Chapter Text
In the hollow silence of the empty room, Gojo sat—a still island amid flickering shadows. The air thrummed faintly with power as Utahime and Gakuganji moved around him like solemn priests weaving incantations. Their voices were low, steady, threading through the space, strengthening his Hollow Purple with delicate precision.
A violet light bloomed, fragile yet fierce, swirling and coalescing beneath his skin. Gojo’s breath caught in his throat. The power surged—stronger than before, sharper, but heavier, like a promise forged in iron and sorrow.
When the ritual waned, when the last whisper of their chants dissolved into the quiet, Gojo rose. But his body betrayed him—he fell back, flat against the cold floor, eyes tracing the cracks that webbed like fragile veins above.
Gakuganji’s voice broke the stillness, rough and impatient. “This is no time for games, Gojo.”
His laugh was hollow, bitter. “It’s not a game.”
Utahime’s gaze searched his face, a flicker of confusion and concern shadowing her eyes. “Then what is it?”
Gojo’s fingers clenched, knuckles white against the unforgiving floor. “Even if I could overpower Sukuna…” His voice cracked like ice breaking. “…I can never kill Megumi.”
The words hung there, a shard of darkness sharper than any blade.
Utahime’s breath hitched, anger folding into grief. “Then you’re already defeated.”
“Sacrifices are the law of sorcerers,” Gakuganji said, voice cold as stone. “To save the many, the few must fall.”
But Gojo’s gaze was a storm, fierce and unyielding. “I won’t be the one to kill my adopted son.”
The weight of centuries, of pain and politics and endless battles pressed down. This is why I killed the elders, he thought bitterly. Because I could not bear their cruel games any longer.
His eyes darkened with a fire that refused to die. “There must be another way. Another way to pull Megumi free.”
Utahime’s arms folded, skepticism writ plain in every line of her body. “Time is a river with no reverse current. Unless we can change the events of Shibuya—”
“Even then, I’d have to kill Yuuji,” Gojo snaps, voice barely a whisper, haunted.
Gakuganji opened his mouth, but Gojo’s glare silenced him—sharp, absolute.
Utahime exhaled, the weight of despair bleeding into sarcasm. “Then the only path left... is to send you back. Back to the Heian era, before Sukuna’s shadow darkened the world—before he became a god of ruin. You’d kill him then, a young man in his 20s with fragile power, a flicker of light before the darkness.”
Gojo’s eyes held hers—steady, cold, unblinking. “I’ll do it.”
Utahime’s breath caught. “That was never a true option.”
But Gojo’s voice was quiet, ironclad. “It is now. If I have to kill him, it will be when he is still human. Before he becomes what he is.”
He let the silence gather around them like falling ash. “Besides... my power is stronger now, because of you.”
Gakuganji sighed, surrendering. “I’ll search Tengen’s notes. But know this—you will likely still face Sukuna inside Megumi’s body.”
Gojo sat upright, the weight in his chest a familiar ache. “Then I will fight. If no other path exists.”
And in that quiet, heavy room, the future curled around them—twisted, uncertain, and cruel.
The air cracked open with blue light as Gojo raised a hand, and in the blink of a breath, the three of them stood at the threshold of secrets best left buried—the Tombs of the Star Corridor.
The light here was dim and unsettling, a violet dusk that never ended. The walls breathed with ancient power, seals long forgotten stitched into the stone, humming like old, sleeping gods. Dust hung in the air like memory.
Tengen’s forbidden texts were kept here—the record of every failed dream and dangerous truth sorcerers had tried to bury.
Gakuganji moved first, grumbling under his breath, fingers brushing past scrolls wrapped in cursed silk, paper brittle with age and consequence. And then, after a moment:
“I found it.”
A scroll, half-rotted and bound with a black string. He unfurled it carefully.
His eyes skimmed the page. Then narrowed.
“It’s a time-travel technique,” he muttered. “But it’s incomplete. It warns—if this method is performed, the traveler may never return. May be cast into the wrong era entirely—past or future. There is no anchor once the body leaves the present.”
He looked up, voice flat. “This is suicide.”
Utahime stepped beside him, frowning at the lines of cramped script. “It’s too dangerous, Gojo. It’s not worth it. We should use the strength we have now, fight with what we’ve got—not throw our strongest sorcerer into the abyss on a desperate gamble.”
