Chapter Text
The world has always been loud. Not just from the overwhelming sensory overload he experiences from overusing his Six Eyes, but from the relentless barrage of shouted expectations. What "it," as they callously referred to him, should be.
Gojō Satoru was born into a destiny of unparalleled strength. His birth alone shifted the balance of the world. Curses evolved in strength because of his existence; as the benchmark of cursed energy's potential, he fuelled their growth. On the day of his birth, a bounty of over one hundred million was immediately placed on his head. He was destined for immense power by forces entirely outside his control.
Growing up dehumanised, Satoru was a prodigy surrounded by those who saw him as a god, a weapon, the embodiment of the legendary Six Eyes, rather than a boy. Everyone knew the name: Gojō Satoru, the boy with eyes like summer skies, but no one knew him.
His childhood was devoid of joy, a constant onslaught of assassination attempts even before he could speak. His clan's indoctrination instilled various beliefs, including the harmful notion that friends were a liability for a Six Eyes and Limitless carrier. However, a deep-seated yearning for connection and understanding contradicted this dogma.
Forged in solitude, a masterpiece of cruelty and potential, he was born to be the strongest, born to be alone.
Until Getō Suguru.
Suguru was the first to see him, not just the power, but Satoru himself. Best friend, confidant, and counterbalance, he was the yin to Satoru’s yang. Satoru’s boundless optimism and carefree spirit mirrored Suguru’s grounded pragmatism, their complementary natures forging an indomitable alliance.
The encounter with Fushiguro Tōji was a pivotal turning point. Initially overwhelming, it was the first time Satoru had ever been pushed to his limits, experiencing a chilling taste of his mortality. Yet, this harrowing experience proved to be a catalyst, forcing him to unlock the depths of his ability.
On the precipice of death, he finally managed the Reverse Cursed Technique: converting negative energy into positive energy. This breakthrough ensured his survival and ultimately led to him achieving Hollow Purple, the colliding Limitless technique. Born from the fusion of his existing Blue and the newly mastered Red, this devastating power allowed him to effortlessly defeat Tōji in their rematch.
Still, the near-death experience was a silent vow etched into his soul. The weight of his childhood, the constant pressure of being the strongest, settled heavily upon him like a suffocating shroud. He should not have fallen. He remembered waking after Tōji's attack, disoriented and foggy. His first sluggish but clear thought was for Suguru. Where was he? Were they both okay? They were the strongest. If Tōji could overpower him, was Suguru safe?
The rest of that day was a haze. His body felt alien, a distant shell he inhabited but did not quite control. The world shimmered like a mirage, details bleeding into an unintelligible watercolour. His gaze was unfocused, disconnected like marbles rolling on their own. Adrift in a blissful fog, a numbness akin to euphoria enveloped him. Perhaps it was the still-healing brain injury, a kind of defence mechanism. Who could say for sure? At that moment, the world just felt so… so wonderful.
But as the disorientation subsided and more hours passed by, the harsh reality of his ordeal reasserted itself, clinging to him like a shroud. Vivid flashes of his battle with death would occasionally erupt, overloading and triggering his Six Eyes with a torrent of stimuli. They seemed to revolt against the flashbacks, flickering uncontrollably.
Phantom sensations of the attack returned: the searing pain of a blade through his neck, the sickening tear as his torso was split open, the choking panic of blood filling his lungs. Those moments were hell, often bringing about a cascade of panic that left him breathless and gasping for air. Not that he'd ever admit it to anyone. After all, it hardly befitted one of the strongest Jujutsu Sorcerers.
Time, ever-flowing and unforgiving, continued its relentless march. Missions piled up like an avalanche, demanding his attention. He trained with a renewed purpose, honing his inherited techniques. He needed to be stronger; he would become strong enough that neither Suguru nor he would be hurt like that again.
Each day, Satoru became a storm of power, a force of nature to be reckoned with. But time, a relentless tide, brought a new concern. Satoru noticed Suguru losing weight, a new weariness etched into his features that seemed to deepen daily. He wouldn't lie; he was worried. But each of his subtle attempts to check on his friend was met with a nonchalant shrug, blamed on summer fatigue.
Satoru wasn't convinced. The lie scraped against his growing concern. A hollow ache bloomed in his chest whenever Suguru deflected his inquiries. For all his power, he couldn't seem to pierce the walls Suguru had built around himself. He wanted Suguru to trust him, to confide in him.
The harsh reality was this: He could offer a life raft, but he couldn't force Suguru to grab it. All he could do was cling to the hope that the coming storm wouldn't consume Suguru, praying he wouldn't be pulled too far into the shadows, out of reach.
