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Apr 16

CHAPTER O3 ━━━ to be seen is to be undone.

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You had come to a realization over the past four years, a truth so profound and undeniable that it had settled into your bones like the cold of winter; the life of a four year old child was infinitely more exhausting than the life of a twenty one year old office worker.

Well, if you wanted to be precise — and lately, you'd found yourself wanting to be precise about many things, probably a side effect of being surrounded by people who treated every word you uttered like sacred scripture — you would amend that statement. The life of the sole heir of the powerful Okada clan, the only holder of the Golden Eyes in centuries, the living embodiment of everything your family held sacred, was far more exhausting than your previous existence as a mediocre employee in a thoroughly average company.

In your past life, exhaustion had meant staying late at your desk pretending to work, or forcing yourself to stay awake through another mind-numbing meeting about quarterly projections you couldn't care less about.

In this life, exhaustion meant something else entirely.

Because, like all children of the Okada clan — and you had learned this particular unpleasant truth within your first year of existence — training began before you could even walk. Not combat training, exactly. The Okada clan had a saying, one that was drilled into every child from their earliest moments; The Okada never strike first. It was a point of pride, a philosophical stance, a tactical doctrine. But that didn't mean they were defenseless. Far from it.

Before you could crawl, you were subjected to observation exercises. You had to track fast-moving objects with your infant eyes, following the path of small weighted bags thrown across rooms, then corridors, then entire courtyards. Before you could hold a weapon — not that you'd ever shown any interest in holding one to begin with — you had to identify clan members by the mere rhythm of their breathing. Not their footsteps, not their voices, but the subtle sounds of air moving in and out of their lungs. You had to distinguish between the breath of an elder and the breath of a servant, the breath of a warrior and the breath of a scholar, before you'd even learned their names.

The Okada clan taught their children to sense cursed energy fluctuations the way ordinary people learned to feel changes in temperature. Gradually, unconsciously, until it became as natural as blinking.

And by the time you had taken your very first steps, you could already feel the ebb and flow of cursed energy throughout the entire clan compound like a second set of senses layered over the first. You could tell who was training, who was resting, who was agitated, who was calm. You could feel the strength of each clan member like a pressure against your awareness, some gentle and some overwhelming.

And God as your most loyal witness, you were already so tired of all this crap.

Especially since you had very quickly learned, through eavesdropping on conversations that weren't meant for infant ears and piecing together fragments of information from servants who spoke too freely in your presence, that the Okada clan wasn't just a powerful family. No, the Okada clan were one of the three most powerful families in this world. Standing alongside the Gojo clan, and standing alongside the Zenin clan.

The Gojo clan, home of the strongest sorcerer of the modern era. The Zenin clan, home of — well, a bunch of arrogant assholes, if your memories of the manga served you correctly. And the Okada clan, home of you. Lazy, average, just-want-to-be-left-alone you.

"Ahhh," the sound escaped you dramatically, a long, drawn-out sigh that seemed to echo off the walls.

You were lying sprawled on the floor like a starfish, your four-year-old body taking up as much space as your small limbs would allow. Your honey-blonde hair fanned out beneath your head, and your Golden Eyes — those damn eyes that everyone made such a fuss about — stared blankly at the ceiling above.

"I was supposed to live a quiet life as an ultra-rich man in this life. That was the plan. That was the deal. But here I am in none other than the goddamn world of Jujutsu Kaisen."

If you had to find a positive point in all this — and you'd spent many sleepless nights searching for one — it would most probably be that you'd kept the same name and the same general appearance as in your previous life. Same honey-blonde hair, same facial structure, same lazy mannerisms. The only difference was your eyes. In your past life, they'd been a mundane light brown, the kind of eyes you'd pass on the street without a second glance. Now they were gold. Literally, actually, physically gold. The kind of gold that caught light and reflected it strangely, the kind of gold that made people stop breathing when they looked at you.

[ I only confirmed that you'd be very, very rich in this new life, Y/N. ]

Shinji's voice echoed in your head, warm and amused, carrying that gentle teasing quality that had become familiar over the past four years.

[ I never once mentioned that this life would be peaceful! Hehe ( •̯́ ₃ •̯̀) ]

You sighed even more heavily, if that was possible. The sound seemed to deflate your entire small body.

Because yes, in the four years you'd spent in this world, you had confirmed that the System — or really whatever you were supposed to call this thing that only you could see and hear — was indeed Shinji. Not a recording, not a program, but the actual beautiful divine being from that white void, somehow existing within you, communicating with you, guiding you. You didn't have all the details, obviously. Every time you asked too many questions, pushed too hard for answers, Shinji simply replied that it was far too early for you to know.

Well, you thought with a mental roll of your eyes. That doesn't stop me from asking anyway.

"Yeah, yeah, keep laughing," you muttered aloud, knowing Shinji could hear you regardless. "It's hilarious. My suffering is comedy gold. I'm sure the gods are having a great time watching me flail."

The place where you had preciously chosen to spend your afternoon — and most afternoons, if you were being honest — was one of the most remote and secure buildings in the entire clan compound. The Archive Room; even the highest-ranking elders of the clan couldn't access this place as they pleased. Access to these documents required written authorization from three sitting elders, signed and witnessed and sealed with official stamps. Unauthorized viewing was severely punishable under the Okada Clan Code, with consequences that you had heard whispered about but never fully investigated.

These archives contained important information concerning 'The First' — the original holder of the Golden Eyes, the very first one who'd awakened them centuries ago and built the Okada clan into what it was today. The information was strictly confidential, protected by layers of security both physical and supernatural.

But, of course, none of those conditions applied to you.

The young boy was treated like a God among clan members, regardless of their age. It had been this way since the day of your birth, since that overly dramatic ceremony where thousands of people had pressed their foreheads to the ground and chanted your name. You were the second in the clan's history to awaken the Golden Eyes. The first in centuries. The hope of an entire family, an entire legacy, an entire way of being in the world. And it was those very eyes that had granted you unlimited access to the Archive building. The moment the elders had seen the gold in your irises, they'd practically fallen over themselves to give you keys, permissions, blessings — Anything for the heir. Anything for the Golden Eyes.

But, to be honest, you had never read a single page of what the Archives contained.