Gakuganji grunted. “And for what? To avoid the inevitable? Sacrifices are the foundation of jujutsu society.”
But Gojo’s face did not change. It was carved from ice and grief. “I am not killing my student.” His voice did not rise. It didn’t have to.
Utahime’s jaw clenched. “You’re being reckless.”
“Maybe,” he said. “But I’m right.”
They stared at each other—three sorcerers, bound by duty, split by heart.
And then, reluctantly, they began to prepare the ritual.
The ground cracked open beneath them, slow and deliberate, like the earth itself was being unstitched. From the center of the room bloomed a void—deep, starless, alive. A shadow made of time itself, bottomless and cruel.
Gakuganji stepped back. “Gojo… last warning. This technique is unstable. If you misstep, it will devour you. Or worse—you’ll land in the wrong century. In the wrong life.”
Utahime’s voice broke on the edges of fury. “Why are you so damn stubborn about this?!”
Gojo didn’t answer immediately. He stared into the portal, as though trying to see the boy he once raised through the ripples of time. When he spoke, it was quiet, but the words cut clean.
“Because this is my decision. My life. My fight. And my way to save everyone.”
The silence between them burned.
Finally, Gakuganji turned his head, muttering something like a curse. Utahime shook her head, lips pressed into a tight, angry line. But neither stopped him.
Gojo took one step toward the void. Then another. The blackness writhed, curling at his feet like smoke, like something waiting to pull him apart and reassemble him in a different century.
He paused at the edge, turned first to Utahime.
“If I don’t come back… please don’t die because you were too afraid to be strong.”
Then to Gakuganji. “And you… don’t become like those elders. I killed them for a reason.”
They both bristled—offended, furious—but still. They whispered, as one: “…Good luck, Gojo.”
He smiled faintly, like it hurt. Then stepped into the dark.
And time swallowed him whole.
When Gojo awoke, the first thing he noticed was how strange the fabric felt against his skin—too loose, too heavy, slipping off his shoulders like silk on polished stone.
He looked down, blinking hard. His uniform—so tailored to his adult frame—now hung off him like a drape. He tugged the fabric closer, clutching it against his body, tying it with shaking fingers. It felt like dressing in memory.
The trees loomed high above him, taller than they should be. The stream behind him, glittering under the pitch-black night, whispered with a louder voice than he remembered. And everything—everything—seemed bigger.
Why did he feel so small?
The sky above was choked in stars, moonlight trembling on the leaves. He began to walk, barefoot through grass and river-silt, until the distant hum of human life reached him. Lantern light, clattering voices. A town.
He slipped through the darkness like a ghost, until he found a small unattended stall tucked into the side of a thatched alleyway. Delicate yukata hung in rows like sleeping birds, dyed indigo and chestnut, patterned in clouds and cranes. A simple pair of asagutsu—wooden sandals—sat beneath them.
Gojo hesitated only a moment before he ducked inside. He changed quickly, wrapping himself in a dark blue yukata more suited for a child, though the fit still felt unfamiliar and foreign. The shoes clacked lightly as he stepped.
In the corner of the stall sat a mirror—small, round, and unmistakably old. Its polished bronze surface was inlaid with delicate symbols, lacquered with age and wear, and mounted in a carved wooden frame shaped like a chrysanthemum. A kagami, one of the sacred heirlooms of the Heian era.
He cautiously peered into it and gasped. Staring back at him was not the man who had left the tombs of the Star Corridor. Not the strongest sorcerer of his age. No.
A child.
A boy with snowy white hair, cheeks still soft and rounded by youth, skin like porcelain and those same eyes—impossibly blue, impossibly bright.
He clenched his jaw, the horror rising like bile. This… was going to be a problem.
Still—his cursed techniques were intact. He could feel them beneath the skin like coiled lightning. He wasn’t helpless. Just… inconvenient.
He found a netted kubi-bukuro, a traveling pouch to carry personal items, hanging near the yukata. He stuffed his adult-sized clothes into it and tied it tightly on his waist, tucking himself deeper into the night.
The horizon was beginning to bloom, delicate and golden. Color stretched across the sky like a wound being healed, slowly and softly.
