"Gojo Satoru, wake up!"

The voice echoed from somewhere far away, faint yet insistent, urging him from the depths of sticky darkness.

Obediently, his eyes fluttered open. The world around him was a blur of muted colors and indistinct shapes. His mind felt clouded too, like he was swimming through thick fog. Gojo blinked a few times, trying to clear his vision. Weird dreams… they were already slipping away, their strange images fading but… holy moly, that shit had felt real!

"Where am I?" he mumbled, his voice scratchy and unfamiliar to his own ears, as though it belonged to someone else.

Silence greeted him.

Gojo blinked again, and slowly, the surroundings started to take shape. He was in a white room, the walls bare except for some old-fashioned floral curtains hanging by a small window. They swayed slightly, as if a faint breeze passed through. It seemed to be a pleasant day outside.

"Huh," he muttered, and as he moved to sit up, he noticed the sensation of cold plastic tubes running into his arm. He looked down, realizing he was hooked up to several medical machines. An IV drip hung beside him, connected to his wrist. Heart monitors and electrodes clung to his chest, their steady beeping the only sound in the otherwise eerie stillness.

Before he could make sense of it all, an alarm blared sharply, triggered by his sudden movement. His heart rate had spiked, and the medical equipment responded in a flurry of noise. He glanced at the monitor in mild panic, its erratic lines tracing the chaos of his reawakening. How could that bloody thing be made to shut up?!

Mere moments later, the door to the room burst open. A petite nurse rushed in, the fabric of her light blue scrubs rustling as she hurried toward him, her eyes wide behind wire-rimmed glasses.

"You're awake!" She quickly silenced the beeping machine before her gaze darted back to him. "You need to stay still," she instructed, her tone firm but not unkind. "You've been in a coma—don't try to move too fast."

She checked the IV attached to his arm and adjusted the leads on his chest with steady, experienced hands.

"How are you feeling? Can you speak?" she asked, her eyes scanning his face.

"Yes?" Gojo answered, utterly bewildered by the fact that he was in a hospital—a non-sorcerer hospital—and that he was spoken to like a child… he was the strongest sorcerer alive after all!

"Where is Utahime?" He blurted out. Surely she wouldn't just leave him alone in such an unpleasant place?

The nurse's brow furrowed at Gojo's question, her hands pausing for a moment as she finished adjusting the medical equipment. She opened her mouth to answer but hesitated, clearly uncertain about what—or who—he was referring to.

"Utahime?" she echoed, tilting her head slightly. "I'm not sure... We will call your relatives shortly."

Gojo's confusion deepened. Everything felt wrong—his surroundings, the bleak hospital room, the unfamiliar smells of sickness and disinfectants that clung to the air. Worst of all, the strange lack of cursed energy in the place made his skin crawl.

He tried to sit up straighter, but the nurse quickly pressed a hand to his shoulder, urging him to stay down. "Please, don't strain yourself, Mr. Gojo. You've been out for a long time," she said gently, though her expression was a little more cautious now.

Gojo's mind raced, memories collided—Chia, the wake, Utahime, making the most beautiful love, the cursed object and its offer, it all seemed like it happened in another lifetime. "She was with me," he muttered, more to himself now, blinking as he tried to piece together what happened. "I need her here."

"I'm going to call the doctor," the nurse took a step back, reaching for the pager clipped to her waist. "Just relax for a moment, okay? We'll get everything figured out."

"This isn't funny," Gojo murmured sourly to himself once he was alone again. But who would dare prank him like this? Geto. He closed his eyes for a moment, exhaling sharply as a pang of sorrow struck him deep. Geto was gone and he wouldn't come back.

But the memories were still vivid, still so painfully clear. He could almost hear Geto's familiar chuckle echoing in his ears, that mischievous glint in his eyes every time they'd pulled off some ridiculous prank back in school. They were legendary—whether it was covering Gojo's food in ridiculous layers of polyethylene food wrap or convincing the other students that Gojo had been cursed into speaking gibberish for an entire day.

A wave of dizziness washed over him then, disorienting and surreal. For a terrifying moment, Gojo felt as though he was slipping away, dissolving into thin air. He could almost sense his body unraveling, like he could vanish—disappear completely, inconsequential. Was that what he was? Just smoke that could dissipate, leaving no trace behind?

Thankfully, the door swung open a moment later, and a doctor entered with brisk, confident strides, snapping him back to reality. She was tall, with sharp eyes that missed nothing, and a bit scary.

