[disclaimer: MAJOR spoilers for the anime and manga! please read at your own discretion!]

[disclaimer: there'll be a lot of buddhist references in this story. as a buddhist myself i'll do my best to be accurate, but do remember this is a fictional story. i don't intend to hurt anybody!]

[disclaimer: i intend to do A LOT of worldbuilding, so I'll take a few liberties! will eventually go into canon-divergence territory! there'll be a power spike later on too!]

kinda a villain fic, but not really too? we'll see. expect the typical violence, questionable morals/ethics, bouts of insanity and grey-lined decisions tho (dashed with some humour, sexy time, cringe and fluff here and there) so be forewarned. romance is eventual/slow burn. everyone is kinda deranged here, but hey, it's jjk so they're all somewhat crazy.

revamped recently cause I wasn't happy with the prior first chapter, and so I present you the story I affectionately named 'lunatics travel the world to solve a mystery' in its development stages!


CHAPTER 1: the beginning of the end

In which she realises fate is a cruel mistress and Satoru is assigned a new mission.


Which would you rather?

To be seen as a villain by all, but utterly self-sure?

Or do your best to be good and virtuous?

And be filled with doubt and thoughts of failure?

What is a worse punishment?

Death or an iron cell? Or hatred from the person who knows you best?

Yourself.


It takes just one bad day to reduce the sanest man alive to lunacy.

And to those who dwell with the exorcism of curses, it's the nearest thing to the truth. Greed, disgust, fear, power… when stripped bare and laid out for all to see the testaments of humanity are clear, and when constantly faced with mankind's infidelity, it's only natural one starts to doubt.

Why am I doing this?

Purpose and meaning are what the sorcerers tell themselves, day after day as they struggle through the abyss, beaten and worn. But Geto Suguru and so many others who succumbed to the darkness had purpose and meaning to their vile actions too, and at the end day, though anyone can tell he failed, he was not so much different from the sorcerers he left in the light either.

Resolve, honour, pride…

The unwavering belief in what is right.

Because the fact of the matter is that we have no way of knowing if the person who we think we are is at the core of our being. Are you a decent person with the potential to someday become an evil monster, or are you an evil monster that thinks it's a decent person?

The lies we tell other people are nothing, after all, compared to the lies we tell ourselves.


"You should leave if you're done with your business."

"Damn," he says, convincingly jovial, "getting rid of me so quickly? That's cold."

She looks straight at him for the first time that cloudless afternoon. The sun beats down on them as they stand on the stone steps nearby a shrine, located high on the mountaintops in Lijiang, China. Gojo Satoru is dressed in that awful oversized pitch back tracksuit that he always claims is a uniform, hair snowy and glistening. His corporal presence is thunderous alone, sunglasses sliding low on his nose, and she's hit with the full force of his Six Eyes, an ocean surface shifting on a bed of blue crystals, all seeing, all knowing.

Not for the first time, she thinks I hate those eyes.

A group of children chases each other at the fields nearby, playing a game of fetch. When it's clear that she's not going to say anything more, he gestures to the building behind them.

"I'm leaving tomorrow," he says. "Can I stay with you then?"

Things are always different when Satoru comes to visit. Back in Tokyo, he's the Gojo Satoru, bearer of the Six Eyes, Head of the Gojo clan, teacher at Jujutsu High, a presence the Higher Ups know better to cross and the unparalleled God who makes curses, shamans and humans alike cower in fear. He does not allow himself to soften. The war might be over but they were victorious at a terrible cost. Satoru's cloak of responsibility is still stretched far beyond just her and his students.

But here, away from the heart of Jujutsu Society, in a faraway haven where she seeks asylum (asylum is disputable because she is certain she's only granted peace because of Satoru's influence and interference), he's allowed to breathe, to be vulnerable, to resemble something vaguely human and not the untouchable God he is.

She needs him out.

"We don't have rooms and you're busy—"

"I found Suguru's body," Satoru cuts in.

She tenses up but doesn't push him for details. Satoru has got her where he wanted.

He shrugs nonchalantly, "The brain-bastard left him in one piece at least, but man was he beat up."

Satoru has the gall to smile and sound delighted. As if she wasn't angry and resentful and he wasn't wounded and mourning. As if this did not mean that Kenjaku had abandoned Suguru's body and is still missing, posing a danger to the world. As if he did not just put the only one who had taught him loneliness and joined him on the plane of greatness to rest forever, and she does not resent the past and drowns in guilt. Gojo Satoru smiles like an idiot… as if she was not partly responsible for the war that wreaked havoc that killed thousands across Japan and reshaped the world of Jujutsu Society forever.

"Guess this means your beloved senior is still out scurrying somewhere," Satoru whistles, looking around. "Say, any chance he dropped by here lately?"

His tone is harmless, like he's mentioning the weather. It annoys her all the same.

Satoru fakes a sigh, "Guess not, eh? Sucks."

"Fuck you," she bites angrily.

"Whoa," he laughs, "chill I didn't mean it that way, where's the respect, hm?"

"I'm a thousand years older than you."

"That's debatable," he retorts petulantly.

She scoffs and briefly thinks of how bloody ridiculous that someone like Satoru exists at all—the singular hope of the Jujutsu world (but that's truly debatable now), bearer of two illustrious Cursed Techniques and the Honoured One who basks in the cusp of Nirvana, all awhile being annoyingly beautiful. She remembers how stupidly perfect she thought he was before she reincarnated here, back when she thought he existed only on a television screen, and this statement stands somewhat true even today.