The good news: this was definitely the Heian era. He recognized the tall, sloping roofs of shinden-zukuri houses, the layered robes of nobles drifting past like silk banners, the quiet lack of electricity or modern sound.
The bad news: he had come here as a child. If Sukuna was already grown, already killing, Gojo would have to face him like this. Small hands. Short limbs.
The good news: children could slip through the cracks adults couldn’t. Could listen. Could vanish.
The bad news: even if he succeeded, even if he killed Sukuna… he would still be trapped here. Alone.
He walked in silence until he came upon a small sakaya—a rustic sake house where men sat on wooden stools, smoke curling from small fires in the corner.
He slipped in quietly, settling onto an empty seat at the far edge. His legs dangled from the bench.
The sakaya owner, a broad-shouldered man with a tired face and callused hands, frowned when he saw him. “Oi. What’s a child doing out this late? Whose boy are you?”
Gojo didn’t flinch. “I’m from a merchant family. They sent me to fetch water for morning tea.”
The man raised a brow. “Your tongue’s odd. You speak with the wrong rhythm. Where’re you from, lad?”
Gojo paused. Then smiled faintly. “From Tanegashima. A small island to the south. Our words are strange there.”
The man’s brows lifted, impressed despite himself. “All the way from Tanegashima? That’s no short distance.” He handed Gojo a small, wooden cup of water. “Next time, bring coin.”
Gojo nodded, gratefully drinking. The water was cool and clean and tasted faintly of ash. The chill of it had faded, leaving only a faint tremor in his fingers. The night still held, but barely.
Then—boots. Laughter. Voices dragging across the threshold like storm clouds.
A group of men strode in, clinking with the echo of swords and old exhaustion. Samurai, tired and sharp-edged, their armor streaked with dust and the fatigue of long nights. They dropped onto the stools near Gojo with the ease of routine, voices rising like birds startled from a tree.
"Night shift at the Heian-kyō palace," one grumbled, shaking off his helmet, “is hell.”
Heian-kyō. The old capital. Kyoto, but still untouched by centuries. Gojo kept his eyes low.
Another man snorted. “Be glad you didn’t have to patrol the western halls. I saw it again.”
The first stiffened. “The beast?”
Gojo’s ears pricked. He didn’t move.
A third man leaned in, face pale with dramatic flair. “They say the bounty’s doubled. No—tripled. Anyone who kills that thing can retire in silk, never lift a sword again.”
The fourth laughed, a feral sound. “I’d do it. Four arms, they say. Twice the swords, twice the blood. Gods know I need the coin.”
Gojo’s hand tightened around the cup. A soft creak of wood under his fingers.
Four arms.
One of the samurai turned, noticing the boy. His grin was wide, crooked, the kind drunks wear when they spot something smaller than themselves.
“Well now—does the child think he can take on the beast too?”
Laughter broke around the room like cracked porcelain.
Gojo raised his head, eyes sharp as needles. “Does it… have two faces?”
Silence. Like a string snapped.
The air went still.
The samurai stared. “Yes,” one said slowly, suspicion rising in his voice. “That’s what the rumors say. Two faces. A demon with four arms and two faces. How’d you know that, boy?”
Gojo said nothing.
His voice was low when he asked, “Where is it?”
The laughter was gone now.
The eldest samurai leaned forward, his mouth twisted in warning. “Don’t ask questions like that, child. That shrine is cursed. Hidden deep in the forest beyond the capital. It’ll take you days to get there—if the trees don’t swallow you first.”
“Many men have gone,” another added, his voice quieter. “None have returned.”
Gojo stood, his frame small but his shadow long against the lantern light. He placed the empty cup back on the counter with silent finality.
The samurai watched him with narrowing eyes.
“Where are you from, boy?” one asked. “You look strange. Speak strange.”
Gojo paused at the door, the cold air curling around his ankles.
“Far away,” he said.
And then he left—disappearing into the dawn light, with only the sound of wind in the trees and fate curling quietly around his heels.
To a normal man, the forest would have been a labyrinth—dense and unkind, a place that twisted endlessly in on itself, each tree a sentinel guarding the path to something terrible.
But Gojo was not a normal man.