There was just so much.

The original journals of The First existed in three forms; his personal battle journals, seventeen volumes of densely packed text describing fights and strategies and observations. His theoretical treatises on perception, four volumes so thick they could double as weapons. And a series of letters never sent to unknown recipients, preserved in a separate sealed container that you hadn't even bothered to look at.

Really, there was far too much to read. And anyway, you didn't really care.

You'd rather lie on the floor and do nothing, which was exactly what you were doing right now.

[ You should read them, Y/N. ]

Shinji's gentle voice interrupted your comfortable stupor.

[ The First's writings contain knowledge you'll need. Knowledge about the Golden Eyes, about their nature, about their potential. ]

You didn't move, you didn't even open your eyes.

"What for?" your voice was muffled, your arms still draped over your face. "I have absolutely no intention at all of using these Golden Eyes."

It was the truth.

You'd made this decision years ago, in those first confusing weeks after your rebirth, when the weight of your situation had slowly settled onto your shoulders like a lead blanket. You had no intention of diving into this world, of using a power you could feel was ridiculously strong, of making contact with the main characters, of getting swept up in the plot you knew was coming. You'd read the manga. You knew what happened. You knew about Shibuya, about the Culling Games, about all the death and destruction waiting in the future.

You wanted no part of it.

The times you'd trained with the clan head himself — your grandfather, a stern but not unkind man named Okada Daisuke — were because you hadn't had the luxury of choice. Refusing training would have raised questions you couldn't answer, suspicions you couldn't afford. So you'd gone through the motions, done the minimum required, and spent the rest of your time finding ways to escape attention.

The Archive building was perfect for that. No one bothered you here. No one came here at all, except for the rare authorized researcher, and they always left quickly when they saw you, bowing and apologizing for intruding.

All you wanted was a peaceful life, and you fully intended to live it by sleeping nice and quietly in the Archive building, where no one could bother you.

[ You really don't want to read them? ]

Shinji's voice was really soft, questioning, not quite pleading but somewhere close.

[ It's crucial that you learn more about the Golden Eyes. About what they mean. About what they are. ]

Well, you amended your previous thought. No one except the System. Shinji never leaves me alone.

You rolled your eyes behind your closed lids, a gesture that had become habitual in response to Shinji's persistent nudging. You placed your forearms more firmly over your face, blocking out the ambient light, and let out an ungraceful yawn that seemed to originate somewhere in your toes. Your free hand — the one not being used as an eye cover — idly played with the luxurious fabric of your outfit.

The boy was simply dressed in your training clothes, the ones that had been prepared for that morning's practice session before you'd successfully evaded it. The fabric was immaculately white, as white as the void where you'd first met Shinji, with gold trim at the collar and cuffs that caught the light and shimmered softly. Absolutely everything in this clan was white and gold. It was as if they'd collectively decided that subtlety was for other families, that they would simply embrace their aesthetic with the same overwhelming intensity they brought to everything else.

I just want to sleep, you thought, your mind already drifting toward that comfortable gray space between waking and unconsciousness. I don't want to learn more about the Golden Eyes. I don't want to meet the main characters of this world. I don't want to fight curses or become the strongest or any of that nonsense.

I just want to be left alone.

Why couldn't you simply have that? It was the one and only thing you'd ever truly wished for, in your first life as in your second. Peace and quiet. The freedom to exist without expectation, without pressure, without people looking at you like you were supposed to be something special. In your past life, you'd been average, unremarkable, forgettable. And you'd been fine with that. You'd liked that. So why was it so hard to achieve in this life? Why did everyone insist on treating you like a God, like a savior, like the answer to prayers you'd never asked to be part of? Why did Shinji keep pushing you toward a destiny you wanted no part of?

You didn't want to make contact with the characters from one of your favorite mangas. You didn't want to embed yourself further into their world than you already had by your mere existence. You didn't want to fight cursed spirits, to risk your life against monsters born of human negativity.

And you really didn't want to become the strongest of all time, like the System had declared at your birth.

No, you thought firmly, settling more deeply into your comfortable position on the floor. This is not the life I want. And I'm not going to live it.

[ I'm sorry, Y/N. From the bottom of my heart. ]

Shinji's voice was different now — way softer. Heavy with something that might have been regret.

[ But you don't really have a choice. ]

[ Your existence is {REDACTED} ]

Your eyes snapped open.

You stared at the ceiling above you, at the elegant wooden beams and the gold accents that decorated them, but you weren't really seeing any of it. Your mind was stuck on those last words, on the way they'd appeared on the system screen and then been abruptly — violently — obscured.

{REDACTED}

The word pulsed in your vision, a block of darkness where information should have been. It was the very first time in four whole years that this had happened. Usually, when you asked questions Shinji couldn't or wouldn't answer, the response was simple and gentle; You can't know yet. It's too early. Be patient.

But this was different. This was redacted — blocked. Hidden by force rather than by choice.

You removed your forearms from your face, your Golden Eyes narrowing as you stared at the system screen floating in your vision. The {REDACTED} remained, a stubborn black rectangle that refused to reveal whatever lay beneath.

"My existence is what?" Your voice was no longer a sleepy murmur. It was sharp, focused, demanding. "Shinji. What were you going to say?"

Silence.

The system screen flickered once, twice, but no words appeared. No gentle voice echoed in your mind. It was as if something had reached in and forcibly silenced whatever Shinji had been about to reveal.

And goddamn it, that silence was louder than any answer could have been. It gnawed at your insides, stoked a curiosity you'd thought you'd successfully buried under years of determined laziness. What the hell was Shinji talking about? What about your existence was so important, so dangerous, that it had to be redacted?

[ New objective available. ]

The words appeared on the screen, crisp and clear, breaking the oppressive silence.

You blinked several times, staring at the white and gold interface. In the entire four years since your rebirth into this world, Shinji had never given you a single objective, not a single one. Oh, he made suggestions, offered advice, gently nudged you toward various actions. But he'd never presented anything as a formal objective, with all the weight and expectation that implied.

The only exception was that very first message, the one that had appeared the moment you'd been reborn — Become the strongest of all time. But you had simply dismissed that as dramatic flair, as system nonsense, as something you could safely ignore.

But... this felt different.