"Yuuji asks when you're coming back."

She frowns, "It's not time to fortify his seals yet."

"He's asking because he's graduating from Tokyo Jujutsu High," he clarifies. "Actually, Megumi and Kugisaki are asking about you too."

She stares at him, and Satoru adds, "They want you there."

Somewhere beneath I want you there too underlines those words. She ignores it and focuses on Yuji and the rest.

"Ah you might not be updated yet, but Yuuji and Megumi have officially been promoted to Special Grade, and Kugisaki Semi-Grade one," Satoru's grin is all too bright. "Ah-hah, bet you're thinking I'm the world's best teacher now."

She rolls her eyes, "Actually, I think you take way too much credit for your students' hard work."

"Yeah? You think so?"

Despite all of her muscles telling her not to, she scoffs, smiling. The fire in her blood has calmed. Now, she is simply warm.

They don't discuss the details of how much time has passed. They never do. She doesn't look at him and plays with the hem of her yukata and tries to decide if she should return for their graduation. She does miss them. She sardonically thinks maybe she should congratulate Satoru too—having a class graduate with a full survival rate is an achievement itself. But she decides not to and turns away to leave, adamant on maintaining her own personal Infinity to keep all of them at arm's length.

They are better off without her.

"I won't see you off–"

But like always, Satoru has his own plans. Suddenly, his arm snakes around her from behind to hold her back. She stiffens in his embrace like she's been burned. She's not entirely surprised, but she knows she should protest.

"What are you doing?" she demands.

"I'm sad, my students are graduating."

"You aren't sad." He has many other students to nurture.

"I am sad," Satoru insists, but really, she knows he isn't, "they're all growing up so fast and abandoning me, so don't be so cold, I'm hurt. Comfort me."

That's a fucking lie.

"Why are you acting like this? Stop being so childish."

"Nah. Don't wanna."

She exhales loudly, "Satoru… you can't."

His voice turns serious, "I don't know why I can't do this."

Satoru truly doesn't know, she knows this. Because what he wants, he takes, what he desires, he will achieve, and he gains and gains and bullies her to get what he wants until they're left with nothing but a hollow void—because what do Gods know about the plight of mere mortals? What do they have to fear? If Satoru wills it, he could change the world and their predicament. She's annoyed he's fixating on her words, but she understands. She's being too careless with her words—can't is not shouldn't, and because Satoru is an entity that only understands shouldn't and not can't, it doesn't work on him.

But she's not afforded the luxury he has.

"Don't be stubborn," she whispers because her voice will crack if it's spoken any higher. "You shouldn't be here."

I won't go back, and you know this, simmers beneath.

"That hurts." He doesn't sound hurt. "You act like we don't even know each other, but we do, so there's nothing wrong with this."

"This is wrong because I'm a wanted criminal."

"No, it's wrong because you choose to stay here cause of some jackshit repentance that means nothing when people have already died."

He's mocking her. But she doesn't care. She's tired. She waits for the biting words to settle and for her guilt to fade. The wild thought passes through that maybe Satoru will kill her today, but it's fleeting. He would've done it back then if he wanted to. Instead, Satoru presses her tight against him, holding her in place, almost in a warning. She yields.

It's a topic they'll broach another day, another time because neither feel like putting up a fight today. Carefully but not hesitantly, Satoru rests his chin on top of her head as they indulge in the silence of hellos, welcomes, farewells and maybe I miss you sandwiched in between.

A gust of wind sweeps through and the danger passes. She looks up to the cloudless sky, knowing full well Satoru's only behaving like this because of Suguru. She briefly wonders if Suguru is looking down at them now and briefly, she scolds him for leaving Satoru behind (she recognizes that she did too, but those are minor afterthoughts).

Her mind is still fixated on Kenjaku on the loose, overshadowed by the guilt that follows her every breath in every waking hour, but she backtracks because no matter how unreasonable Satoru is, she's guilty for part of his misfortune, so she won't fight him, and most of all she knows—

Even at the plane of greatness where only Gods walk, Gojo Satoru knows the taste of loneliness too.

"Satoru," she sighs. "Let me go."

"I won't do anything," he says, as if he hadn't tried to take her back before. "Promise."

"I know, I won't run too. So let me go."

His hold loosens and she turns around. Three breaths pass, dull crimson eyes unwavering from crystalline blue ones. Maybe the warmth of the day was too much for her cold, callous heart but she reaches up to touch his face, somewhat expecting to feel the distance from Infinity, never to touch. To her surprise, Satoru had released it, allowing her into his space, or maybe he'd categorised her not to be a threat–which is foolish of him, but she can't expect any less.

Gods fear nothing.

Her palm touches his cheek, and he leans into it like a cat. Satoru is warm, but not warm enough on a sweltering day like this, but maybe Infinity blocks the sun rays out too, protecting the bearer in their own world free from the harsh realities and transcending them to a different place.

She wonders if she has succeeded in being in there with him too.

"Don't disable your Infinity."

He lazily lifts a brow, "Why?"

"It's dangerous."

"You plan on harming me?"

"I have," she reminds blandly, because she is a dangerous entity, because she had failed him before, but he is not perturbed because—

"I'm the strongest," Satoru says like a spoiled child, "I don't need it."

The affirmation is reassuring. Relief washes her as Satoru cups her face with both hands and rests his forehead with hers. And then the relief ends, an empty beach flooding as the receded tide returns, and as the guilt washes over her and Satoru holds her close, all she can do is yield.