Even in this child's body, his power pulsed beneath his skin like a second heartbeat. He leapt from branch to branch, skirted over riverbeds and under low-hanging canopies of pine and red-leaf maple. The forest hissed around him, cicadas screaming from the undergrowth as if trying to warn him back.
He ran through dawn, through morning haze, his bare feet padded and silent. When he stopped, it was only to kneel and drink from clear streams that shimmered with the blush of sky. When he paused, it was to close his eyes, reach out with his senses, and feel for the chill flare of cursed energy.
It took hours.
The sun rose behind clouds, bled through them in veins of gold. Gojo's legs ached. Sweat ran down his back. The child's body, though familiar now, still protested the speed, the strain. But he pressed forward, driven not by duty—but desperation.
Then—he felt it.
It struck him like lightning through water. A dense, heavy pressure that warped the air like summer heat on stone. Cursed energy, ancient and wild, humming through the earth like a buried scream.
Gojo's eyes snapped open.
He climbed the nearest tree, feet finding bark like he was born of it. From the top, he scanned the horizon—and there it was.
A small shrine, barely upright, its roof listing to one side, as if even the wood knew what it housed and dared not stand too tall. It crouched at the forest's edge like a wounded animal, quiet but waiting.
Gojo’s breath hitched.
He leapt from the tree and landed soft on the moss, legs folding like a deer’s. Without another thought, he ran.
Branches clawed at him. Roots tripped at his feet. The closer he got, the heavier the air became, as though the world itself was holding its breath.
When he broke through the trees, the shrine stood before him in full—and he was not alone.
An old man sat on the worn steps, hunched like a folded leaf. His back was bowed, and he cupped a gourd in trembling hands, sipping what looked like water. His presence startled Gojo; he hadn’t sensed anyone but Sukuna.
Was this… him?
Could Sukuna—the Sukuna—have decayed into this blind and feeble husk over centuries? Could he have become this small, this ordinary, this quiet?
Gojo’s expression sharpened, mask settling over confusion.So this was how it would end.
He stepped forward, each footfall deliberate. His tiny shadow stretched across the dirt. The old man didn’t flinch. His eyes were gray, milked over with age, and they stared past Gojo—through him.
“You there,” Gojo said, voice low but even, “Can I stay here?”
The old man startled violently, nearly dropping the gourd. “Eh?! Who—who’s there?” he croaked. “Ah—no, no! I’m not from here. Just stopped to drink some water.”
He blinked rapidly, eyes never quite landing on Gojo. “Don’t stay, child. Don’t stay here. Not safe.”
Gojo stared, mouth parting slightly. “You’re not… him.”
The old man looked even more frightened at the tone in Gojo’s voice. He stumbled off the steps, clutching his walking stick, and hobbled into the trees, muttering about home, about the spirits watching.
Gojo turned, brows drawn tight. If Sukuna was here… why hadn’t he killed the old man?
He walked into the shrine slowly, each step echoing like a drumbeat. The interior was dark—stale air and old wood, the faint scent of iron hanging like memory. Gojo stood in the silence, blue eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
He stepped deeper into the shrine, each footfall sounding too loud in the stillness. The room yawned before him—emptied of presence, and yet too full of power. It hung in the air like incense—this cursed energy. Stale iron and sick-sweet malice. It pulsed through the floorboards, through the beams of rotting wood, thrumming like the low growl of something sleeping just beneath the earth. But the room was empty.
Gojo frowned. His eyes adjusted to the dark, glinting like moonlight on water. Then—a glimmer of something in the corner. A… ladder?
Rickety, wooden, half-hidden behind warped panels, with a narrow hatch barely wide enough for a small child. Gojo’s expression sharpened. Was this a trap? A cursed illusion? Maybe Sukuna used a shape-shifting seal—a mechanism that expanded for him, shrank for others.
Still, the cursed energy bled thickest from this place. There was no mistaking it. Gojo crouched low and slipped through the opening.
The air changed immediately—colder, heavier, wet with something like breath. And then—he saw it.
A boy.
Thin as a whisper, lying flat on his back in the center of the room, staring up at the ceiling with arms outstretched. Four arms.
Gojo’s breath caught in his throat.
He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just stared at the child—gaunt, bare-footed, ragged. A tangle of limbs and bones and ink, against skin stretched too tight.