"Well, well, you finally decided to wake up," she remarked with a wry smile, flipping through the chart at the foot of his bed. "I'm Dr. Yamane."

Gojo frowned, feeling the cool metal of the stethoscope press against his chest as Dr. Yamane leaned in, listening intently to his breathing. She smelled faintly of death. Never heard of her. Was she one of the few non-sorcerers who knew about the Jujutsu society?

"Breathe in," she commanded, her eyes flicking back to his face, watching for any signs of distress.

He complied, drawing a deep breath and then exhaling slowly, though his mind was still racing. "I want Shoko," he pressed, the irritation creeping into his voice. "I need to talk to her."

Dr. Yamane raised an eyebrow, moving the stethoscope to another spot on his chest. "We'll get in touch with Doctor Ieri of course, but for now, I'm the one handling your care." She stepped back, removing the stethoscope and slinging it around her neck. "You've been through quite the ordeal, Gojo-san. Your body is still weak—rushing things will only put you at greater risk."

Weak? His body... weak? The thought was absurd, but the strange heaviness he felt made it real. Reflexively, he tried to activate his reverse cursed technique, willing the familiar surge of energy to heal him. Nothing happened. His cursed energy remained dormant, blocked as if the very air in this place suppressed it. What was this place?!

It didn't feel safe.

"What's wrong with my eyes?" Gojo asked, squinting in a futile attempt to sharpen the blurry world around him.

Dr. Yamane tilted her head, observing him closely. "What do you think is wrong?"

"I can't see clearly," he muttered, frustration building fast. He didn't like any of this.

"Do you usually wear glasses?"

Gojo almost scoffed aloud. Glasses? Him? The idea was laughable. Was he Nanami?

"It could be a side effect of your extended coma," she offered, her voice neutral but firm.

"Why was I in a coma?" Gojo frowned. Understanding that was paramount it seemed. They had said coma at least three times like it explained everything.

Dr. Yamane sighed softly, setting the chart aside. "You're in a private government hospital outside of Tokyo. You were brought here with instructions to monitor your condition. That's all I know."

Tokyo. Not Kyoto. Something big had happened. And the government was involved? That wasn't good.

Gojo turned his head toward the open window, sunlight filtering through the glass and casting soft patterns on the floor. It was no longer January.

"What date is it today?" he asked, already dreading the answer.

"Today," Dr. Yamane replied without needing to check, "is the 26th of March."

Gojo almost laughed. Of course, it was the 26th of March. Old man Michizane's birthday. That meddlesome ancestor had always seemed to have a hand in his fate. Would that nuisance ever leave him alone?

"And the year?" Gojo asked, swallowing hard as he prepared himself for the worst.

"2018," she said, her tone flat. "You've been out for a little more than two months."

Only two months. It should've been a relief, but instead, it felt like a punch to the gut. Two months of his life, gone without a trace, like a dream he couldn't quite wake up from. Two months in which the world had carried on without him.

And now, staring blankly out the window at the ordinary world beyond, a dark thought crept into his mind. What if they didn't need me? What if I was inconsequential?

The strongest sorcerer in the world—reduced to a memory, as fleeting as smoke.

Switching off the machines before they could trigger another alarm, Gojo freed himself from all those annoying cables and methodically pulled on the clothes he found in the cupboard: a haori, a scarf, a black t-shirt, and odori pants. No blindfold or dark glasses—though, it hardly mattered. He could barely sense cursed energy anywhere around him, the world was oddly muffled and dull.

Tying his shoes left him breathless, his hands trembling with the effort. He had never felt so drained, so disoriented. Poison came to mind and nearly dying from blood loss once but this was different. It was like a piece of him was missing.

In the bathroom, he gripped the edges of the sink for support as he lifted his head to look at the mirror.

But there he was. Gojo Satoru stared back at him—or at least, someone who looked like him. The reflection felt off. The man in the mirror seemed... hollow. His blue eyes, usually gleaming with energy, blinked back at him with an insipidness that was unsettling. His skin was a sickly shade that made the dark shadows under his eyes seem almost bruised. His hair, grown too long, fell messily and artlessly around his face.

He pressed his fingertips to the glass, watching the reflection mimic the gesture.

Is this really me?

The thought struck with a jolt of fear, gnawing at his sense of self. He couldn't afford to linger. He needed to leave.

