"So far, nothing unusual," Gojo said casually. "But Genichi… try not to rely too much on reinforcing yourself with your technique. When you accelerate your own time, it seems to affect your body too."
Genichi paused.
Then his expression darkened. "Wait. I'm not going to suddenly age faster, am I?"
Gojo pictured a teenage Genichi with the face of a tired middle-aged man.
He burst out laughing.
After a moment, still grinning, he added, "So yeah, maybe be careful. Though who knows? Could be convenient someday. Once you master Reverse Cursed Technique—and maybe even technique reversal—you might balance it out."
Yaga cut in, voice firm.
"Those are advanced skills. Extremely advanced. Don't rush ahead. Build your foundation properly."
"Right, right," Gojo said, patting Genichi's head. Then he glanced at Yaga. "For now, let's register his technique externally as 'Object Acceleration.' Keep it simple."
Yaga nodded immediately. He understood.
"And we'll attribute any unusual performance to his high cursed energy output. That should conceal the rest."
Gojo rubbed his chin, thinking of Megumi.
Megumi's technique—the Zenin clan's inherited Ten Shadows Technique—wasn't obvious to untrained eyes. Most people would mistake it for a standard shikigami-summoning technique. Even if his background leaked, he had the Zenin name—and Gojo himself—behind him.
Genichi had neither.
No clan.
No backing.
And Gojo couldn't watch him every second.
So secrecy was survival.
Back home, Gojo dumped a stack of books onto the table—some new, some yellowed with age.
"Most of these are from the Gojo family archives," he said proudly. "Jujutsu history, sorcerer theory, cursed energy mechanics."
He stretched dramatically.
"Now, I know everything—but teaching? Way too much effort. You're smart. You'll figure it out."
Genichi stared at the pile.
"…You do realize I'm still a kid, right? I can speak just fine, but reading academic material like this? That's a stretch."
Gojo had already vanished.
Then suddenly his head popped back in through the doorway.
"Oh right! You and Megumi should be able to finalize your school enrollment tomorrow. Get along, okay?"
And just like that—gone again.
Genichi stood there, stunned.
"What school? What's it called? Where is it? How am I supposed to get there?!"
Silence.
He sighed.
Maybe he'd ask the Fushiguros later.
Flipping through the books, he quickly realized half the terminology went over his head. With a quiet huff, he shelved them for future use.
One step at a time.
School life, in the years that followed, was… ordinary.
Elementary school especially.
The curriculum was easy—effortless, really. His classmates felt unbearably childish. Making friends wasn't exactly a priority.
But Genichi had a goal.
He wanted to read those books.
So he studied relentlessly.
Top scores in every subject. Teacher praise came in waves.
The long stretch of elementary school drew him closer to the Fushiguro siblings—especially Tsumiki.
Megumi?
Whether his gaze was friendly or not remained debatable.
Ironically, the shift in their relationship began with a fight.
Calling it a "fight" was generous. They were just kids.
And Genichi hadn't even tried.
With basic cursed energy control under his belt, taking it seriously would've been straight-up bullying.
Still… every time he saw Megumi's perpetually stoic, sea-urchin-haired face, he had the urge to provoke him.
Like his own life hadn't been tragic.
At least Megumi had a sister.
Why look like the world personally offended you every day?
And wasn't it ironic? Megumi had awakened a Cursed Technique—yet claimed he didn't want to become a sorcerer.
Genichi distinctly remembered that Megumi's first appearance in the jujutsu world was as one.
Something must've changed later.
Most of what Genichi knew about that came from Gojo—on rare days when "training" didn't mean getting completely wrecked.
Back then, after Genichi decisively knocked Megumi flat, Tsumiki had separated them.
Though only slightly older, she carried herself with a warmth that felt almost adult.
She didn't scold.
She simply tended to their bruises, gently lecturing them in that soft voice that somehow never felt preachy.
By the end of it, the sharp edges between them had dulled.
The real turning point came later.
When a group of older students—barely qualified to call delinquents—made crude remarks about Tsumiki, Genichi didn't hesitate.
He walked straight into their classroom.
In front of everyone.
And beat every single one of them down.
They were bigger.
Didn't matter.
He left them groaning on the floor and made sure each of them understood, very clearly, that crossing Tsumiki again would be a life-altering mistake.
Afterward, whether through Gojo pulling strings or because Genichi's academic record was spotless, the school handled it quietly.