[ Objective: Understand the nature of the Golden Eyes. ]

[ Location: Outside the East Wall. 2.3 kilometers away. ]

[ Time: Immediately. ]

"Seriously?" the word escaped you before you could stop it, a combination of disbelief and resignation.

You slowly sat up, your small body moving with more coordination and control than any normal four-year-old should possess. The movement was fluid, deliberate, the product of twenty-one years of muscle memory layered over four years of adapting to a smaller vessel.

You also noticed, distantly, that the elders would probably comment on this if they saw it. They were always commenting, always adding every little thing to their growing list of reasons why you were special, destined, blessed. Well, they couldn't know — and would never know — that the boy had simply had practice. Twenty-one years of moving through the world in your previous life, plus four years of adjusting to a new body. You weren't special at all. You were just... experienced.

[ The cursed spirit won't wait. ]

You froze.

Your Golden Eyes, still fixed on the system screen, widened slightly. The words seemed to pulse in front of you, each one a small bomb going off in your brain.

"What do you mean, cursed spirit?" Your voice came out higher than intended, a touch of panic bleeding through your carefully cultivated calm. "Don't tell me—Shinji. Don't tell me I'm going to fight a spirit. In this body. At four years old. Don't tell me that."

The System didn't answer.

And that silence, that familiar, infuriating silence, spoke volumes more than any response could have.

Goddamn it.

You stared at the screen in front of your eyes, at the objective that wouldn't go away no matter how much you wished it would. You thought about ignoring it, about lying back down and pretending you hadn't seen anything. You thought about the comfortable floor beneath you, the peaceful quiet of the Archive building, the blissful nothing of unconsciousness waiting to claim you.

But you also thought about the {REDACTED} message, you thought about whatever Shinji had been about to tell you, about the cursed spirit waiting 2.3 kilometers away, just outside the East Wall.

I'm really going to fight a cursed spirit, you realized, the thought settling into your stomach like a stone. In this ridiculous little body. At four years old.

The boy looked down at yourself — at your small hands, your short limbs, your training clothes that hung on your frame like they were designed for someone twice your size. You looked absurd. You felt absurd. And yet, somewhere deep in your chest, something else stirred. Something that felt like curiosity. Something that felt like the first flickers of interest you'd experienced in years.

The Golden Eyes, you thought. What are they really? What can they do? And why the hell is everyone so terrified and awed by them?

You sighed, a very long, very defeated sound that seemed to age you by decades. Then, with the kind of reluctance usually reserved for dental appointments and family gatherings, you pushed yourself to your feet — your small body swayed for a moment, adjusting to the change in position, and then steadied.

You looked toward the door of the Archive building, toward the path that would lead you outside the East Wall, toward whatever waited for you there.

"I can't believe I'm doing this," you muttered to the empty room. "I really can't believe this."

But your feet were already moving, carrying you forward despite every instinct screaming at you to lie back down and pretend none of this was happening.

[ Good luck, Y/N. ]

Shinji's voice was really soft, almost apologetic.

[ You're really going to need it. ]

"Yeah," you muttered as you pushed open the door and stepped out into the night. "That's what I'm afraid of."

On the other side of the Eastern Wall, you noticed, the world changed completely.

The Okada clan's private grounds were immaculate — every path swept, every bush (small or ridiculously large) trimmed into perfect shapes, every stone placed with intention and purpose. It was the kind of controlled environment that spoke of generations of careful maintenance, of people who believed that order and beauty were the same thing.

But beyond the Eastern Wall, the forest that faced you was none of that.

This forest was wild in the way that only truly ancient places could ever be. Trees grew wherever they pleased, their branches interlacing overhead to form a canopy so dense that even during the day, light probably struggled to reach the forest floor. The undergrowth was thick enough to hide things that didn't want to be found — bushes with thorns as long as your fingers, vines that hung from branches like waiting snakes, patches of darkness so complete they almost seemed solid.

You stood at the edge of the trees and felt something you hadn't felt since your arrival in this world;

Fear.

Not the intellectual recognition of danger — you'd felt that abundantly over the past four years, when you'd watched for the very first time the clan members train with techniques that would have killed normal humans, observed the casual way they discussed cursed spirits and exorcisms and the constant, exhausting violence of jujutsu society.

The fear you were feeling right now was completely different.

This fear was physical. It was your body responding to something before your mind could process it, your instincts screaming at you with a clarity that bypassed thought entirely. Every hair on your small arms stood on end. Your heart rate spiked, then steadied into something faster than normal but somehow calmer, as if your body had decided that panic was useless and preparation was the only option.

[ The spirit is fully aware of your presence. ]

[ It has been aware since you left the domain. ]

Your eye twitched.

"Wow, thank you so much for telling me now," you whispered, your voice dripping with irony. "Really appreciate the heads-up. Super helpful."

The forest didn't respond, neither did the system.

With a deep breath that did absolutely nothing to calm your nerves, you stepped forward and entered the trees; and the very moment you crossed that threshold, the world behind you seemed to disappear.

It wasn't just that you couldn't see the Eastern Wall anymore — though you couldn't, the trees had closed behind you like a door shutting with finality — it was that you couldn't feel it anymore. The constant background hum of the clan's protective wards, the sense of safety and order that permeated every inch of the compound, the thousands of presences you'd learned to track without conscious thought; all of it vanished, replaced by... nothing.

Just the forest. Just the darkness. Just you.

Walking alone in this place in the middle of the night had nothing at all to do with the carefully controlled environments of the clan grounds. Roots tried to grab your small feet without warning, emerging from the earth like they'd been waiting for exactly this moment. Branches came from angles that shouldn't have been possible, snagging your clothes, scratching your face, forcing you to duck and weave like you were navigating an obstacle course designed by someone with a cruel sense of humor.

And the darkness — the darkness seemed to shift as you moved through it. Not quite solid, not quite empty. It pressed on you from all sides like water that had forgotten how to flow, heavy and suffocating and aware. You could feel it watching you, you could feel something watching you, somewhere ahead, somewhere in the direction you were walking.

Two point three kilometers.