Nevertheless, the recent demands on Satoru were unforgiving, leaving little time for their friendship. Work as a Jujutsu Sorcerer was relentless for all of them, a monotonous cycle of missions, recovery, and repeat.
Despite his constantly active Reverse Cursed Technique, even Satoru couldn't escape the pull of exhaustion. Suguru saw it—the almost imperceptible hitch in his step, the slump of his shoulders when Satoru thought no one was looking. This silent admission of fatigue spoke volumes, a truth even RCT couldn't fully erase.
— ──༻⋅ᓚᘏᗢ⋅༺── —
A relentless drumbeat pounded against Suguru's skull, mirroring the stochastic patter of summer rain lashing against his window. He squeezed his eyes shut, desperately trying to quell the nausea that wracked him. But the only response was the insistent chirping of cicadas, a mocking accompaniment to the hollow ache that feasted at his insides like maggots.
It used to be different. They were once inseparable, Suguru, Satoru, and Shōko, were a package deal. But those times were fading like photographs, their vibrant emotions bleached by the harsh light of reality. Weeks bled into one another since Suguru last had a meaningful conversation with Satoru. Days stretched on since he'd seen Shōko. Finding a time when all three were free to hang out became an ever-more-distant dream.
The shift in Satoru’s power had become undeniable to Suguru; the gap between them was growing chasmic. There was no more "we are the strongest" anymore. "we" had become a forgotten relic, a whispered memory. The Jujutsu Higher-Ups, recognising Satoru’s newfound abilities, wielded him as a prized weapon, subjecting him to an endless cycle of solitary missions. He was merely a tool in their eyes.
Shōko, the third piece of their trio, was rarely deployed, tethered to the Jujutsu High Infirmary. Overworked and under-rested, she tirelessly perfected her RCT, healing others. This left Suguru, by default, adrift on solo missions of his own—a consequence of his best friend’s ascent. The days of having Satoru as his constant companion, his kindred spirit, felt like a distant memory, fading like dust in the wind.
The past year, likely spurred by the frequent disasters, witnessed a significant increase in cursed spirits. They were sprouting like malignant tumours, overwhelming his initially manageable mission workload.
Duty-bound, he exorcised and absorbed these twisted, virulent curses born from human negativity. His technique was as follows: he simultaneously formed a spherical mass of cursed energy, sucked the curse into it, and consumed it orally. This granted him absolute control, allowing him to summon these curses at will.
However, the repercussions of his technique were becoming increasingly unbearable. The more violent the emotion (the higher the grade of the curse) and the more it resonated with his own turmoil, the greater it's potential to amplify those emotions within him. Coupled with the staggering volume of curses he was being tasked to exorcise and absorb, his usual capacity for repression began to crumble. The weight of the negativity was seeping into him, a dark tide dragging him ever closer to the beckoning abyss.
Sometimes, I think, I am not the one doing the consuming.
Am I the capturer or the captured?
It never ends.
Exorcise. Absorb. A suffocating cycle repeated over and over. The words blurred together, a monotonous drone in his head.
Ḙ̵͘x̷̾͜o̵͔̔r̵̥̕c̴̤͑i̵̪̓s̷̩̀e̶̮̚.̷͇͊ ̷̩̅Ä̸͎b̵̗͐s̷͖͝o̵̝͛r̷͖̈́b̷̖͒
E̷̘̐x̵͓̰́o̸͍͝ŕ̸̪̞c̶̹̎̂ḯ̴͚͈ṡ̷̳̱̕e̷̞̠͌.̷͚͓̑͛ ̵̤̦͝A̴̲͎͊b̷̢͚̐̌s̶̻͝o̶̞͆͆r̸͎̐͑b̶̡̛̩͊.̸̘̥̋̂
Ẹ̷͌̓͑x̶̩̝̩͖̟͈͌͊ö̶̲̦͕͇̣́̚r̵̮̾c̶͉̗̦͑ȉ̴͉̦̞͉̍̍̑̇͘s̸͉̫̏̏̽̄̈́̿̀e̴̮͕͈̱̮̭͌̿̊͠.̴̭͉̪̗̩͔͓͛̀͒̎̀̊̚ ̷̻̩̞̙̬͔̙́̑͠Ằ̵̛̠̗͔͠͠b̸̭̻͓͆͗̊s̵̰̻̯͑̃͆ǫ̶̗̹̝̯̩̃͐̅ȑ̸̬̺b̶͍̳͕͉͔̆́̃̌͘.̷̧͉͕̤̙̰͈͂̊
IT NEVER ENDS
No one else understands what cursed spirits taste like. It’s like a rancid concoction of vomit and sewage filth. The lingering aftertaste clung to his throat for days, contaminating every bite of food.