Searching the hospital room systematically, he quickly realized that no one had bothered to leave him his phone or a wallet. Had they assumed he would not wake up? He racked his brain for any numbers he could remember so he could at least call someone from a public phone. Just the Gojo mansion came to mind, but he had no desire to speak to any of his aunts. No, the only person he wanted to see, hear, touch and kiss was Utahime.

Luckily, he knew where she would be today.

Steeling himself, Gojo took a deep breath and crept toward the door. That doctor had been very clear about keeping him confined for longer—strict instructions given by whoknowswho that clashed entirely with his own desires. He pressed his ear against it, straining to catch any sound from the hallway. Once satisfied, he opened it slowly, finding the corridor deserted. Keeping his back to the wall, he edged along it, keeping his focus on the glowing exit sign at the end of the hall.

He felt utterly ridiculous. Here he was, a sorcerer renowned for his power and prowess, sneaking through a hospital like a thief in the night.

Despite the absurdity, reaching the end of the hall unseen was a relief. When he pushed the door open, the rush of fresh air was like a slap to the senses, sharp and startling. He stumbled into the empty parking lot, blinking against the sudden brightness of the sun, its warmth contrasting sharply with the sterile chill of the hospital. It hit him then—he had no plan, no idea how he was going to get back to Kyoto. He had no money, no phone. For the first time in his life, Gojo Satoru felt stranded, cut off from everything he knew. That, too, struck him as quite hilarious.

To make it even worse, a line from an old Japanese saying floated through his mind: "The journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step." He couldn't help but scoff at the irony; he, someone who had always moved through life at lightning speed, was reduced to taking literal steps.

But he was still Gojo Satoru. He wouldn't let any of this tie him down. With grim determination, he began to walk.

Six hours later, Gojo had somehow convinced himself that this was all just an extremely vivid, strange dream. It wasn't the first time he'd experienced something like it—and in the haze of exhaustion and disorientation, it was easier to believe than confronting the actual mess of waking up in an obscure hospital, stripped of his powers.

He had been offered several rides along the way. A kind aged lady had taken him to a highway rest area with a remarkable bakery. Quite hard of hearing, she hadn't asked too many questions, and for that, Gojo was grateful. He needed the silence to collect his thoughts, but thinking was harder than he remembered. From the rest area—the pretty female baker had given him a doughnut shaped pastry for free when he eyed it hungrily!—he managed to catch a lift from a couple who were visiting Kyoto for the first time. They were excitedly discussing their plans as they drove, and Gojo tried to follow along, nodding absently. The gentle sway of the vehicle and their evermore distant chatter made him incredibly sleepy.

They dropped him off near a train station in Kyoto. Here, Gojo flagged down a taxi. He should have thought of it earlier—of course, the taxi driver knew who he was and was ready to drive him without receiving any money up front. His white hair, his fame as the head of the insanely rich Gojo family, made him stand out even when he wasn't trying.

Now, with the sun sinking toward the horizon and his stomach growling louder and louder, Gojo rolled down the window to let the fresh spring air fill the taxi. It smelled of cherry blossoms and damp earth, mingled with the timeless, ancient elegance of Kyoto. The cool breeze brushed against his face, lifting the dreamlike haze that had clung to him all day, as if waking him up bit by bit. The day had passed in a blur, but now, clarity came in small, steady waves.

Soon, he'd reach the temple. Soon, he'd see her.

He wondered how Utahime would react. Would she be relieved? Would she have the slightest idea of what had happened to him? He could imagine her expression—and hoped she would get a little angry at him. He liked her spirited side. Understatement. He loved it.

As the taxi pulled to a stop just in front of the first torii gate, his heart raced with excitement. From here, it was only a quick trip up to the family shrine. He barely registered the beautiful vermillion structure arching overhead when he gave the driver instructions on how to collect his money. Gojo dashed through the gate and up the winding path lined with moss-covered stones and vibrant greenery. With each stride, he felt lighter, younger, more like himself. As he ascended, he rehearsed what he might say to her, but all that came to mind was the overwhelming urge to hold her close, to feel the warmth of her presence after what felt like an eternity apart.

As soon as he caught sight of the temple's iconic roof peeking through the trees, he called out, "Utahime!"

His voice echoed faintly in the tranquil air, but there was no response. The temple grounds were serene, bathed in the golden hues of the setting sun. In his impatience, he didn't bother stopping to wash his hands at the purification fountain or observe the usual rituals. He quickened his pace, rushing up the wooden steps and toward the main hall.

"Utahime!" he called again, the sound reverberating in the sacred space.

Silence.