In your past life, that distance would have been nothing — a simple twenty-minute walk, maybe less if you were motivated enough (which, historically, had been rare). But in this small body, with these small legs, navigating terrain that seemed to actively resist your progress, it really felt like an eternity. Every step required concentration, every movement had to be calculated. One wrong step and you'd twist an ankle, break a leg, find yourself helpless in the darkness with who-knew-what waiting for you.

And Shinji offered no further comment. No guidance, no reassurance, no helpful tips for surviving your first encounter with a cursed spirit. Just the objective, floating at the edge of your vision like a deadline you couldn't escape, a countdown to something you couldn't name.

Now that I think about it, you mused as you ducked under another low-hanging branch. This is the first time I've really left the domain. In four years. I've been inside those walls my entire second life, and now I'm out here, in the dark, walking toward a monster.

The fear didn't diminish as you walked. If anything, it grew, feeding on itself with each step forward.

The pressure in your chest became heavier, more insistent, until simply breathing felt like a conscious choice rather than an automatic function. Your hands trembled. Your heart beat so hard you could hear it in your ears, feel it in your throat, in your fingertips, a drumbeat counting down to something you couldn't name but could feel approaching.

"Ah, holy fucking shit," you whispered to yourself, your voice barely audible even to your own ears. "Why am I so scared?" You tried to laugh, but it came out wrong — too high, too shaky. "The worst that can happen is that I die. And it wouldn't be the first time that's happened to me."

The thought should have been comforting, but it wasn't.

Because dying hurt like hell.

You remembered that now, remembered the searing pain of that plastic shard embedding itself deep in your neck, the feeling of your life pumping out of you with every single heartbeat. Dying wasn't just an ending — it was an experience, a violation, something that left marks on the soul even if the body could be replaced.

And beneath it all, beneath the terror and the confusion and the growing certainty that you'd made a terrible mistake coming here, you felt something else.

Curiosity.

Because your eyes were changing without you noticing.

You couldn't see it — you couldn't look at yourself the way you looked at everything else — but you could feel it. That strange warmth spreading from your pupils outward, like someone had lit a fire behind your eyes and it was slowly melting something frozen. The way the forest's darkness seemed to thin slightly, not becoming brighter but becoming less, as if your perception was pushing it back without your conscious involvement.

Details emerged from the shadows; details you hadn't noticed at all before.

The exact texture of bark on trees twenty meters away — not just 'rough' or 'smooth', but the specific pattern of ridges and furrows, the way moss grew only on the north-facing sides, the tiny insects moving in cracks you shouldn't have been able to see from where you are. The precise path a small nocturnal insect took as it circled a rotten log, its movements following some pattern you could almost understand. The faint, almost invisible trace of something that wasn't quite light and wasn't quite energy, leading deeper into the forest like a thread through a labyrinth.

Is that... the cursed spirit's trail?

You had absolutely no idea how the Hell you could see all these things, but that wasn't your biggest problem right now.

You followed the trail without really deciding to, your feet moving before your mind could catch up, the warmth in your eyes growing with every step. The fear was still there — if anything, it was stronger now, pressing on you from the outside as well as the inside — but it seemed more distant somehow. Muffled. Like someone else's terror broadcast through walls too thick to convey the emotion clearly.

The forest opened suddenly onto a clearing.

You stopped at the edge, your breath catching in your throat.

"What the fucking hell," you whispered, the words escaping before you could stop them.

The space before you was perhaps fifty meters in diameter, a rough circle where absolutely nothing grew. No grass, no bushes, not even the tenacious weeds that normally took root everywhere else. The ground was bare earth, dark and compacted, as if something had been pressing it down for a very long time.

And at its center stood something that made your newly awakened perception recoil.

This thing had been human, once.

That was the very first thing your eyes registered, the framework your mind automatically clung to because you needed a starting point. The cursed spirit's shape was roughly correct — two arms, two legs, a torso, a head positioned on top. But everything else was wrong in a way that accumulated until the whole became something that had no business wearing a human form.

Its skin had the color of old bruises, blackish-purple and mottled with areas of something darker, something that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Its arms were too long, ending in hands with too many fingers — six, maybe seven on each hand, you couldn't quite count because they kept moving, shifting positions when you tried to focus. Each finger was topped with a nail that glistened with moisture in the starlight, catching the faint illumination and throwing it back in sickly highlights. Its legs bent in directions where human legs shouldn't bend, jointed like an insect's, planted in the earth as if it had grown there rather than walked there.

And its face.

Oh, its face.

The cursed spirit's face had features — a mouth, a nose, eyes — but they were all arranged wrong. The mouth stretched too wide, curving at the corners into a smile that showed too many teeth, too pointed, too sharp. The nose was barely a suggestion, two slits where it should have been, barely visible against the bruise-colored skin.

But the eyes — the eyes were the worst.

They were human eyes.

Perfectly normal human eyes, blue and bloodshot, with pupils that dilated and contracted as they focused on you. They stared at you with an expression that contained absolutely nothing human at all.

[ You have found the Cursed Spirit! ]

The system notification appeared, incongruously cheerful.

[ Age: Approximately 230 years ]

[ Origin: Execution site. Edo Period. Approximately 47 criminals were executed at this location between 1793 and 1851. The accumulated resentment of unjust convictions coalesced approximately 230 years ago. ]

[ Status: Aware. Amused. ]

"You are so small."

The voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once, layered over itself like several people saying exactly the same words at slightly different times. It was almost pleasant — melodic, even — but beneath that melody lay something that made every single one of your bones feel loose in your body.

The spirit hadn't moved at all; its mouth hadn't opened. But the voice continued, dripping from the air around you like condensation.

"So small, and so far from your walls. Does your clan know you are here, little one with golden eyes? Did they send you as a gift? An offering?"

Your mouth was completely dry. You tried to speak, failed, tried again;

"They... don't know."

Why am I even answering this thing? The thought flashed through your mind, sharp and panicked. I should be running. I should be fighting. I should be doing something other than standing here like an idiot.

But your body wouldn't move at all — your legs felt like they belonged to someone else, someone who hadn't decided whether to stay or flee.

The spirit's smile widened, splitting its face in a way that should have been impossible. The corners of its mouth stretched past its ears, past where a jaw should have ended, until its entire lower face seemed to be nothing but teeth.