She wants it, even if it's just a little bit.

Their breaths intermingle, ghosting lips never touching like those are the only things that had their own personalized Infinity–a line she should never cross again. His eyes are brighter than anything she'd seen, all shades of illuminating blues at once, shimmering to the infinity and beyond. They burn her in a way the sun cannot, below the skin, deep into her bones and she recoils from the memories.

"Satoru," she deadpans. "We shouldn't."

"Nothing else, I promise."

A promise is a vow.

So she'll take it, just like he wanted.

She leans in and yields to the promised touch, pressing her lips onto his in worship and relishing in the Infinity, released. She kisses him, knowing that they have learned the great painful lesson of loneliness; the lesson that the Honoured One and her have learnt all on their own, over and over again.

And for a brief moment, they learn how not to be alone again.


saṃsāra

noun: HINDUISM•BUDDHISM

the cycle of death and rebirth to which life in the material world is bound.


When she thought about it, years later, she laughed at how it all began—in the same morbid way sorcerers laughed as they reminisced about their near-death encounters and dead loved ones, that is. She remembers the day more than any other day.

The beginning of her end begins on a cold October night in modern-day Japan.

It was to be just another night like any other boring night. Nearly everything in her screened room is dark save for the light coming from the small television. Alone, she sits on her cool tatami mat while waiting for dinner to be delivered to her room.

The clock ticks rhythmically and the world moves on, rotating on its cold axis and crushing all that couldn't keep up.

7pm.

She lazily lolls her head to the sliding door expectantly. That woman will be coming soon.

Everything is right. Just right. Normal. Everyday.

Monotonous.

A bird chirps somewhere outside, singing a soft song and waiting for another to return its call. A single barred window presses against the wall that faces a garden courtyard. The slender wooden bars run across vertically, partially blocking the view. The bird outside calls again and receives no answer.

She had stopped gazing out years ago.

9pm.

Jujutsu Kaisen is airing. Crazy sorcerers and cursed spirits. She liked it well enough, but not too much that she'll give it her full attention. Today is the last episode of the first season. Through the white haze and the buzzing of her mind, she wonders when the second season would air.

I'm hungry. She thumbs the hem of her long sleeve. The easy afterthought of but I don't care whispers after. She sighs and focuses on the television. Thinking took too much work.

11pm.

She glances at the clock. Her dinner isn't coming. Maybe no one will ever again.

I'm tired. Lonely. Sad. Hungry. Hurting. Don't know, don't care.

There's no other afterthought.

12am.

That old hag that always delivers her dinner never showed up that night. Other people did. Strangers. Burly men in black. She didn't recognize any of them when they raided her cage. The small room she'd been holed up in for years is ransacked and thrashed. What a pain, but it doesn't really matter. What little she owned is pulled out and dumped onto the floor, even though that wasn't really necessary either.

What can a sad, sad little thing like her own?

And then, they turn their attention to her.

The way they manhandled her is despicable and inexcusable. They rip at her skin and hair, tear at her yukata and leave her with no way for her to fight back. Not that she would. The way their eyes tear into hers, the way their mouth bites on every word and the way they violently drag her out of her family estate and into a van forces the premature surrender.

They drive to the highlands where unmarked mountain ranges pours over bare landscapes. She ignores the throbbing pain all over her body, gazing lifelessly to the sky at nothing. Will it be today?

Dumbasses like this always do it the hard way. They could've just asked her nicely to follow them, it isn't like she was going to give them a hard time about it.

There's no point.

I am adding them to a list of people to curse, she thinks resolutely. The entire ride she sits there, mulling over her useless situation. When the van stops, the men waiting there drag her out of the vehicle and out to the edge of a cliff before making her kneel. Her battered body puts up no resistance.

The night is cold. Windy. The salty air tastes like freedom. She likes it.

She feels the cold gazes hovering over her kneeling form. Fear, disgust, anger, the same emotions open on their ugly faces. They look at her as if they haven't seen anything more wretched in their lives.

She returns their open resentment with an airy smile as if to agree: you probably haven't.

Splash.

Her muscles lock when she hears the sound of waves crashing against mountain cliffs.

Ocean? She wonders if it is as beautiful as she remembered it to be.

Her apprehenders spoke for a long time; a sermon. She didn't listen. It's better to be mesmerised by the ocean beckoning her with its waves. There's no need to pay attention to what they are saying. When it all boils down, it's the same thing—demon, harbinger of misfortune, cursed woman—over and over like a useless reminder. Yes, yes, I know already. Get on with it.

She won't listen. Why should she? If they told her something else maybe she would.

They end their tedious chant with a blessing for her soul, hilarious really, but what else can she expect from superstitious old coots, until—

They declare that she, aged twenty-three, will die tonight.

What follows a loud splash is the piercing icy water that stabs her skin, the constriction of her chest as her lungs fight for oxygen. Her mortal strength pales in comparison to the ocean's vicious prerogative. Momentous waves and their twisting vigour pelts relentlessly until her limbs give into their heavy and tired bind. Her helpless body no longer fought to resurface.

Buried and engulfed in the depths of the ocean, she reaches out to the moon to savour it for one last time. Peace fills her at the ethereal sight. It has been a while since she looked at it properly.

It's still pretty…

Among the waves, something thick, black and muck-like embraces her, curling lovingly around her arms and legs. She smiles for one last time, wry and cynical. Hah… is it you?

The voice always appears at times like this.

"Don't forget."

Soon, eyes flutter shut as the last of the bubbles escape.

