow of nutrients from the soil, the faint, shimmering trails of cursed energy left by the low-grade spirits that wandered the estate's outer perimeter, and the impossibly complex dance of wind currents that Satoru's clumsy energy bursts disrupted.
He watched Satoru finally corner a vibrant blue butterfly, his hands cupped, his breath held in a moment of pure, childish concentration. Ryouta perceived the fragile life force of the insect, a delicate, flickering flame. He saw Satoru's own cursed energy, a brilliant, crackling bonfire, leaking from him uncontrollably with his excitement. He knew that if Satoru closed his hands, the raw output would snuff the butterfly out of existence.
Before Satoru could move, Ryouta sent out a single, invisible thread of his own will, woven with the concept of "separation." It wasn't a technique; it was an intention. He gently encouraged the space between Satoru's hands to widen just enough. The butterfly, sensing the opening, fluttered out and soared into the sky.
Satoru's face fell in disappointment for a fraction of a second before breaking into a wide, delighted grin as he watched it fly away. "Did you see that, Ryouta? It got away! It was too fast!"
"I saw," Ryouta called back, his voice small and even. A quiet smile touched his lips. It was a secret joy, this silent intervention. He could use his immense power not to dominate, but to preserve the simple wonders that made his brother smile. It was a form of love that no one else would ever understand.
This was his real training. Not the katas or the energy drills, but the constant, moment-to-moment management of his own perception and influence. During his naps, when his attendants believed him to be dreaming, he would dive into the unfiltered sea of his senses. He would expand his perception, letting his Primordial Six Eyes roam free. He could perceive the bustling energy of Tokyo miles away, a vast ocean of human emotion and cursed energy. He could feel the great barriers protecting the jujutsu world, immense curtains of power that hummed with ancient authority.
He analyzed Satoru's energy signature more than anything else. It was the purest, most potent cursed energy he had ever perceived, a flawless diamond of potential. With his enhanced eyes, he could see the intricate lattice of the Limitless technique woven into his brother's soul, a divine blueprint waiting to be actualized. He felt a surge of pride so fierce it was a physical ache. This was his brother, the one he had read about, the one who would become the strongest. But now, that pride was mingled with a heavy, profound sense of responsibility. Satoru was a beacon, but beacons attract monsters. It was Ryouta's self-appointed duty to be the keeper of the lighthouse, to stand guard in the darkness his brother's light would inevitably cast.
Their first true attempts at their innate technique began in their private dojo, under the watchful eye of a clan tutor. The lesson was on "Blue," the power of attraction.
Satoru, brimming with confidence, was first. He thrust his hand forward, focusing with all his might. A visible distortion appeared in the air before him, a sputtering, crackling vortex of blue energy. It yanked a training dummy towards him with a violent lurch, sending it tumbling across the mat.
"I did it!" Satoru cheered, his face flushed with effort and triumph.
"Excellent, Satoru-sama!" the tutor praised. "Raw, but undeniably powerful. A true Gojo."
Then, all eyes turned to Ryouta. The black-golden panel had already appeared in his mind's eye weeks ago, and he had, without hesitation, chosen to amplify Blue to Primordial Convergence. He now possessed a Transcendence-level understanding of a technique he was supposed to be learning for the first time. The challenge wasn't to use the power; it was to fake being a beginner.
He mimicked Satoru's stance, his small face a mask of concentration. He activated Primordial Convergence, but then began the infinitely more complex task of shackling it. He forced the conceptual technique to manifest as a purely physical one. He deliberately introduced inefficiencies, allowed energy to leak, and suppressed the perfect, silent stability of his control.
A small, wobbly vortex of blue appeared, noticeably weaker than Satoru's. It tugged at the dummy, making it rock back and forth before the vortex fizzled out.
The tutor nodded encouragingly. "Good, Ryouta-sama. The control is there, but you need more output. Do not be afraid to let your power flow."
Ryouta nodded, feigning slight disappointment. Inside, he was relieved. The performance had been convincing. He had successfully pretended to be a normal prodigy, not a primordial entity in a child's body. Satoru, in a rare moment of brotherly magnanimity, came over and patted his back.
"Don't worry," he said, puffing out his chest. "You'll get the hang of it. I can show you!"
"Thanks, Satoru," Ryouta said, and the gratitude in his voice was entirely genuine. This, right here, was the dynamic he wanted. His brother, proud and brilliant, offering a helping hand. It was the perfect cover, and a source of quiet, profound joy.
Their bond was forged not just in training, but in the silent hours of the night. One evening, a thunderstorm of unusual violence rolled over the estate. The thunder wasn't just a sound; with his enhanced perception, Ryouta could feel it as a series of concussive shockwaves in the cursed energy of the atmosphere. The lightning flashes were blinding, overwhelming even his mental filters.
Satoru, who had always been fearless, was terrified. He woke from a deep sleep with a piercing scream, his own cursed energy flaring wildly in response to his fear. It was a chaotic, jagged storm inside their room, a reflection of the storm outside. Their mother and father rushed in, their own energy signatures a mix of concern and helplessness. They tried to soothe him with words and embraces, but Satoru's terror was too primal.