The boy was maybe ten. No older than Gojo was now.
Gojo's voice was cautious, almost gentle: "Are you… the creature? The one the samurai speak of?"
The boy flinched and scrambled upright with feral speed, all four arms tucking close as if bracing for a blow. His eyes on both his faces, the wooden and flesh, were wide, feral—and beautiful in a way that was terrible.
"How did you get in here?" he demanded.
Gojo blinked. "The ladder?"
The boy stared. Then: "Only someone with incredible cursed energy could pass the barrier," he muttered. "No one comes in here. No one ever comes."
He looked even thinner now that he stood—clothes hanging like skin, stomach hollow. The tattoos curled down his shoulders and back, symbols seared into a child’s body as if carved by someone who hated softness.
Gojo watched him carefully, a storm turning in his chest.
"What’s your name?" he asked.
The boy’s chin lifted slightly. “I don’t have one,” he said, voice bitter. “But I call myself Ryomen Sukuna.”
Gojo’s throat felt tight. Of course he did.
Ryomen Sukuna. The King of Curses. The monster who would one day tear through jujutsu history like a blade. But right now—he was a starving child standing barefoot in the dark.
Gojo could not kill him. Not like this.
He couldn’t even bring himself to think of it. Not when the boy’s ribs were showing through skin. Not when his eyes—sunken, bruised with exhaustion—still held something desperate and proud.
He swallowed hard, voice softer now. “Your markings… why do you have them?”
Sukuna flinched.
His arms folded tightly across his body, two hugging his ribs, two clutched at his elbows like he could press himself into something smaller.
“They gave them to me,” he mumbled, “for stealing bread.”
Gojo’s eyes widened. “They branded you… for stealing food?”
Sukuna looked away, ears pink with shame. “’s not a big deal,” he muttered. “Just don’t steal again, right?” His voice wobbled, just slightly.
Gojo frowned, anger curling slow and hot in his stomach. “They marked a child for being hungry.”
“You’re a child too!” Sukuna snapped suddenly, glaring up at him. “Don’t act like you’re better than me. We’re basically the same height!”
Gojo blinked. It wasn’t true. He stood at least four inches taller, his limbs long with strength and nourishment. Sukuna was underfed and shrunken by hardship. But the boy’s pride burned so brightly Gojo said nothing.
He just nodded, quiet.
Gojo took a step closer. His footsteps made no sound, but the boy flinched anyway—startled like a stray cat not used to kindness. Four arms curled protectively around his chest.
“What’s your name?” Sukuna asked, voice brittle with suspicion. But there was something else underneath—hope, maybe. Or hunger, of a different kind.
Gojo hesitated. Thought about lying.
But the Gojo clan didn’t exist yet. Not here. Not now. His name was nothing. Just wind across a field.
“Satoru,” he said finally. “Gojo Satoru.”
Sukuna blinked. “Never heard of a Gojo clan before.”
“We’re… merchants,” Gojo replied easily. “Travelers. I’m not from here.”
Sukuna giggled—just a breath of sound, light and crooked at the edges. “That explains your weird way of talking.”
Gojo only nodded. He didn’t smile, but the corners of his mouth softened.
Sukuna tilted his head, curious now. “Why do your eyes glow like that?”
“My cursed energy,” Gojo answered simply. “It does that sometimes.”
Sukuna’s expression lit up with interest—then faltered. His arms drew back in again, folding like paper. He stared at Gojo, wary. “Are you… here for the bounty?”
Gojo looked at him—really looked—and saw the exhaustion behind the wide eyes, the fear stitched beneath the bravado. His answer was immediate.
“No.”
Sukuna let out a breath, shoulders sinking with relief. “Good. I only took food from the palace. Just what I needed. Just… bread. Water. Nothing else.”
“They shouldn’t be hunting you,” Gojo said, his voice low and sure. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”
Sukuna’s cheeks flamed, and he looked down. He opened one hand—then another, then another—like he didn’t know what to do with himself. One hand reached out, tentative, toward Gojo’s arm.
But then— a sharp clatter echoed from above.
Wood creaked. Voices muffled by distance.