On the day of her 'death', the ocean won the battle effortlessly.


In the Higher-Ups summoning chamber where they hide behind their byoubu screens, the tense silence stretches on, as apologetic for Satoru's lunchtime as those Japanese black companies are for their employees' sorry work-life balance. It's the most egregious thing one can do, never mind the hunger pangs of his stomach, but especially because Satoru is onto his fifth, loud disrespectful yawn, blatant in his disregard for their summons.

Finally, someone speaks.

"We have a new case for you."

Satoru cocks a lazy brow.

"This is serious, Satoru-kun."

Hah.

And when has anything not been serious with these old geezers who have a stick the size of the Tokyo Tower stuck far up their ass for decades? They're so boring and predictable. Either way, he is taking this seriously, contrary to whatever they thought. Satoru lazily watches their silhouettes behind the byobu screens, his Six Eyes seeing all.

Hm? Principal Gakuganji already looks like he's about to keel over, nice.

Satoru secretly looks forward to that day.

Another elder clears his throat. "We initially assigned Nanami-kun to take this case, but after further consideration—"

"You come to me because you realised no one else can solve it."

Silence fills the conference room. Satoru spots their cursed energy thrum with resentment. He smirks. It's endearing in a way, the roundabout method they use just because they wouldn't admit they require his assistance. Maybe he'd have a better reaction if they beg and ask cutely, even if he was going to give them hard time either way.

Choosing to blot the angry elders from his vision, Satoru's mind wanders on. Let's see, lunch—sushi sounds good. Or barbeque? Wait, is Nanami still around? Oh, he should drag him for lunch, that's an idea.

"Satoru," Principal Yaga calls. Out of all the higher-ups, Satoru can say he had a decent amount of respect for the man. "Are you aware of why we called you here?"

"Because you missed me? Ooo, I'm flattered."

"Satoru," Yaga warns.

Satoru guffaws, "Fine, fine, cut me some damn slack, let me guess, it's about the stolen Cursed Object that got them all in a titzy, right?"

It's been five days since Satoru arrived in Tokyo from an overseas mission to find the Higher-Ups in a frenzy after a Special Grade Cursed Object went missing. And how did the most restricted security in the world for Cursed Objects lose it? No one knows. Mismanagement, Satoru guessed, maybe the living fossils are losing their tact. He expected he'd be called in sooner or later, so he purposefully turned off his phone and disappeared like the dick he is just so he could enjoy watching them run about like headless chickens for a while longer.

In retrospect, that wasn't a good idea because a furious Yaga appeared in his apartment and caught him half way in a movie marathon, hands deep in a bucket of caramel popcorn. He makes a mental note to revoke his key rights later.

Though the Higher-Ups tried to keep it under wraps for fear it'd inspire curse users to act up, and Satoru pretended not to know because he just fucking felt like it, he did gather a few things so far (Ijichi is more compliant than you'd think).

One; the missing Cursed Object in question was once sealed and kept in an isolated restricted location in the mountains, far away from Jujutsu High and civilization because regardless of how it was sealed, its Cursed Energy affected other Cursed Object. Two; it's reportedly from the Meiji era. And three; it's dangerous enough for the elders to keep its existence hush-hush until now.

Which left the grand Jujutsu Council of withering crones and old men no other choice but to turn to him.

"You think too highly of yourself, Satoru-kun," an elder says sternly, "This mission is not delegated to you because we think Nanami-kun incapable but after we suggested assigning him to it, the Ainu Jujutsu company declined and specifically requested for you to see to it."

"Hm? The case request is put in from Ainu directly?"

"Yes."

Satoru clans his head in intrigue. "Oh?"

Ainu Jujutsu Company is an established independent society that operates directly from the sacred land of Hokkaido. Though they often cooperate with the Three Great Clans and Kyoto and Tokyo Jujutsu High, they scarcely bother with politics. The collaboration is strictly that—assistance provided both ways when necessary, like in the recent Night Parade of a Hundred Demons. They have remained elusive with their matters since the Heian Era when clan wars broke out. Since then, the two powers left each other to be; lukewarm in relations.

Which is to say, it's odd of them to request something from Tokyo Jujutsu High.

"Moving on, the coffin that kept the Cursed Object was found at the lake near the site that held it," another council member says. Satoru yawns again. "This is serious, Satoru and—"

"Yes, yes, I know," Satoru cuts in, picking at his ear. "Breach of security. A dangerous curse—or likely a curse user is behind it. So just call me in like you're slapping a band-aid to fix the problem, can we hurry up?"

"Insolent!"

"You—!"

"C'mon, just spit it out already," Satoru taps his watch. "It's lunchtime, and I don't know about your grandpas, but the youngins gotta eat. I'm not enjoying this either, you know?"

The seething council members settle down at once. It's a hesitating type of silence, the type Satoru recognizes as reluctance to continue. Likely because they are busy cursing him to high heavens and also because they know he'd have a lot to say about it. In a form of scathing criticism.

Well, they're right about that.

A tired, resigned sign comes from one of the screens.

"Allow me to explain."

Someone grunts. "Go ahead, Yaga."

Yaga steps out of the screen and hands thing to Satoru. It's a yellow document folder with a big stamp 'CONFIDENTIAL' on it. Satoru hums curiously. The things these conservative fools keep from the Jujutsu Society—and him, out of all people (yes, he is offended, because what the fuck he is Gojo Satoru)—all in the name of peace. Yeah, yeah, he understands why; ignorance does bring peace sometimes…

… if only they are competent enough to let it remain a secret, that is.