"Ohoh, better and better. A secret little child, sneaking out just to play with monsters," its voice was delighted now, thrilled in a way that made your skin crawl. "What shall I do with you, I wonder? Eat you slowly? Keep you forever? Wear your skin and walk among your clan, pretending to be what you were?"

The spirit took a step forward.

The place where its foot landed seemed to darken, the bare earth absorbing something that made the taste of the air change. It wasn't a physical change — you couldn't smell or taste anything different — but you could feel it, feel the way the ground seemed to drink in the spirit's presence and ask for more.

Your Golden Eyes followed the movement automatically, and in that following, you saw something for the very first time.

Threads.

Faint threads, almost invisible, connecting the spirit to the ground beneath it, connecting it to the air around it, connecting it to something deeper, something you couldn't quite perceive but could feel the weight of, like a presence pressing on the world from underneath.

[ That is its anchor, Y/N. ]

[ It is the execution site. Two centuries of resentment, rooted in this very place. ]

[ The Cursed Spirit cannot leave the clearing. ]

Shinji's gentle voice resonated in your mind, and you felt something move in your small chest. Not relief — you were still terrified, still certain you were going to die the second the fight started — but understanding. The threads. The anchor. The way the cursed spirit's power was tied to this specific location, drawing strength from soil that had drunk the blood of executed criminals over decades.

And you could see it.

Not just the spirit itself, but the structure of its existence. The way its cursed energy flowed through those threads, drawing up resentment like water through roots. The way the clearing itself had been transformed over those two centuries, becoming more than just a place — becoming a vessel for hatred that had nowhere else to go.

The cursed spirit tilted its head, that too-wide smile still frozen in place, but something in its expression had shifted. The amusement was still there, but underneath it, something else flickered. Curiosity, maybe. Or suspicion.

"What are you looking at, little thing?" Its voice was softer now, less performative. "What do those golden eyes see?"

This time, you didn't answer.

You were too busy looking at the threads, tracing them back to their source, following the structure of the cursed spirit's existence down to its foundations. Two centuries of injustice. Forty-seven souls, executed for crimes they may or may not have committed, their resentment pooling in the earth like water finding the lowest point. The cursed spirit wasn't just born from that resentment — it was that resentment, given form and voice and the terrible patience of something that had been waiting for a very long time.

[ You are finally beginning to understand. ]

Shinji's warm voice resonated in your mind with something that might have been pride.

[ Very good, Y/N. ]

[ Now, try to survive. ]

The cursed spirit moved.

One moment it was twenty meters away from you, feet planted in the dark earth, smile frozen and terrible, and the next moment it was directly in front of you, one of those too-long arms extended with fingers that seemed to multiply as they approached. You tried to dodge — your body responded instantly, throwing itself sideways with all the speed your four-year-old muscles could produce — but you weren't fast enough.

You were so far from fast enough.

The cursed spirit's hand closed around your throat.

The grip was hideously cold in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with temperature. It was the cold of places that had never known sunlight, of emotions that had simmered for centuries without release, of something that had forgotten what warmth felt like and didn't want to remember anyway. It seeped into your skin, into your muscles, into your very bones, freezing you from the outside in.

Your little feet left the ground as the spirit lifted you by the throat, holding you at eye level with those disturbingly normal human eyes. You kicked, struggled, desperately tried to free yourself — but your limbs moved like they were underwater, slow and useless, the cold stealing your strength before you could use it.

"You see something," the spirit's voice was lower now, more intense. "I can feel it. Your eyes are... abnormal. They look at me and I feel seen in a way I haven't felt since—"

It stopped mid-sentence, its eyes widened, the human blue flickering with something that might have been fear.

"Since the executioner."

The grip on your throat tightened.

Your vision began to darken at the edges, your lungs screaming for air that wouldn't come. You could feel your heartbeat slowing, feel consciousness slipping away like water through fingers. The spirit's face swam before you, those human eyes staring with an expression that contained centuries of hatred and something else — something that almost looked like recognition.

Holy fucking shit, you thought as darkness closed in. This is it. This is really it.

[ First death imminent. ]

[ Do not resist. ]

[ It is necessary for your evolution. ]

What? First death?

But there was no time to question, no time to even understand. The darkness swallowed you completely, and the last thing you felt was the spirit's grip on your throat and the strange, distant awareness that this was the second time you'd died by asphyxiation.

This is my second fucking stupid death.

Then, nothing.

And then...

You opened your eyes.

The forest was still dark, the cursed spirit was still there, standing twenty meters away, its head tilted in what might have been confusion, and you were on the ground, lying on your back, staring at the stars through the gap in the trees.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Then you sat up abruptly, one small hand directly flying to your throat. Your fingers only found smooth, unbroken skin — not a single bruise, not a single trace of pain, no indication that merely seconds earlier a cursed spirit had crushed the life out of you.

What the... what the actual fuck?!

"You died."

The spirit's voice was different now; the amusement was completely gone, replaced by something that sounded almost like uncertainty.

"I felt you die. Your soul... stopped," it took a step closer, then stopped itself, as if uncertain. "And then it started again. That's not—that's not how death works."

You weren't listening. Your gaze was fixed on your hand — the same hand that had just been reaching for your throat. In the starlight, it looked completely normal; small, pale, a child's hand attached to a child's body.

But you could feel something; a warmth, a movement beneath your skin, like something was shifting, rearranging itself.

[ Death #1: Asphyxiation. ]

[ Duration: Approximately 4 seconds. ]

[ Correction efficiency: 100%. ]

[ Residual data: Soul compression experience recorded. Adaptation in progress... ]

"What the..."

The system notifications scrolled before your vision, Shinji's gentle voice resonating in every part of your being. You stared at them for a long time, trying to process what the hell had just happened.

You had died.

And now you were simply sitting there, breathing, thinking, existing, as if it had all been just a bad dream. Except it hadn't been a dream at all. The terror was still fresh in your chest, the memory of those weird fingers closing around your throat still vivid enough to make you want to vomit. You had died. You were certain of it, you had felt yourself die. And then—

[ Your technique does not allow termination. ]

[ This will require adjustment of your self-concept. ]

[ Suggested adjustment: You are not something that can end. ]

"Little one with golden eyes."

You looked up.