Sukuna’s whole body tensed. He sighed and lay back down again, arms flung wide in that same pose from before—like he was waiting to be crucified. His voice came quiet, like he’d said this a thousand times before:
“They can’t see the ladder. Not unless they’ve got energy like yours. If we’re quiet, they’ll go away.”
Gojo crouched beside him, voice barely a whisper. “Is this what you always do?”
Sukuna nodded. “Sometimes I scare them off with a few slices. But mostly… I just hide.”
Gojo's chest ached at the thought. He leaned in, whispered again: “Your only crime was stealing food?”
Sukuna’s laugh was bitter and soft. “That. And being born a freak.”
Silence fell like dust.
Gojo looked at him—this child with too many arms and not enough love, this boy with eyes like cracked garnet and skin drawn tight over bones—and thought:
This is not the Ryomen Sukuna I know.
This was not the butcher of sorcerers. This was a boy. A boy who had never known safety. A boy who had already begun to believe he deserved this.
“No child,” Gojo whispered, mostly to himself, “should have to give up their youth. It’s not fair.”
Sukuna turned his head. “What did you say?”
Gojo didn’t answer. He just rose, quiet and steady, and moved toward the ladder.
“What are you doing?” Sukuna scrambled to his feet, panic flickering across his face. “Don’t—! They’ll hurt you!”
Gojo turned his head slightly, pale hair falling over one glowing eye.
“They won’t.”
His voice was calm. Certain. The weight of centuries resting in a child’s frame.
Then—just before climbing—he looked back. A single brow raised, just a little. A challenge. A promise.
“Want to watch?”
Sukuna stared, wide-eyed. His mouth parted, but no words came.
Gojo climbed out of the narrow tunnel, feet light on the old wood. Behind him, Sukuna followed with more hesitation, four hands clutching the ladder, his thin frame trembling.
The samurai were already inside the shrine, swords drawn, facing the opposite way. They were circling like wolves, unaware the prey had come to meet them face-to-face.
Then they turned.
Their eyes landed on Gojo first, and one of them squinted in recognition. “Hey—weren’t you the brat at the sakaya? What in the gods’ names—how’d you get here so fast?”
Gojo smiled sweetly, unnervingly calm. “I ran.”
The samurai flinched, sharing uneasy glances.
“We came on horseback,” one muttered. “And we were slower than a barefoot child?”
Another narrowed his eyes. “Who are you?”
But then their gazes shifted. They saw the boy behind Gojo—small, gaunt, silent, four arms trembling at his sides.
“There you are,” a third samurai snarled. “Stealing from the palace carries one punishment. Death.”
Sukuna stumbled back, breath catching.
Gojo stepped forward.
He couldn’t believe this. He couldn’t believe he was standing between Sukuna and danger. The Sukuna. King of Curses. The man who would one day butcher thousands. But he wasn’t that yet. He was just a child.
Gojo’s voice dropped low and dangerous. “Leave. Now. Or suffer the consequences.”
The samurai burst out laughing.
“Move aside, you little ghost,” one barked. “Let us deal with the creature.”
Gojo sighed, head tilting with pity. “I did warn you, didn’t I?”
“Get out of the way, you pale little shit—” another spat, something between a sneer and a curse, old-Heian slur laced with contempt.
Gojo lifted a hand. A ripple of blue opened across the field, like water folding space itself. A lapse blue.
They laughed—until the pull began.
Wind roared. The samurai screamed as they were flung backward, sucked into the technique like leaves in a hurricane. Bodies crashed into trees, armor splintered, horses reared and fled.
Sukuna stared behind Gojo, awestruck. The samurai groaned, dragging themselves up from the forest floor. Bloodied, furious. Gojo walked out of the shrine. His steps made no sound. His face was unreadable.
“I’ll say it one more time,” he said, voice soft as frost. “Leave.”
The samurai drew their swords, panic sharpening their movements.
“This... this freak-child,” one stammered. “We’ll gut him—take his ghost-head to the capital!”
Gojo smiled—no kindness in it. “That won’t be happening.”
A hum of cursed energy built in his palm. He raised it slowly. Lapse red. The blast cracked the air like thunder. The samurai were flung in all directions, screaming, armor scattering like dry leaves. They rose again, more desperate now.
“What is this child?!”
Gojo just watched them, eyes glowing. “Leave.”