Which really, they fucking aren't, which brings them to the current situation.

"It's a product of Kamo Noritoshi's Cursed Womb experiments," Yaga says. "Back when the sorcerers raided his hideout in the purge, they found this object among the other curse wombs."

Now that's surprising. Why all the secrecy then when nearly every average joe sorcerer on the streets knows about Kamo Noritoshi? The product of his experiments are well-known cursed artefacts. Satoru had lost count of the number of times some sorry curse user tried to steal it over the decades only to get yeeted back by Tengen's barrier.

"It was stolen a week ago from Ainu's sealing site."

"What? Why is it with Ainu in the first place?" he asks, understanding now why the request came from Ainu. But it's strange because the barriers at Hokkaido aren't upheld by Tengen. "All the cursed wombs are stored with us. It's safer here."

"When the Curse Object started to affect all the other cursed artefacts in the Cursed Warehouse a century ago, Ainu took notice and offered to seal and guard it instead. The council back then agreed."

All this fuss for a mere cursed womb. Satoru sighs, "It's another curse womb then?"

Yaga scratches his chin, "Not exactly."

"You don't know what it is?"

"You'll understand when you see it. It's not like the other curse wombs. Unlike the death paintings, it doesn't have a conscience, soul, nor does it move or react to anything. It's indestructible too. In the end, the body was categorized as a Cursed Object that emits cursed energy."

Satoru was about to ask what Yaga meant by 'body' but there is no need for a further explanation when he flips the folder open.

The first thing that he sees is a photograph.

He frowns and picks up the faded photograph to examine it. It's of a young woman adorned in a red kimono, the fabric accented with gold cherry blossoms embroidery. She laid in the crumbling coffin on top of a cushion of yellow talismans, her long inky hair spilling down her shoulders like black waves. Pale hands rest on top of her stomach, making her look eerily peaceful—like the body was prepared and dressed for a grand funeral. A white bandage covered her eyes, small lips painted red.

Pretty, he thinks, morbidly pretty.

It is peculiar though, that he'll give. This is his first time seeing a Curse Object like this. Anyone would've assumed this is nothing more than a picture of a dead woman if they didn't know it possesses cursed energy and has remained undecayed for a century.

In all, it looked too human to be called a cursed object.

Satoru feels the gazes of the wary council members on him and restrains his laughter unlike him.

His lips spread into a grin. Why did he ever think it'd be another boring, special grade mission? He understands why the old geezers seem so reluctant to hand the case over to him. After the whole fiasco with Yuta, they're afraid he'd do something with it.

Thank fuck for Ainu having some sense then; a rare trait Satoru finds hard to find nowadays.

The thing is: Gojo Satoru would like to think of himself as an unrivalled fucking genius. Which really, he is in a way. At least better than these tasteless, useless geezers, because he knows for a fact—all the known products of the Curse Womb experiment that happened in the Meiji era were conscious; alive (if you count curses having a consciousness as being alive that is).

Never had there been a precedent of a fully intact corpse being a Cursed Object and Kamo Noritoshi, devious ingenious cunt that he is, was going against the orthodox and attempting to reach the sun for something new—the creation of a new species. And obviously, Ainu sees something in it too, because why else would they offer to guard it?

If Satoru's intuition was right—and it usually is, because he's the closest thing to God here—there is something more going on.

And factoring in how well-maintained Kamo Noritoshi kept the body, this 'object' is precious to him too. Important. And if, and only if, it isn't a Cursed Womb as it bears a significant change in appearance from its counterparts…

Satoru grins, amused.

Then what the hell is it?


It's a well-known fact in Tokyo Jujutsu High where manpower runs low that Ijichi Kiyotaka is many things; manager, accountant, human resource, assistant director, Ieiri Shoko's devoted fan, but out of all the hats he has to fill, there is one role, in particular, Ijichi dreads the most. Mainly because it adds a few years to his age.

Gojo Satoru's errand boy.

Alas, there's really no way to say "no" to the illustrious figure. Not that Gojo will accept it, Ijichi knows because he has tried multiple times. Sometimes in the dead of the night when he'd question his own existence and weigh the pros and cons of his stressful job, he wonders just what is it with Gojo that makes it so hard to say "no" to him. ("Because that bastard will annoy you till you give him what he wants," Shouko had once said when he brought it up to her during a visit to her clinic, "just give that ass a good smacking and he'll stop.")

Easier said than done, Ieiri-san, Ijichi thinks. How ever will he get past Infinity?

Nevertheless, Ijichi does respect Gojo. Qualms aside, Gojo Satoru is an accomplished sorcerer, the bearer of the Limitless and Six Eyes, Head of one of the Three Great Clans, and most importantly he is his senior and superior, no matter how tyrannical the man is.

And Ijichi does take hierarchy seriously.

It's mid-day when Ijichi stops Gojo in the halls of Tokyo Jujutsu High to report on his latest findings, eye bags and sunken cheeks because of course, Gojo had commissioned a last-minute investigation with a tight deadline. Outside, the sun blares down brightly on the empty campus. Gojo is about two heads taller than he is, even without that hope-crushing presence he had about him that takes some getting used to. He's exceedingly hard to miss.

"As expected, there's not much to go about…"

Ijichi bites back a yawn before he continues his report.