The cursed spirit was watching you with an expression that no longer contained any trace of amusement. It looked hungry — desperately, terribly hungry — but also much more cautious. Wary. As if it had just realized that the small child before it might not be what it seemed.

"What are you?"

The question hung in the air between you, heavy with implications neither of you fully understood. You opened your mouth to answer — to say something, anything, to fill the silence that suddenly seemed dangerous in a new way — but before you could speak, the spirit moved.

This time, it was much faster.

So fast that your eyes, even with their growing perception, couldn't follow the movement. One moment it was twenty meters away, studying you with those cautious, hungry eyes, then the next moment it was right behind you, and something was piercing through your back, through your chest, emerging from your sternum in a spray of—

Gold.

Not red. Not the dark arterial blood that should have gushed from such a wound, but gold. Liquid and so bright, catching the starlight and throwing it back in a way that made the clearing brighter than it had any right to be.

You looked down at the hand protruding from your chest — the spirit's hand, with way too many fingers, with nails glistening with moisture — and watched your own blood flow down its wrist in streams of molten light.

That's... that's my blood?

"Ah, seriously," you said, your voice surprisingly really calm. "Am I going to die again?"

And the world darkened once more.

[ Death #2: Cardiac destruction. ]

[ Duration: Approximately 2 seconds. ]

[ Correction efficiency: 100%. ]

[ Note: Residual data from previous termination accelerated recovery. Adaptation efficiency increasing! ]

[ Additional note: Your blood has finally manifested. This is good progress. ]

You opened your eyes again.

The cursed spirit stood over you, its face frozen in an expression that might have been awe. Its hand — the same one that had been inside your chest seconds earlier — was still raised, still dripping with gold that hadn't faded, hadn't evaporated, hadn't done anything but continue existing as if it had every right to be there.

This ridiculous situation is getting weirder and weirder.

"You're still here," the cursed spirit's voice was barely a whisper now, trembling with something that might have been fear or disbelief or perhaps the first stirrings of an emotion it hadn't felt in two centuries. "I killed you. I killed you twice. And you're still here."

Fuck, I know, you thought, your mind still reeling from the impossible reality of your own continued existence. How many more times am I going to have to die before I can get out of this damn forest?

You sat up slowly.

This time, you were aware of the transition — the strange, slippery moment between not existing and existing, the peculiar pressure of reality deciding that yes, actually, you would continue after all. It was like being pulled through something too small for your body, except your body wasn't the thing being pulled. It was something deeper, something that had no name in any language you knew. Your soul, maybe. Your essence. The fundamental Y/N-ness that persisted regardless of what happened to the vessel that contained it.

You looked at the cursed spirit's hand; the gold still dripping from its fingers.

And for the very first time, you felt that gold as part of yourself. Not just as blood — not just the fluid that circulated in your body carrying oxygen and nutrients and all the other things normal blood carried. This was different. Completely, fundamentally different. It was you, extended beyond the boundaries of your skin, still connected in a way you couldn't explain but could suddenly, vividly perceive.

The threads.

Just as the cursed spirit had threads connecting it to the execution site, drawing power from soil that had drunk the blood of executed criminals for two centuries, you had threads connecting you to the gold. Dozens of them, thin as spider silk, delicate as morning dew, stretching from your small body to every single drop that had been spilled from your wounds. You could feel them — could feel the gold responding to your attention, pulsing with something that almost felt like anticipation. Like it was waiting for you to notice it, to acknowledge it, to use it.

[ Golden Blood Manifestation: Available. ]

[ Your blood is not merely blood. It is extension. It is will. It is you, outside the container of your body. ]

[ Command it, Y/N. ]

Command it? you thought, your mind struggling to process the implication. Command my own blood? Like it's some kind of... tool? Weapon?

The cursed spirit was still staring at its own hand, at the gold that simply refused to fade no matter how many times it shook its too-long fingers.

"What is this?" its voice was higher now, less controlled. "What are you? This isn't—this isn't cursed energy, it's nothing I've ever—I've been here for two centuries, I've seen sorcerers, I've killed sorcerers, I've eaten sorcerers, and none of them—none of them had blood like this—"

You slowly raised your own hand.

Not toward the cursed spirit — you weren't stupid enough to attack something that had killed you twice already — but toward the gold blood still dripping from the spirit's fingers.

And the blood responded.

It rose from the cursed spirit's hand in a thin stream, moving through the air like a living thing, undulating and flowing and catching the starlight in a way that made it almost impossibly beautiful. The cursed spirit watched it go, its mouth opening and closing soundlessly, its eyes — those disturbingly normal human eyes — following the gold as it crossed the small distance between you and settled gently onto your outstretched palm.

It was no longer a liquid. Well, not exactly. The blood had form — not solid, not quite, but something in between, something that held its shape without needing a container. A small sphere of gold, about the size of a marble, resting in the center of your small hand, pulsing with a warmth you could feel even through your skin.

You looked at the blood, felt it. You understood, suddenly and completely, that this golden blood was just as much you as your Golden Eyes or your heart or that strange technique that kept refusing to let you die.

"Woah," you murmured to yourself, your voice barely audible even in the silence of the dark clearing. "That's... hum—super interesting?"

The cursed spirit made a decision.

You saw it coming — saw the exact moment when caution tipped into desperation, when the ancient hunger that had sustained this being for two long centuries overrode any fear your resurrection might have inspired. The threads connecting it to the execution site pulsed with sudden, violent intensity, drawing power in quantities that made the air itself feel wrong. Heavy. Charged with something that pressed against your skin like approaching thunder.

The clearing darkened. The stars above seemed to dim, as if even light itself was reluctant to witness what was coming. The ground beneath your feet trembled slightly, responding to something deep beneath the surface, something that had been waiting for a very long time.

"I don't know what you are," said the cursed spirit, its voice layering until it became a chorus of hatred — dozens of voices speaking as one, the accumulated resentment of forty-seven executed souls finding expression at last. "But I know what you'll be when I'm done. Dead. Finally, properly, completely dead. And I'll wear your gold like jewelry, little thing. I'll make it part of me. I'll—"

You stopped listening.