But still, they lunged. A sword raised—sharp and fast—slashing toward Gojo’s chest.
Sukuna screamed. “WATCH OUT!”
The blade stopped. Hovered. Just above Gojo’s skin. The samurai gasped, straining. The sword wouldn’t move forward. Wouldn’t touch him. Infinity.
Gojo smiled. “Told you.”
He raised a hand and flicked the man away. Silence fell. The others hesitated.
Gojo wiped his nose with a soft sigh. “If you don’t leave… I will do something you’ll regret.”
The samurai froze. Then—they lunged. All of them. Desperate, terrified, screaming. Gojo watched them come. His face didn’t change.
“I was going to spare you,” he said quietly, “but if you’re this eager to kill two children… you must be awful people.”
A whisper of purple light ignited in his hand. And then— Hollow Purple.
The air split. The trees shattered. The samurai were gone—obliterated, erased from the world. Only the horses remained, reins flapping like loose threads in the wind. Sukuna stood behind him, mouth open, trembling.
Gojo turned, calmly brushing his hands together. “You should find a new place to stay,” he said.
Sukuna moved before he could think. All four arms reached for Gojo—though they couldn’t touch him, not really, not through Limitless. But still he grabbed. Or tried.
“Wait,” Sukuna said, eyes wide. “If you leave, they’ll say I did that. More people will come. Please—don’t leave me.”
Gojo froze. He had come here to kill Sukuna. But this child… this boy was not the Sukuna he knew. Not yet. Maybe he had to wait. Maybe he would kill Sukuna in a year, five years, a decade. When the crimes matched the legend. But now—Now, he couldn’t.
“I can come with you,” Sukuna said, desperate. “To your family. The merchant thing. I can help—I swear I can be useful!”
Gojo's throat tightened. The boy was shaking—not from fear, but hope. Hope was always more dangerous. Gojo opened his mouth, an excuse already halfway formed.
But the boy’s eyes… they were wide, glassy, like he was still waiting for the world to reject him one last time. So Gojo lied.
He forced a little laugh. Shrugged. “I don’t really have a family either. I ran away.”
Sukuna blinked. Gojo didn’t stop there. “No merchant clan, no home. I’ve just been traveling. On my own.” A pause. Then— “So… maybe we can be useless together.”
Sukuna stared. His mouth opened in disbelief. His hands twitched—like he wanted to grab Gojo’s sleeves, or arms, or anything he could touch.
“You mean… I can come with you?” he whispered.
Gojo didn’t answer right away. He wanted to say no. That he had to go. That he’d come back later. That he’d figure out how to kill Sukuna once it was morally easier. But he looked again at this child. All thin bones and starving skin. Four arms wrapped around himself like armor that never worked. Tattooed. Hunted. Alone. And now—trusting him.
“Yeah,” Gojo said softly, against his better judgment. “Yeah. You can come.”
Sukuna stared like he’d just been handed a new name. Then he beamed. It was crooked, a little strange, with teeth too sharp for a child, but it was genuine. It was raw joy. Joy Gojo didn’t think he’d see on Sukuna’s face. Ever.
“Okay!” Sukuna chirped. “I won’t be a burden, I swear! I can cook. Sort of. I mean—I burned something once, but it was on purpose! And I can carry things. All four hands! You won’t regret this!”
Gojo offered a faint smile, guilt swirling in his chest. He turned toward the horses still tethered at the edge of the shrine and picked one with a dark mane.
“C’mon,” he said, mounting easily. “We need to get far from here before anyone else comes.”
Sukuna scrambled after him, barefoot and giddy, practically bouncing.
“Do I get a horse too? Or do I ride with you? I’ve never been on one before—do they bite? I hope they don’t bite.”
“You’re riding with me,” Gojo said, holding out a hand, turning off his infinity.
Sukuna hesitated, then reached out—all four of his arms closing around Gojo’s waist as he climbed up behind him, clinging tight. The warmth of him was startling. He was so small. So light.
Gojo closed his eyes briefly. He didn’t know if what he was doing was right. But he couldn’t walk away. Not yet.
“Hold on,” Gojo murmured.
Sukuna nodded, head pressing against Gojo’s back. And they rode into the forest, the shrine behind them swallowed by shadow.