Ryouta lay still in his bed, his silver-gold eyes wide open in the dark. He could perceive his brother's fear not as an emotion, but as a tangible thing—a writhing entity of sharp, cold, dark energy clinging to Satoru's spiritual core. Words were useless against this.
He closed his eyes and reached inward, to the calm, steady river of his Primordial Flow Weaving. He recalled the feeling of perfect safety from the womb, the sense of absolute security he had felt pressed against his twin. He took that feeling, that concept of "unbreakable brotherhood," and began to weave it into his own cursed energy.
He didn't project it as an attack or a technique. He simply let his aura expand, a silent, golden warmth that pushed back against the cold chaos of the room. It was an aura that whispered, without words, You are not alone. I am here. We are safe.
He felt his energy touch Satoru's. He didn't try to suppress his brother's fear; he simply offered a different reality. He wrapped his own calm, stable presence around the jagged edges of Satoru's terror, not to extinguish it, but to contain it, to give it a safe space to exist until it passed.
Satoru's screaming subsided into ragged sobs. He turned in their mother's arms, his tear-filled blue eyes searching the darkness until they found Ryouta's bed. He couldn't see the golden aura, but he could feel it. The Six Eyes might be a supercomputer, but the soul was something more fundamental.
"Ryo…," he whimpered, a single, broken syllable.
The sobs quieted. The chaotic flares of cursed energy smoothed out. Satoru's small body relaxed, and he sagged against his mother, his breathing evening out as he fell back into a peaceful sleep.
Their parents were mystified but relieved. "He must have just worn himself out," their father whispered.
But Ryouta knew the truth. He felt the drain of his own energy, a deep, satisfying ache. He had protected his brother in a way no one else could, using a power no one else could comprehend. It was a heavy secret, but in moments like these, it felt less like a burden and more like a privilege.
The true test of that privilege came on a crisp autumn afternoon when they were five. They had wandered further than usual, drawn by the vibrant colors of the changing leaves to a secluded corner of the vast Gojo grounds, near an old, disused shrine sealed with aging talismans.
Ryouta's Primordial Six Eyes had been buzzing with a low-level warning for the past ten minutes. He perceived a flaw in the estate's outer barrier, a subtle thinning of the protective jujutsu where a tree root had disrupted the foundation stones over decades. And something had slipped through.
It was a low-grade curse, born from the accumulated frustration and loneliness of a nearby abandoned hospital. To an adult sorcerer, it would be an annoyance. To two small children, it was a legitimate threat. It was a greasy, amorphous shadow with too many limbs, drawn to the twin beacons of immense cursed energy.
"What's that?" Satoru asked, his Six Eyes seeing the physical manifestation of the curse before Ryouta did. His voice held more curiosity than fear.
The curse, however, was a creature of instinct. It ignored the quiet, suppressed energy of Ryouta and fixed its attention on the blazing, unfiltered power radiating from Satoru. It saw a feast.
With a wet, slobbering hiss, it lunged.
Time didn't slow down for Ryouta; his perception was already operating at a level where time was a malleable concept. He saw the trajectory of the curse. He perceived its simple, hungry intent. He analyzed the weak points in its spiritual composition. He calculated that Satoru's untrained defensive instincts would not be enough. He saw the future where his brother was harmed.
And he rejected it.
His protective instinct, the core of his entire being in this new life, detonated within him. There was no thought, no strategy, only a singular, absolute command: Protect Satoru.
The black-golden panel flashed into his vision, stark and immediate.
╔═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════║ ◇ PRIMORDIAL SYSTEM ◇
║
║ [TECHNIQUE LEARNED: Cursed Energy Blast - Basic]
║ [CURRENT MASTERY LEVEL: APPRENTICE]
║
║ [10X PRIMORDIAL AMPLIFICATION AVAILABLE]
║
║ AMPLIFIED FORM: "PRIMORDIAL JAVELIN"
║ [MASTERY LEVEL UPON AMPLIFICATION: TRANSCENDENCE]
║
║ Primordial Javelin transforms a simple blast of energy
║ into a conceptual spear of absolute destruction. It does
║ not travel through space, but convinces reality that it
║ has already arrived. It strikes not the physical body,
║ but the very concept of the target's existence,
║ guaranteeing annihilation on a fundamental level.
║
║ ► YES - Transform to "Primordial Javelin" forever
║ ► NO - Use standard Cursed Energy Blast
║
║ [CRITICAL THREAT DETECTED - IMMEDIATE CHOICE REQUIRED]
╚═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
The curse was a foot from his brother.
There was no choice. There was never a choice.
YES.
The world did not see a technique. Satoru, his eyes wide with fear, saw only a flicker of silver-gold light in his twin's gaze. The curse, poised to strike, simply… vanished. It didn't explode. It didn't dissolve. One moment it was there, a creature of tangible malice, and the next, the space it had occupied was utterly empty, as if it had never been.
Ryouta stood shaking, not from fear, but from the raw, exhilarating surge of primordial power unleashed by pure, undiluted intent. He looked at Satoru, who was staring, pale and wide-eyed, at the empty space where the monster had been. Then, Satoru's gaze shifted to him, and for the first time, the brilliant blue of the Six Eyes held not just curiosity, but a deep, unnerving awe.
The silence that fell between them was heavier than any words, filled with the echo of a power that had no place in their childish world.