"I did some background checks as you requested. According to our database, the body didn't belong to any registered vengeful spirit from any era. The only thing we can ascertain is that Kamo Noritoshi had it in his possession. I've also sent an email to Ainu Jujutsu Company and they replied back that since the body has been sealed, no strange occurrences had happened."

He looks up to find Gojo staring blankly at the ground. It disturbs him that he's remaining so uncharacteristically silent, still like a statue with lethal talent. The sunlight catches the pale strands of his hair as they slid across his forehead, shimmering.

"So…" Ijichi says nervously, "I'm sure you realised it by now, Gojo-san, but we don't know the intended purpose of the body. Truth is, the sorcerers of the past tried to discern what type of Curse Object it was but failed."

"Where did Ainu Jujutsu Company seal it?"

Ijichi flips his notes. "Hokkaido. I have the exact location of the site. The official report indicated that there's a patrol of guards on rotation visiting it on schedule to monitor and maintain the seals and veils hiding it."

"What about the casualties?" Gojo asks. "Any witnesses?"

"No witnesses. One grade 2 sorcerer on guard and two semi-grade 1 sorcerers stationed nearby were killed the night it was stolen. They're Ainu sorcerers."

Gojo doesn't lift his gaze from the ground, although he does give him an audible hum—indicating that he's listening.

"I apologize for my incompetence," Ijichi bows, "I'd keep on looking—"

"No, no," Gojo waves his hand, "if those fossils don't even know what it is, I wouldn't expect you to know either." He grins brightly. "But seeing as how two semi-grade 1 sorcerer isn't enough to stop our naughty thief, looks like we are going up against a big boy, eh?"

Ijichi nods slowly. The real question of but what do the people who stole it want with it? hovers at the back of his mind, but he didn't ask as it can't be anything good. Chances were, they discovered the true purpose of the body.

Suddenly, Gojo breaks the silence, "What do you think it is?"

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Uh…" Ijichi adjusts his glasses. It's unlike Gojo to ask his opinion. "I think it's a curse womb…?"

Gojo laughs, his vivid blue eyes peeking over the rim of his dark shaded sunglasses mischievously. His lips curl into a sneaky sort of grin when he lolls his head to the side to stare at him.

"Okay then, Ijichi, c'mon ask me what I think about it now. Go on."

Ijichi sighs but humours him, "What do you think it is, Gojo-san…?"

"So happy you asked!" Gojo claps his hands. "First off, a small lesson–Curse Wombs are Cursed Objects because they're undeveloped curses capable of incarnating into a full half-human half-cursed spirit when implanted into a vessel. As they can't act on their own unless incarnated, it was categorised as such," he jabs a finger at the photograph Ijichi has in his notes, "but does that look like a tiny Cursed Object that can be implanted into a human to you?"

"No... Not exactly…"

"Heh."

Though Gojo appears to look like the picture-perfect definition of ease when he smiles now—arm stretching out to rest on the window frame and dressed in casual slacks instead of his jujutsu attire—Ijichi knows Gojo is anything but.

"Gojo-san, have you already discovered what it is?"

"Nope. I was just realising how it looks more like a vessel than anything else," Gojo appears thoroughly content with himself. "And here I thought that things are getting boring lately after Yuta… is there a connection?"

Ijichi silently agrees. Could be so, it's been only two weeks since the incident of the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons.

"If it's a vessel then what do you think… it's supposed to host?" Ijichi asks.

Ijichi's mind filters through the possibilities. A vessel for the cursed wombs? Thankfully all the cursed wombs are accounted for last he checked. A cursed vengeful spirit? Oh, that is bad news. Maybe he'll take Mei-san's advice and ask for the raise now.

"Who knows?" Gojo says breezily, stretching before he threads down the hall. "C'mon, let's go, Ijichi. We're going to Hokkaido."

"You're going to the site? N-Now?!" Ijichi hurries after him. "I'll get the car ready! Please wait!"

Outside, Ijichi flashes Gojo a withering look after they get into the car. The peculiar expression on Gojo's face is bugging him. A type of preternatural stance overtakes his body, lip pursed, head tilted to the side like a predator stalking some interesting prey.

Oh no.

He knows this look.

He bites back a sigh as he starts the engine.

"Gojo-san… you're not plotting something… right?"

"What?" Gojo sounds surprised. "Of course not, wasn't thinking anything like that!"

Now, that's a fucking lie.

Ijichi had worked with Gojo long enough to discern some things about him—what he's thinking about for example. Though in the case of Gojo Satoru, it wasn't foolproof. Nothing is with him. The worst thing about Gojo is that he's always moving, climbing leagues ahead of any natural human being. The second worst thing about Gojo is that he is a stubborn overgrown spoiled kid that won't take no for an answer.

Ijichi buckles his seatbelt, lamenting on behalf of the higher-ups already. He didn't particularly want to know (because really, there's nothing he can do about it), but…

"…what will you do with it when you find it?"

"Hmm," Gojo leans to his seat. "Good question, Ijichi. That depends. Actually, I have a good feeling that by the time we take it back, it'll be a completely different thing." He laughs, a wry little sound. "Wouldn't that be interesting?"

Ijichi watches him through the rear-view mirror. Gojo is calmly looking out of the window, smirking; an alluring study of silver and snow and moonshine. It makes Ijichi shudder. For all it's worth, Gojo Satoru is the apple of the eye when it comes to the pick of jujutsu sorcerers in the country—no, the entire world. He's just on another level when it comes to the extent of his skill and power.

However, as a person, Ijichi is confident when he says that Gojo Satoru is probably one of the most unpredictable and difficult man he ever had to deal with. He flexes his finger on the wheel, palms sweaty.