One of the fallen samurai had tied his kubi bukuro to his saddle—an ornate head bag stuffed with silver mon and gold ryō coins meant for proof of death. Gojo took it without guilt. If they’d lived, they would’ve used it to buy sake after parading Sukuna’s head through the capital.
He rode until the trees thinned and the forest gave way to rice paddies and misty foothills. At the edge of a small village, tucked between a shrine and a winding stream, he found an inn with a tiled roof and warm lantern light flickering behind rice paper walls.
Gojo paid for a room, for food, and even for a yubune—a private bathing tub that innkeepers filled with buckets of hot water drawn from nearby springs.
He noticed something odd as he dismounted.
Sukuna’s four hands hadn’t let go of him once.
Even as they walked into the inn, even as Gojo handed over coins and accepted two bowls of chicken and daikon stew with rice and pickled plums, Sukuna stuck to his side like a burr. People in the inn stared openly. Not because two ten-year-olds were travelling alone. Not at Gojo, despite his unnatural white hair and strange eyes—but at Sukuna. The arms. The two faces. The tattoos. The inhumanity pressed into his skin like a crime.
Gojo felt something simmer in his chest. Anger.
Was it really such a big deal to be born different in this time?
He’d been born with the Six Eyes, the Limitless, and people had called him a blessing. This boy was born strange, and they called him a curse.
He followed the innkeeper down the hall, and they entered a small room lined with tatami mats and futons stacked neatly in the corner. The scent of sandalwood hung in the air. Gojo set down the tray of food.
Sukuna sat down beside him immediately. Not across. Not with distance. He folded his legs and practically curled against Gojo’s hip, like it was natural. Like he belonged there.
Then he dug into the food with feral joy, devouring it fast, barely chewing. “Mmmf!” he moaned, cheeks flushed with warmth. “This is amazing! Is this chicken? Is this RICE? Is this actual RICE?”
Gojo gave a vague nod, still spinning through thoughts.
So… what’s the plan here? Travel with Sukuna? Wait until he’s older—old enough to justify killing? Was that less immoral than killing a child? Was it any more ethical?
But he was a child himself. ten , maybe, physically. Did that even matter?
He glanced at Sukuna, who was now licking the bowl clean, looking positively radiant. He said brightly, “I’m gonna take a bath now! A real one! I’ve never had hot water before! Sometimes I sneak into the temple springs, but they throw rocks.”
Gojo made a noncommittal noise as Sukuna bounded to the adjoining yubune room, stripping down with gleeful commentary from behind the paper door.
“This tub is HUGE! You could fit a deer in here! Not that I’d want a deer in here. Oh wow it’s actually hot!”
Gojo stared at the candlelight flickering across the floorboards, hands still curled around his untouched tea. His brain raced.
What am I doing?
Then the idea came. Sharp. Simple. Inevitable.
He was a teacher by nature. That was the answer. If Gojo TAUGHT Sukuna himself—taught him to fight, yes, but also taught him empathy, control, compassion—then maybe the future would never need to be rewritten.
If Sukuna never became a mass murderer, then Gojo wouldn’t need to kill him. He could train him to be something else. Something better.
A different Sukuna. A good one.
Yes. That was it.
The door creaked open. Sukuna stepped out in a fresh yukata, skin steaming and hair damp, looking dazed with delight. “I’ve never taken a bath like that before,” he said dreamily. “I thought my skin was gonna melt off.”
He shuffled to the futon and collapsed into it with a soft sigh. “Is this down? It feels like clouds. I didn’t know sleeping could be like this.”
Gojo rose, went to bathe, and let the hot water burn the tension out of his limbs. He stayed in longer than he meant to, thinking, plotting, sealing the plan behind his teeth.
When he returned, towel-drying his hair, he saw Sukuna already curled into the futon, but not quite asleep. The boy stirred at the sound of Gojo’s footsteps.
He blinked blearily, then smiled. “Satoru Gojo-san is so kind,” he mumbled.
Gojo said nothing. Just hummed faintly and tucked the blanket over him more securely. Sukuna beamed and immediately drifted off again, curling closer.
Gojo lay down beside him. He turned off the lantern. And for a long while, he stared at the ceiling. His conscience didn’t stop gnawing. But at least now, he had a path forward.