A performative reprimand.
A written apology.
That was it.
The apology letter?
Megumi wrote it.
Under protest.
Cornered by Genichi's shameless righteousness—and Tsumiki's disappointed stare—he had no choice.
From then on, Megumi's defensive spikes gradually lowered.
They still clashed now and then—usually when Genichi couldn't resist poking him—but something fundamental had shifted.
Middle school brought change.
They were older. More grounded.
Megumi still wore his default scowl, but he rarely fought Genichi anymore.
Instead, he fought other people.
Specifically, delinquents who took issue with girls confessing to him.
The results were predictable.
Megumi flattened them.
Then flattened their friends.
Then flattened the friends of those friends.
Soon enough, he had a reputation.
There was even some overly dramatic nickname floating around—something painfully edgy—but Genichi could never remember it.
Strangely, Genichi never faced the same problem.
That was by design.
On the first day of school, he deliberately crafted an image: flashy, arrogant, rich-looking, infuriatingly cool.
He made himself a target.
And sure enough, bigger fish outside campus took the bait.
After sending a group of near-yakuza-level delinquents to the hospital in one decisive encounter, Genichi became untouchable.
A name whispered carefully.
Under Gojo's so-called mentorship—if getting brutally overwhelmed counted as teaching—Genichi's understanding of his technique deepened dramatically.
Especially his cursed energy control.
"As long as it's below Special Grade, you should be fine," Gojo had said once. "But don't get careless."
Most of Genichi's growth had come at the hands of Gojo's merciless "training."
Then came second year of middle school.
The day everything shifted.
"You're enrolling at Tokyo Metropolitan Jujutsu High School."
Genichi blinked.
"Seriously? I thought I'd finish middle school first. That's sudden. What about Tsumiki and Megumi?"
He was sprawled across the couch, sipping an ice-cold cola.
His hair—Smooth and straight—was Slightly layered with Clean side part and dyed Reddish-pink.
A leftover from cosplaying Itoshi Sae at a convention.
He'd dyed it on impulse.
Not the first time.
Over the years he'd cycled through enough colors to build a rainbow.
As he liked to say: "If you've got the looks, not cosplaying would be a waste."
Now sixteen—tall, well over 180 centimeters—the once-cute boy had grown into someone striking.
The stack of confession letters he kept hidden was proof enough.
Gojo waved a hand dismissively.
"You're too smart. Regular school has nothing left for you. Time for Jujutsu High. As for Megumi—he'll decide when he's ready. Entering the jujutsu world requires resolve. Let them stay normal for now."
Genichi narrowed his eyes.
This felt suspiciously like Gojo trying to escape an endless barrage of questions.
Even if Gojo was technically a teacher at Jujutsu High, Genichi knew how this would go.
He'd pawn responsibilities off to Yaga—or disappear entirely.
"Fine," Genichi said. "At least I can hang out with Panda. He's enrolling this year too, right?"
Gojo nodded.
Panda—the mutated Cursed Corpse created years ago by Yaga, now principal. An anomaly with independent thought and full speech capability.
They'd met before.
Instant friends.
Genichi was already mentally packing.
PS4. Switch. Shiroō.
Then Gojo reappeared—holding a long wooden box.
"Ta-da! Enrollment gift. Grade 1 Cursed Tool. Picked it just for you."
Genichi's eyes lit up.
Inside lay a crimson longbow etched with faint patterns.
No string.
No arrows.
Yet cursed energy pulsed from it.
"It's called Zhumie," Gojo explained. "You form the string and arrows with cursed energy. With your reserves? Perfect match."
Genichi practically vibrated with excitement.
Testing it inside the house was probably a bad idea.
There would be time.
Before leaving, he went to see the Fushiguros.
Megumi opened the door.
"What."
"I'm enrolling at Jujutsu High. Leaving tomorrow. Figured I'd say goodbye."
"If you're leaving, just leave. Why make a thing out of it?"
Genichi grinned without turning back.
"Relax. I'm mainly here to say goodbye to your sister. Don't flatter yourself."
"…Tch."
When Tsumiki heard the news, she smiled softly.
She didn't have sorcerer talent—but she understood enough.
She congratulated him.
Then insisted he stay for dinner.
The table was full.
Warm.
Familiar.
When he finally stood to leave, he waved lightly.
"I'll come back and visit."
Then he turned.
And stepped toward the jujutsu world he had been waiting for all along.