His taste buds felt permanently ravaged. These endless missions offered no respite for his tormented palette. No substantial food would stay down. He wasn't a picky eater—having to consume the worst of the worst—but he'd tried countless options, none of which settled.
He'd resorted to gulping down a handful of nutritional supplement pills with water each morning. It was the best he could do to sustain himself at this point. If he did it quickly, he found he could just manage to avoid regurgitation. But it wasn't meant to be a replacement for actual food, he knew that. He was a hollow shell, withering away, feeling helpless to stop it.
Who am I doing this for?
The once-ironclad mantra- "Jujutsu Sorcerer. Do not waver. Save others. Protect"—were beginning to feel ever-increasingly hollow, the words turning to ash in his mouth. Protecting the ignorant masses, the non-sorcerers, felt like clinging to a tattered flag in a hurricane. The line between humanity's fragility and its ugliness was morphing into a sickening gaze.
Suguru’s once-confident pronouncements echoed in his ears. A stark reminder of his initial convictions and his current descent.
"Survival of the weak. That’s the form society should take. Helping the weak, while keeping the strong in check…Sorcerers exist for the sake of protecting non-sorcerers"
But all he could think now was…were they even worth saving?
Disgust, a serpent coiled in his gut, began to unfurl. Each mission chipped away at his resolve. He felt like a pawn in his own game.
Civilians.
Non-sorcerers.
Monke -
STOP. Suguru willed himself to halt the thought. But lately, that word, one he was fiercely suppressing, had kept clawing its way to the forefront of his mind. Cognitive dissonance gnawed at him. He couldn't cross that that line, couldn't become…no, he was nothing like…
Dragging his hands down his face, he let out a ragged sigh, the sound swallowed by the drumming rain on the thin dorm window panes. He stumbled off his bed and lurched towards it. After a brief struggle with the latch, he pried it open a crack. He braced himself against the window frame, the warm summer air mingling with the stale air of his room.
Shaking fingers fumbled for his lighter, the tiny flame a defiant spark against the oppressive gloom. A cigarette found its place between his lips. With a hiss and a spark, he coaxed it to life. He took a long drag, the smoke filling his lungs, then exhaled it in a plume that mingled with the rain-soaked air. It curled skyward, a silent question mark, a scream lost in the unending downpour.
Fushiguro Tōji, a single non-sorcerer, had shattered his carefully constructed world. Not all of them were weak. The memory of his defeat at the hands of a non-sorcerer burned in him. Even Gōjo Satoru, the 'almighty', had fallen. The image sent chills down his spine, a reminder of the soul-crushing terror that had gripped him that day.
Retrieving Amanai Rikō's body was a grim baptism by fire. The deafening applause of the Star Religious Group, a chorus of non-sorcerers celebrating an innocent teenage girl's death, fuelled his disillusionment. His purpose, once a beacon, flickered like a dying ember.
Then came Tsukumo Yuki, a special-grade sorcerer who offered a glimmer of a different path. Yuki’s words resonated: the futility of mere symptom management, her ideals clashing with the school's approach. Her goal: a world devoid of cursed spirits. Her methods to do this: erasing all civilian's cursed energy or, making all civilians able to control their cursed energy.
A horrifying thought flickered in Suguru's mind; ignited by Yuki’s words. "Why not just eliminate all non-sorcerers?" The question echoed in the emptiness, a terrifying reflection staring back at him.
But, Yuki to his surprise, didn't recoil. It would solve the problem, she admitted, was probably the easiest way to achieve it. Culling the weak and forcing non-sorcerers to evolve into sorcerers for survival – a twisted form of natural selection. But she 'unfortunately' as she phrased, wasn't 'crazy enough' to do that.
“Do you hate non-sorcerers, Getō-kun?” The question hung heavy. Suguru hesitated, the lines blurring with each passing day.
"I don't know," he rasped after a long pause, his throat dry. The value he once placed on protecting non-sorcerers was crumbling. There was a part of him that loathed non-sorcerers, yet another part that rejected that hatred. He couldn't discern his true feelings anymore.
"Neither," she countered. He wasn't facing absolutes; he was at a crossroads, presented with possibilities.
The choice was his…
The echo of her words hung heavy in the air long after she was gone. The ground beneath his once unwavering convictions felt like it was crumbling faster than he could keep up. He wasn't sure what awaited him at the bottom, but the path he'd been walking for so long no longer felt stable.