The sharp scent of disinfectant stung his nostrils as Mugen Nagi's eyelids fluttered open.
Before him stretched an unfamiliar ceiling—sterile white, cold, carrying the distinct hospital odor of antiseptic. Clear birdsong came from outside the window. Morning light streamed through the slats of the blinds, painting golden stripes across the plain white bedsheets.
"Well, look who's finally awake?"
The light, teasing voice came from his right. Nagi turned his head to see the white-haired youth lounging casually on the adjacent bed, chin propped on interlocked fingers. The blue eyes behind the sunglasses held a playful glint in the morning light, like melting ice reflecting the sun. Sunlight edged his profile in gold.
An orange traced an arc through the air. Nagi caught it on instinct, the rough texture of the peel meeting his fingers.
"Fifteen hours and..." Gojo Satoru tilted his head, feigning thought. "Let's see... thirty-seven minutes. You were out cold."
Memories from before he lost consciousness flooded back—the bones in the dark, the terrifying claw that pierced his chest, the searing pain of the exploding black lightning... Nagi's fingers tightened unconsciously, squeezing bitter juice from the orange peel.
"Those people..."
"Thirty-four sets of remains. The oldest... been there five years." Gojo's smile faded slightly. He held up three fingers, his tone losing its earlier lightness.
Nagi fell silent. The orange suddenly felt heavier in his hand.
Then, without warning, a cool fingertip tapped the center of his forehead.
*Buzz—*
Memory fragments stabbed into his mind:
A pale hand on a hospital bed, clutching his desperately.
"Be safe... you have to be..." A choked, broken plea.
A single crimson tear tracing from the corner of his mother's tightly closed eye.
The vision cut off abruptly, leaving a sharp, wrenching pain in his chest.
"A deathbed curse."
Gojo withdrew his finger as if brushing off dust. He studied Nagi's suddenly pale face with keen interest.
"Intense attachment and love, twisted into Cursed Energy, took root in your eyes. But now..." He drew out the word, the familiar smile returning to his lips. "...it functions more like a... hmm, a custom-built combat support system? Not bad."
"Mother..."
Mugen Nagi's fingers went to his own eyes. They felt icy. The sensation of that single bloody tear seemed to linger.
"Alright! Time for a basic crash course!"
Gojo produced a small blackboard from seemingly nowhere, *thumping* it upright. Chalk tapped crisply against it.
*Cursed Spirits:* Monsters formed from condensed human negative emotions.
*Jujutsu Sorcerers:* The good guys (mostly) who use Cursed Energy to exorcise Cursed Spirits.
*Curse Users:* The bad guys who use Cursed Energy for evil.
Nagi's eyes fixed on the line about Cursed Spirits. "I remember... it called itself..."
"Born from humanity's fear of darkness—the Special Grade Cursed Spirit: 'Darkness'!" Gojo finished, his tone casual but the subject weighty. "That one was no joke. Once used its 'Darkness Technique' to swallow a whole town. Worst part was it had human-like intelligence. Tch, if it hadn't gotten overconfident and slipped up back then, taking it down would've been a real headache."
"Special Grade?"
"Yep. Power ranking. Simple and brutal." Gojo swished the chalk across the board. "Grade Four, Grade Three, Grade Two, Grade One, and then—" The chalk came down with a *thud*.
"Special Grade! The things at the top of the food chain."
"And the guy who can handle Special Grades—yours truly—is naturally also Special Grade. The top of the top, I might add."
Gojo tilted his head back, sunglasses sliding down to reveal those piercing blue eyes that seemed to see through everything. He pointed a thumb proudly at his own chest.
"As for you..." He shifted gears, his gaze locking onto Nagi's crimson eyes with tangible intensity.
"To take down a weakened 'Quasi-Special Grade' with less than a tenth of its power right after awakening? Tsk tsk. Your starting level has to be at least Grade One."
"Oh, and your Technique." Gojo flicked the chalk away casually, as if just remembering.
"'**Resistance Manipulation**.' Sounds simple, but the applications are vast. Combined with these 'custom-made' eyes of yours..."
Gojo's smile was meaningful. "The potential is limitless."
Mugen Nagi listened in silence, offering no reply.
"So," Gojo leaned forward slightly. The look behind his sunglasses held appraisal and a hint of concealed invitation.
"Want to join us? **Tokyo Metropolitan Jujutsu High School**. Let's be clear upfront, though—this isn't some cushy, fun job."
Nagi's gaze dropped to the somewhat crushed orange in his hand. The cursed spirit in the alley, the piled bones, his mother's final tear... Past anomalies in his body intertwined with the brutal events of last night, churning within him.
"Well?" Gojo's voice cut through the brief silence.
................................
The old apartment door creaked open. In the shadows of the entryway, the black-and-white photograph of his mother on the small household altar watched the returning son quietly.
Nagi lit three sticks of incense. Pale smoke curled upward, softening the gentle smile within the picture frame. Facing that smile, he spoke softly, breaking the three-year routine of "lighting incense before leaving, reporting safety upon return."
"I met... someone from Jujutsu High." Mugen Nagi paused, his voice quiet yet firm. "I might transfer schools."
When he entered the cramped bedroom, Gojo Satoru was sprawled in the old chair by the desk, long legs brazenly resting on the desktop. He was twirling Nagi's National Physics Competition Gold Award certificate between his fingers.
"Wow~" He drawled, spinning the certificate on his fingertip, eyes behind the sunglasses full of mischief. "Top student? Physics prodigy? With a golden road laid out before you, why the sudden desire to jump into the jujutsu world?"
Nagi ignored the teasing, going straight to pull open the suitcase in the corner. His eyes went to the most prominent spot on the bookshelf—occupied by a single framed photo. In it, his six-year-old self clutched his mother's hand tightly in a sun-drenched amusement park, laughing without a care.
He picked up the frame, thumb gently stroking his mother's smiling face.
"Rage," he answered, his voice low but clear.
Then he lifted his head, gaze passing through the window bars, fixing on the distant, ash-gray sky.
"And—once you know the truth, you can no longer pretend you don't see it."