"You suspect it'll be… awake?"

Gojo smiles, "Hm? Did you say something, Ijichi?"

He's avoiding the topic. Ijichi grimaces, hit by a bad premonition of Deja Vu.

Disaster does beget disasters, he muses, feeling somewhat sorry for himself. There's still a lot of clean up to do after the attack on Christmas Eve, but this is far beyond him. He can only hope he won't get caught between Gojo and the Higher Ups again.

"And Ijichi, before I forget, compile a list of the ice cream spots in Hokkaido. And don't you forget about it. Hokkaido makes the best ice cream."

"Alright," Ijichi sighs. "I'll work on it soon."

"Oh, and I wanna visit the hot springs there too! So schedule it for the trip too!"

Ijichi sighs again. "Understood, Gojo-san…"

Hot springs, huh? Maybe he'll take a soak too to relieve his stress, heaven knows he will need it because—

Ijichi hits the gas pedal.

–something tells him that it'd be the start of a long, long journey.


Death is pretty peaceful.

Somewhere, among the thousands of temples scattered across Japan, three incense stick lights up on their own.

Someone takes notice.

"My my, whatever is this?"


She had never put much stock into her future, or what comes after.

There was never supposed to be a need for her to. It's nothing more than a hopeful fantasy anyway. When she sat there alone in that screened room amidst the tatami mats with no one else besides herself and the birds and world so far off behind barred windows—she'd always known better than to believe too heavily in something that she might not even be deserving of.

There's only one thing she's certain is ever-present in her future; one inevitable thing that comes for all mortals.

Death.

It's a notion that people often glorify. Philosophers debated the topic regularly, entire religions worshipped the idea, traditions and superstitions surrounding it passing down since ancient times. What comes after it, what will happen to your soul, heaven and hell, Nirvana and perfect paradise, enlightenment and condemnation.

"The natural law in the karmic wheel of samsara will spin even after our deaths," one of her many teachers explained the concept once. He was a superstitious Buddhist preacher who'd read dozens of scriptures on the idea of rebirth. "It's the act of clinging and desire that causes us to suffer—an engine of negative emotions and ego so powerful that even when a body dies, the mind continues the clinging and searching, until finally… it builds a bridge to another body and takes birth again."

The idea in itself seems fanatical and hard to believe—to transcend time and boundaries for another body, for somewhere else to inhabit, for another life to lead.

It was ludicrous, yet she decided, somewhere when she was aged sixteen, that if she were to be reborn again, she'd spent the rest of her life cursing every single fucking God out there.


("Long is the night for the sleepless. Long is the road for the weary. Long is samsara for the foolish, who have not recognized the true teaching...")

Wisps of pale smoke flutter as the last of the ashes from the burnt incense sticks drop, red embers fading away. Thick, rich red liquid pools at the decrepit altar, running to the edge.

Drip.

A hand caresses the altar. The smell of incense is choking. Someone laughs.

"Ha... this is getting interesting..."

Drip.

"So be it then."


Darkness.

I died.

An endless spread of blackness looming, hovering. Not substantial, not physical… just there, an infinite void of the abyss. It spans forever, a timeless existence as a blur of winding memories races through her mind, until—

Sounds fall on deafened ears, like distant thuds on floorboards. Her head pounds. Something hot and static, like electricity, hums in her veins. What is this? She can barely make out anything apart from the soft echo of something chirping—a bird?—and of her consciousness tumbling aimlessly through the abyss.

Something—a heart?—thumps furiously in her chest. Faster. Harder. Alive? No, impossible—she is dead, she had to be dead this time—

Eyelids snap open as stark red irises enlarge.

The woman heaves sharply, aggravation trickling into the dull sense of despondency mostly prevailing over anything else. For a moment, she lies there against a stiff futon and takes a moment to gather her wits. Experimentally, she moves her hand up her chest.

A healthy heartbeat thunders in her ribcage. But there's something else too, she did not know what, but she feels it, feels it and knows—there's something pulsating in her meridians vividly with life. An energy of sorts. She feels suffocated.

Alive?

She blinks. Oh, alive. She licks her lips and finds that she can still taste the salty water. The trauma is ingrained in her body. Long fingers trail upwards to her neck and she swallows.

That isn't a dream. Guess, I made it out?

Something chirps. She turns her head but her bleary murky vision did her no justice. She shields her eyes as the world explodes into colours. Light. Too much light–she always hated bright things.

The woman blinks multiple times to make through the shape before the world refocused. She didn't recognize the room she is in. The place is fancy, but traditional in a sense. White walls form the interior of a wide tatami room and there's a single window, circular in shape and outfitted with sturdy wooden bars.

She frowns, morbid nostalgia besieging her.

"Ah damn it," she sighs, "those dumbasses can't kill a person properly."

The normalcy returning, she scowls and moves to stand, pausing shortly when she realises she's wearing a red kimono—clearly expensive judging by the exquisite craftsmanship. The fabric is long and loose, the ends of the silk accented with cherry blossom embroidery. It drags on the floor as she walks.

A single bird chirps outside the barred window. She studies it curiously. Outside, there's a small outdoor lake that ran across what looked to be a huge estate. She didn't recognize it too. The window is big enough that she can lounge on the small alcove, but there's no way she could fit through the adjacent slot. She grabs a wooden bar and pulls it. As expected, it didn't budge.

"Another glorified prison then…" she muses wryly. "Go figure."