Not because you weren't paying attention — you were, intensely, your Golden Eyes following every single flicker of the cursed spirit's energy, every single change in the threads connecting it to its power source, every subtle shift in the structure of its being. But the words themselves were unimportant. What mattered was the architecture beneath; the structure of the spirit's attack before it even formed.

And you could see it.

Not just the cursed energy building in its core — though you could see that too, a roiling mass of darkness that seemed to swallow light rather than emit it. You could see the specific form that energy would take when released. The way it would propagate through the air. The path it would follow. The exact points where it would be strongest, and the exact points where it would be weakest.

A wave of pure resentment, shaped by two centuries of accumulated hatred, designed to overwhelm and dissolve everything it touched. The cursed spirit had used this attack before — many times, judging by the worn paths the energy followed, the grooves carved into reality itself by repeated use of the same technique. The spirit was confident. More than confident. It was certain. This attack had never failed.

Well, you thought, watching the attack take shape. It's about to fail now.

The wave erupted from the cursed spirit's body, visible even to normal eyes as a wall of darkness that swallowed everything in its path. It rushed toward you with the speed of something that had waited centuries for this moment, that was so damn hungry for this very moment, that had dreamed of this moment before its great-grandparents' great-grandparents were even born.

And you watched it come.

You watched the threads of its formation. You watched the points where the energy was strongest — the leading edge, the center, the place where two centuries of hatred had concentrated into something almost solid. You watched the points where it was weakest — the edges, the places where the attack's own momentum created tiny gaps in its structure, the spots where the energy was spread too thin to maintain cohesion.

Your Golden Eyes were fully active now.

You could feel them — the warmth spreading across your face, the strange pressure of seeing so deeply that reality itself seemed to hesitate beneath your gaze. The world around you had become something else entirely; not a forest, not a clearing, but a complex web of connections and structures and possibilities, all laid out before you like a diagram waiting to be read.

The wave struck you.

And passed through you.

Not around you. Not over you. The wave passed completely through you, as if you had become something that didn't occupy the same space as normal matter, as if the attack had aimed at a place where you no longer existed. You felt it — you felt the darkness rush through your body like wind through an open window — but it left no trace behind. No damage. No pain. Nothing.

Behind you, the forest bore the full weight of the cursed spirit's fury.

Trees exploded into splinters, their remains scattered across hundreds of meters in every direction. The ground sculpted itself into new and terrible forms, carved by forces that had no regard for stability or sense. Animals sleeping peacefully miles away died without ever waking, their poor souls completely extinguished by the sheer weight of resentment that washed over them. For a radius of nearly a kilometer, life simply stopped.

And you stood at the center of the destruction, completely unharmed.

The cursed spirit stared at you.

"You—" it began, then stopped, and started again. "You didn't move. You didn't counter. You didn't even try to defend yourself. You just—"

"Watched," you finished, running your small hand through your honey-blonde hair — the gold in your other palm pulsed softly, warmly, as if responding to your calm. "I watched it form. I saw where it would strike. And I moved out of the way before you even released it."

"That's not possible," the spirit's voice was flat now, empty of emotion. "That's not—you can't see the future, you can't predict—"

"I can see the structure," you took a step forward, and the gold in your palm pulsed again, brighter this time. "I can see how things are constructed. Attacks. Techniques. You."

You gestured at the spirit, at the threads that connected it to the execution site, at the complex web of resentment and hatred and accumulated negativity that had sustained it for two whole centuries.

"Two hundred years of existence, and you're still just a collection of threads attached to a patch of ground. Strong threads, certainly. But just threads."

Another step. The cursed spirit retreated, its too-long legs carrying it backward toward the center of the clearing, toward the anchor that had sustained it for so long.

"I can see where they connect," your voice was almost conversational. "I can see what happens if I cut them."

The spirit's eyes widened.

For the first time in two centuries, something that had never known true fear felt something cold and terrible bloom in the space where its heart should have been.

And Okada Y/N, age four, was the reason.

"You won't," the spirit's voice cracked on the words. "You can't. This place is mine—it has belonged to me longer than your clan has existed, longer than your country has existed, longer than—"

You raised your hand.

The gold in your palm responded instantly, shifting from sphere to thread in a transformation so fluid it looked like magic. One moment, a ball of liquid light, and the next moment, a single golden thread, thin as spider silk, stretching from your fingers toward the spirit's anchor.

"You talk a lot," you said, your voice carrying a note of genuine boredom. "For someone who's just spewing shit."

The thread touched the first connection.

The cursed spirit screamed.

Not with its voice — the scream came from somewhere much deeper, from a place that shouldn't have been able to produce sound at all. It was the scream of something being undone, of a structure collapsing, of two centuries of accumulated existence unraveling in simple seconds. The sound existed not in the air but directly in your mind, in your bones, in the very core of your being.

You watched it all happen.

You watched the threads snap one by one, each severed connection releasing an explosion of resentment that dissipated into the night air like vapor. You watched the spirit's form waver and distort, its carefully maintained human shape dissolving into something less coherent, less real. You watched its eyes — those disturbingly normal human eyes — fill with something that might have been understanding, might have been surrender, might have been the first genuine emotion the spirit had felt since the day it was born from the blood of executed criminals.

"Please," the voice was small now, childlike, stripped of the layered chorus that had made it so terrifying. "Please, I—I don't want to—I didn't ask to be—I just—"

The last thread snapped.

And the cursed spirit dissipated.

It didn't vanish into nothingness — you could clearly see the pieces, the fragments of resentment that would eventually regroup into something new, elsewhere, given enough time and enough hatred. But the thing itself, the specific being that had terrorized this region for two centuries, was gone. Undone. Observed out of existence.

You stood at the center of the clearing and watched the last traces fade.

Your small hand was still raised, the golden thread still stretched toward the now-empty air. You lowered it slowly, watching the thread flow back into your palm, reforming into that same small sphere of liquid light. The golden blood pulsed there — warm, patient, waiting for whatever you might ask it to do next.

[ Objective completed! ]

The system notifications scrolled before your vision, bright and celebratory.