He glanced around, scanning the serene interior of the shrine, but there was no sign of her. The temple was empty, save for the quiet rustle of the wind outside. His excitement faltered abruptly.

"Utahime?" His voice was uncertain this time.

Still, nothing.

"She isn't here," Gojo whispered, struggling with the weight of his crushing disappointment.

Why wasn't she here? He knew she had made a pact with Michizane last year—something tied to that spirit's wretched birthday. And if there was one thing he understood about Michizane, it was that he wouldn't let anyone, especially someone like Utahime, easily slip out of a deal.

His heart sank further as he glanced around the empty shrine. The shadows in the corners seemed to whisper secrets his ears couldn't perceive, and he felt the weight of defeat looming over him. It felt as if he was chasing ghosts, remnants of something that had once been vibrant and alive, now only a memory fading into the dusk.

Gojo's eyes drifted to a small altar near the entrance of the shrine. It held offerings—candles, charms, small personal tokens—all the usual items left by the members of his family in an attempt to appease the ancestor. Among these things, something caught his eye. Half-hidden beneath a neatly folded cloth was a small bundle of papers bound by a simple rubber band. The sight stirred a memory from New Year's morning, when he and Utahime had visited the shrine together.

Curious, Gojo stepped forward and crouched, pulling the bundle into the light. As he unbound the rubber band and flipped through the pages, he recognized Utahime's neat handwriting immediately. Quite unexpected, an ugly wave of jealousy surged through him. For a brief, irrational moment, he thought it might be a letter—something personal meant for Michizane. But as he began to read, he felt quite foolish. These weren't love letters or anything sentimental. They were just notes—about a history assignment. Prickly Mai Zen'in's, to be exact.

Apparently, Mai had written an essay last year about the strained relationship between the Gojo and Zen'in Clans, a history Gojo knew all too well. The power struggles, bitter rivalry, and undercurrent of mistrust between the two families were etched in centuries of blood and betrayal. He skimmed through Utahime's thoughtful comments, noting her advice: "Good observation, but dig deeper. There's more to this than meets the eye."

Indeed, there was more. The Gojo and Zen'in clans didn't just feud over power and influence; something much older and deeper had always simmered beneath the surface of their animosity. He thought back to the recent discovery that Michizane might have been reborn as head of the Zen'in clan—a revelation that would send shockwaves through Jujutsu Society if proven true. So if the Zen'in clan could be tied to his own lineage in ways that blurred the clear-cut lines of enemy and ally… then what?

Before he could dwell on this rather disturbing thought any further, something else caught his eye.

Wrapped carefully in a thin cloth on the altar was a small, delicate magatama, carved from smooth jade. The pale green stone gleamed faintly in the dim light of the shrine when Gojo held it up to the light, his fingers brushing against the cool, polished surface of the curved, comma-shaped bead.

And then he spotted the tiny Iori family crest embroidered on the cloth. This was an offering from Utahime! Perhaps a recent one? But why would she gift Michizane something like this? Magatama were powerful symbols of spiritual protection, dating back to Japan's earliest history, often used to shield vulnerable souls, to anchor them to the world of the living.

Gojo clenched his jaw, barely able to prevent another surge of jealousy. Michizane did not need anchoring in this world. The less of Michizane in this world, the better. His ancestor had caused enough trouble already, weaving himself into Gojo's fate like an unwanted shadow.

"Seriously can't stand him," Gojo muttered under his breath, casting a quick glance at the closed door to the inner sanctuary.

He held the magatama up to the light one last time before gently placing it back into the cloth, but something inside him rebelled. If anyone here needed shielding, protection, or anchoring in this confusing mess of a world, it was him—not some long-dead sorcerer with a god complex.

Without a second thought, Gojo tucked the magatama into his own pocket.

That made him feel better. Now what? The sky was fading fast into twilight, shadows lengthening across the temple grounds like creeping fingers. Gojo glanced up at the deepening dusk, realizing he had no way of reaching his mansion on foot before nightfall. The thought of wandering aimlessly around Mount Hiei in the dark wasn't appealing in the least.

Hunger gnawed at him, a sharp reminder of the long day and the scant meals he'd managed to scrape together on his journey. His gaze drifted to the food offerings left on the altar—fresh enough, by the look of it. Without thinking twice, Gojo reached for a piece of rice cake, then some dried fish, and finally, a small cup of sake. He downed the sake in one swift motion, and it hit him like a punch to the gut.