The same bluebird perches itself on a tree branch and sings. She stares at it.

Where is this place?

She brushes her hair with her fingers. A habit she cultivated whenever she is deep in thought. The woman frowns when she belatedly realises her black hair is much, much longer. Softer too.

Hm? How much time has passed?

Confused, she assesses her new living conditions. It didn't look like she was in a coma. There's no medical equipment in the room; no hanging IVs. Well, not that anyone would care much about her well-being. She notices the door too but makes no attempt to go towards it because as always, there's no point.

She sighs, rubbing a crease out between her brows. Ugh, whatever.

It isn't like she hadn't found herself in a situation where she passed out and found herself in a new place but something does feel strange this time around—an unexplainable feeling nipping at the back of her mind. She can't put a finger on what is making her feel that way though.

What the hell happened?

Thinking gives her time to consider the low Japanese-style table tucked at the side of the room beside the window. It gives her time to observe the small wooden vanity box on it too, knowing there's a mirror in there. But thinking also gives her time to notice there's a brown warbling mass clinging to the wooden bars now.

Her muscles lock in belated realization.

"What the—"

Suddenly, an eye appears through the puddle near the top of the ugly mass. Like an apple bobbing up from a boiling stew of water. It garbles incoherently.

"Kee….jooh…"

A scream rips through the woman's throat. She stumbles on her footing and crashes straight to the table, the impact destroying the furniture. Tears prickles her eyes and her vision turns hazy. She groans in agony against the debris, the throbbing pain arching up her spine.

"Oh! You're finally awake! Good, good, I was getting bored of waiting."

Another plethora of confusion besieges her. Who? She hadn't heard anyone come in. She works through her the pain shooting up her spine. Blur, blur, blur. Shit, it hurts. A mesh of colours. Then grey. Someone's foot. Boots.

Who?

"Hm, what's wrong? Get up. Your cursed energy seems fine."

Haziness tugs at the far corners of her mind as the person assist her into a sitting position. The person's hands are firm, disgustingly cold, and in a strange shade of greyish blue and…

Stitches?

Slowly, she looks up.

Patchwork face. Heterochromia. Dark blue and grey eyes. Long greyish-blue hair draping past his neck, framing that perfectly devious smile—wait, hold up... I know this stupid face—

Her body shoots backwards and she continues to stare at him through her black wispy bangs, just to ascertain that she isn't seeing things—that she really isn't crazy.

Memories of her past flash thru like a broken film reel.

She gapes.

Holy shit, holy fucking shit?!

He grins, "So you can move—"

He's cut off when the brown mass with one eye lunges forward with a snarling screech towards her. The woman reacts on instinct, screaming and back crawling across the floor with her legs for help.

Thankfully, the blue-haired man catches onto the monstrous thing mid-air before it even gets to her.

"Hmmm," he stares curiously at it, face inquisitive. "Isn't this the veil up? How did this little curse get in?"

In a split second, the little curse explodes with a clench of the fist from the cursed spirit, screeching. Purple putrid blood sprays across the room, lathering her face as she freezes. Casually shaking the blood off his hand, the pair of mismatched eyes migrate to her again.

The cursed spirit smiles crookedly down at her. "What? Don't tell me you're scared of a tiny curse, how cute." He tilts his head, scrutinizing her. "Hmm, oh!" He snaps his fingers. "Maybe sleeping for so long fucked you up in the head?"

Shadowed with confusion and pain, she forces her vocal cords to work.

"M-Mahito...?"

"You know me already?" Mahito beams, clapping. "I believe the introductions are unnecessary then. So what do you say? Care for a chat, Shuna-chan?"

Shuna? Me? That's not her name. A mesh of emotions runs through her, too fast for her to completely process. Despair. Fear. Terror. Pain. Mortification. Confusion. All churning into one pile of gnarly emotional ball until she feels breathless. What the fuck, what the fuck–

Crink.

She clenches her fist and it's wet and warm. Blood? She stares dumbly at the glass shard embedded in her palm. She hasn't even registered that she's hurt. Among the debris of wood and glass, her peripheral vision catches the reflection of a foreign woman in a red kimono on a large chunk of the broken reflective surface. She looks up and freezes.

A pair of crimson eyes stare back at her.

She instinctively covers her mouth to stifle a gasp. The reflection mirrors the same action. Oh my God, oh my God. That's me? Her mind spins rapidly, piecing together everything with the last piece of mounting evidence.

Oh.

She had fucking reincarnated into the Jujutsu Kaisen universe as the antagonistic race.

A beat of silence, and it all comes crashing to her.

"...pfft… ha... ha… hahaha…. HAHAHAHA!"

She wouldn't have laughed if she could've helped it, but she couldn't. A raking laughter seizes her, causing her stomach to hurt all the more—what the fuck is this? Karmic intervention for her sins? Damnation of her cursed soul? Hilarious, how fucking hilarious! Those fucking bastards were right after all! The more she thinks about it, the harder she laughs, and she couldn't stop herself from spitting out.

Ah, I get it now.

Very well then.

"Sure," the woman smiles airly at Mahito, slightly delirious, "let's have a chat."

Mahito smiles and extends a hand to help her up. She takes it.

She'll play the game for a while longer, why not?


Fate, it seems, is cruel, cruel fucking mistress.

Looks like you want me to play the demon here too.


funfact: ainu jujutsu company is actually canon, it's mentioned in jjk prequel 0 by yaga when he asked for assistance during suguru's attack. but there's not much info on them so i took some liberties.

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