This was just another small episode in Gojo's otherwise monotonous life—a life that revolved around training alone, hunting in the forests, and occasionally going to town to sell his spoils. Lately, however, he'd begun to avoid even that. Every trip to town felt like wasted time. Time I could've spent training instead, he often thought. Training, to him, wasn't a burden anymore—it was joy, purpose, and obsession all at once. Each day of growth, no matter how small, filled him with quiet satisfaction. And so, Gojo's life continued in that rhythm.
The hill had long become his true training ground. He rarely trained inside his house now; instead, he spent most of his time in the forest, sometimes even eating there beneath the shade of the trees. Gojo had almost become a wild man, blending into the natural rhythm of the woods. He returned to the village only to sleep or purchase a few necessities.
He handed all his hunted gains to the cartman, instructing him to sell everything in town. In return, Gojo gave him a fair share of the profits for handling the transactions. To make things easier, he even bought the man a donkey—so he could use a proper cart instead of pulling it himself.
And like that, days blurred into weeks, and weeks into months, as Gojo's quiet, disciplined life rolled forward—each sunrise another chance to push his limits a little further.
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Two years later — Martha's restaurant bustled softly with the usual midday chatter. The smell of freshly baked bread and roasted meat hung in the air when the door creaked open. A middle-aged man with an honest, sun-worn face stepped inside.
Martha glanced up from behind the counter and smiled. "Seto, you came again to sell his gains?"
Seto chuckled, setting down a small crate beside the counter. "Yes, you know how he is. He doesn't like wasting time on such small matters. He'd rather train than deal with this."
Martha shook her head, a knowing smile tugging at her lips. "You're right. Gojo really doesn't like wasting time socializing or handling these things. That's exactly why he hired you."
This Seto was none other than the same cartman Gojo had once helped and later given a donkey to—now practically his personal handler. Gojo not only gave him a share of the profits from the hunted animals but also paid him a regular salary to handle his everyday needs: buying ingredients, training equipment, even new wooden dummies for practice.
Because of this, Gojo's life ran in a quiet, disciplined rhythm that impressed—and puzzled—many in the village. Martha, in particular, found herself thinking about him often. I've never seen anyone so devoted to training, she thought, wiping her hands on her apron as Seto left. It's as if he's carrying something heavy inside him... maybe chasing power for revenge.
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In the Whisperwood Forest, atop a small hill, rows of wooden dummies stood silently beneath the dappled sunlight. Opposite them stood a strikingly handsome boy of about sixteen, a black blindfold tied securely over his eyes, holding a wooden sword in his hand.
He exhaled softly—then vanished.
In the next instant, he appeared before two wooden dummies. His wooden sword sliced cleanly through the neck of one, then turned in a fluid motion to stab the chest of the other. Before either dummy could sway from the impact, he disappeared again, reappearing among four more targets. His body moved in a swift, circular blur. Each time the blade touched, it struck precisely at their necks.
If they had been human, their throats would have been split open. But he wielded only a training sword, focusing on form, not power. The dummies bore only faint dents where the strikes had landed.
Once more, he vanished, reappearing before another target, and drove the sword into its chest. The wooden tip thudded against the dummy's torso, sending it tumbling backward to the ground.
Then—silence. He reappeared exactly where he had started, the blindfold still unmoved, the sword resting calmly at his side.
All of it had happened in the blink of an eye. His movements were impossibly fast.
Gojo muttered to himself, "Finally, I can say that I can use teleportation in real combat—and that too against a powerful opponent."
Although it wasn't true teleportation, what he achieved was close. He wasn't folding space—his control over Limitless hadn't reached that level yet. Instead, he created several small blue nodes, each one pulling him toward it with immense force. The result was a seamless illusion of teleportation and blinding speed.
At the moment, he could form four Blues simultaneously. To change direction mid-move, he had to deactivate one node and create another in the new direction. It required precision, but he'd refined it to near mastery—enough to trust it in the heat of battle.
Gojo stabbed his wooden sword into the ground, raised his index finger before his face, pointing upward, and said softly, "Blue."
A tiny azure glow flickered to life at his fingertip. He aimed it outward, and the light began to expand, pulsing with raw energy. The larger it grew, the stronger its pull became. When the Blue reached a wooden dummy, the dummy caved in on itself, imploding as if crushed by invisible hands. The distorted space twisted violently, reducing the target to splinters before the Blue finally dissipated.
"I've fully mastered the teleportation movement technique," he thought, the corner of his lips curving slightly beneath the blindfold. "My swordsmanship is sharp, and paired with my speed, I can carve through an army before they even realize it."
His fingers flexed slightly, feeling the hum of limitless across his skin. "And my defense—with Limitless—it's nearly impenetrable. My body's stronger too. I think my physical strength should be able to keep up with Master Kishimoto now."
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