"Whoo…" he exhaled, leaning against the wooden pillar, eyes half-lidded. Maybe he'd best catch some sleep before doing anything else?

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he made his way toward the inner shrine, where the air was warm, as if it had been waiting for him. Michizane's statue loomed ahead, its carved features as imposing as ever—fanged and crowned with twisted horns that echoed the deity's legendary power.

Gojo smirked at it. "You were far less ugly in real life."

He settled down on the floor in front of the statue, the wooden boards creaking slightly under his weight. For a moment, he allowed himself to drift back in time, to when he had been a child, kneeling before this same figure. Back then, he had stared up into those cruel eyes, caught between awe and rebellion. Awe because Michizane, the great ancestor of sorcerers, was the source of his and his clan's power. And rebellion, because even as a child, Gojo had never liked the idea of bowing to anyone—not even to a deity as revered as this.

Gojo's entire life had been defined by rebellion, by an unrelenting fight against the expectations and constraints placed upon him. But now, as he sat in the quiet warmth of the shrine, Gojo felt something different.

"This isn't a dream, right," he sighed, lying down on his back and spreading his limbs wide. He couldn't help the faint chuckle that escaped him afterward. How strange it felt, to say those words aloud, to acknowledge the damning truth.

His cursed energy, that overwhelming power that had defined him since childhood, was gone. He reached inward, instinctively searching for it once more like countless times today, but found only silence. No hum of power, no infinite reservoir beneath his skin. Nothing.

The way he saw the world now was entirely different—this strange, fog-like, imprecise image his eyes projected into his brain was a stark contrast to the sharp clarity he once possessed. Without the Six Eyes constantly bombarding him with data, without the endless pressure of cursed energy thrumming in his veins, everything felt softer. Calmer.

His thoughts were quiet and unhurried for the first time in what felt like a lifetime. He had lived his whole life under the crushing responsibility of his power—carrying the legacy of the Gojo clan, shouldering the hopes and fears of others, fighting enemies who wanted nothing more than to see him fall. But sitting here, stripped of everything that had once defined him, he realized he didn't miss it. Not even a little bit. He didn't feel loss, or panic, or fear. Instead, he felt something entirely unexpected: relief.

For the first time in his life, he wasn't the strongest. He wasn't the one everyone looked to, the one who carried the weight of an entire world on his shoulders. He was just Gojo. A man lying on the floor of a quiet shrine, surrounded by the warmth of stillness and xxx.

And it was peaceful.

It was this he wanted, he realized suddenly. An opportunity to create his own history. To begin again. To decide what he wanted rather than allowing others to decide and dictate his life.

He wanted to marry Utahime and take care of their children. The idea of cooking breakfast together with Utahime, the smell of miso soup wafting through the air as they argued over who made the best omelet, brought a smile to his face. He could see it clearly in his mind: a simple kitchen filled with light, where they shared small moments that mattered more than any grand victory.

He wanted to be present for every milestone—their children's first steps, their first words, all the moments that made life rich and vibrant. He wanted to be the one who cheered them on at school events, who helped them with their homework, who consoled them during hard times with nothing more than a hug and some sage advice.

As he lay there, he realized he wanted to make memories, not just for himself but for them. He envisioned evenings spent huddled together on the couch, playing video games and laughing, or family game nights that ended with everyone tangled up in a heap of joy.

His thoughts drifted to the more intimate moments, the quiet nights spent wrapped in Utahime's arms, where they could talk about everything and nothing—where every shared glance would speak volumes. He could almost hear her laughter, the way it lit up the room, the way it would blend with their children's giggles, creating a symphony of happiness that echoed through their home.

He wanted to grow old, to feel the wrinkles form on his face as a testament to a life well-lived. He wanted to reminisce about the past, to hold his grandchildren and great-grandchildren on his knees, to pass down stories filled with lessons and love.

And as he closed his eyes, a serene smile graced his lips. He could see it all so clearly, the life he yearned for, and it felt so within reach.

But…

"Young master? Young master, are you here?"

The anxious shouts outside shattered his peace, pulling him back into the present with a jolt.

"Gojo Satoru!" another voice called, urgency lacing their tone.

How could he hold on to his dreams? He was being summoned back to the chaos he had momentarily escaped, he could already feel its sticky fingers grasp his sleeve.

"Yes, I'm here," he sighed softly, shrugging apologetically to Michizane's statue. He pushed himself up from the floor, the warmth of the shrine fading as he stepped toward the entrance, the cool night air biting at his skin.