[ Golden Blood Manifestation: Mastered. ]

[ Golden Eyes: Partial awakening achieved. ]

[ Total deaths experienced: 2. ]

[ Current adaptation level: Insufficient for full expression of immortality. Continue accumulation. ]

[ Additional observation: The Cursed Spirit's final emotion was fear. Not of death—it had faced death before, had even embraced it in some twisted way. But fear of being completely understood. Of having its structure laid bare, its weaknesses exposed, its entire existence reduced to something that could be seen and cut. This is worth noting. ]

You let out a breath you hadn't even realized you'd been holding, and your small legs finally gave out.

You hit the ground hard — your four-year-old body finally reaching its limit, the adrenaline that had carried you through the fight draining away all at once and leaving only exhaustion in its wake. You simply lay there, staring at the stars through the gap in the trees, feeling the gold in your veins settle back into its usual silent circulation.

"What just happened?" your voice was weak, barely a whisper, and a small incredulous laugh escaped you. "What the hell just happened?"

You had died.

You had died twice.

You had watched a two-hundred-year-old cursed spirit disintegrate because your Golden Eyes had stared at it too hard, too deeply. Because your golden blood obeyed you completely, and you had used it as a weapon without even really understanding what you were doing.

Your fucking golden blood.

"Shinji," your voice carried toward the stars, toward the system screen still floating at the edge of your vision, toward whatever divine being had put you in this impossible situation. "I'm going to kill you."

[ Hehe... ]

Shinji's response came immediately, warm and amused and utterly unrepentant.

[ Too bad you can't. ]

You smiled despite yourself — a small, tired smile that held no real anger — and let your eyes close.

The silence of the night enveloped you, soft and complete. No more screaming. No more attacks. No more dying. Just the gentle rustle of wind through the surviving trees, the distant call of some nocturnal bird that had somehow slept through the apocalypse, the slow rhythm of your own breathing as it steadied and slowed.

You didn't move. You couldn't move, really — your body was heavy in a way that had nothing to do with physical weight, and your mind was still processing everything that had just happened, everything you had just learned, everything you now knew about yourself that you hadn't known when you left the domain.

The gold blood in your small palm had stopped pulsing. It simply rested there, warm and still, as if the blood was simply waiting for instructions you weren't entirely sure you knew how to give.

Above you, the stars continued their slow rotation, indifferent to the fact that something impossible had just occurred beneath them.

"Yo."

The voice came from somewhere to your left — casual, almost bored, carrying the kind of confidence that belonged to someone who hadn't just witnessed the destruction of a two-century-old cursed spirit at the hands of a four-year-old child. Or who had, but simply didn't care enough to be impressed, or didn't want to show it.

Your eyes snapped open.

You turned your head slowly — everything was slow now, your body protesting even that small movement — and looked toward the edge of the clearing.

A boy stood there.

Pretty tall for his age — sixteen, maybe, though it was hard to tell in the forest darkness. White hair that caught the starlight in a way that made it look almost silver, almost luminous, almost other. He was dressed in what looked like a school uniform, dark colors that blended easily into the shadows, and his face wore an expression of moderate interest that didn't quite reach his eyes.

Wait.

Your breath caught in your throat.

Those eyes.

Even in the darkness, even at this distance, even through the exhaustion that clouded your perception, you could see them clearly. Blue. A bright, impossible blue, the kind of blue that doesn't exist in nature, that belongs to paintings or dreams or somewhere else entirely. The kind of blue that saw everything, that missed nothing, that perceived the world in a way no other eyes could.

Oh my fucking God, tell me this is a joke.

It was the Six Eyes.

Gojo Satoru.

Gojo Satoru was standing at the edge of the clearing, looking at you with an expression that managed to be both curious and completely unreadable. His gaze moved slowly across the scene — the devastated forest, the bare earth of the clearing, the scattered remnants of the cursed spirit's dissolution — before settling on the four-year-old child lying at the center of it all as if you had simply decided to take a little nap after destroying something that should have been impossible for you to even scratch.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then Gojo's lips curved into a smile — not the too-wide smile of the spirit, but something else entirely. Something that held amusement and interest and a hint of something that might have been calculation.

"You know," he said, his voice carrying that same casual amusement. "This was my mission. Like, officially. Assigned by the school and everything. I was supposed to come here, exorcise that cursed spirit, maybe take a little nap afterward, go home, collect my credit."

Gojo gestured vaguely at the clearing, at the absence where the cursed spirit had been, at the four-year-old who had somehow done his job for him.

"But you... well, you did it for me."

A pause.

"Also, your eyes are really weird."

Gojo said it the way someone might simply comment on the weather — very casual, offhand, and completely unconcerned with the implications.

"Like, really, really weird. I've seen a lot of weird things in my life. My eyes see weird stuff constantly. It's kind of my whole thing. But yours?" he tilted his head, studying you with an intensity that belied his casual tone. "Yours are something else."

You stared at him.

Your mouth opened, closed, then opened again.

No sound came out.

Gojo Satoru.

Gojo. Fucking. Satoru.

The boy standing at the edge of the clearing couldn't have been older than sixteen at this moment, if you judged by his still-youthful features, the way his body hadn't quite finished growing into itself. He wasn't yet the strongest — not really, not fully — still growing into the power that would eventually make him completely untouchable. But he was already dangerous. Already marked. Already bearing eyes that saw the world in a way no one else could.

And that same teenage boy was standing right here, in this clearing, looking at you with an expression that contained none of the reverence or awe or adoration that the Okada clan members directed at the Golden Eyes. None of the fear that had filled the spirit's final moments. Just... interest. Genuine, unfiltered interest, as if he had found something new and was trying to decide if it was a toy or a threat or perhaps both.

"So?" Gojo prompted when the silence had stretched too long. "Aren't you going to say something? I just saw a kid—what, four? five?—murder a two-hundred-year-old curse with his blood. I think that deserves at least a little 'hello'."

Your mouth opened again.

"...Hello?" the word came out small, uncertain, completely inadequate for the situation.

Gojo's face lit up with a wide smile — broad and genuine and somehow more disturbing than the spirit's too-wide smile had ever been. It was the smile of someone who had just found a new toy, a new puzzle, a new source of entertainment in a world that usually bored him.

"See? That wasn't so hard."

Gojo stepped forward into the clearing, moving with the wasy confidence of someone who had never really had to fear anything in his entire life.

"I'm Gojo Satoru. And you—" he pointed at you, at your Golden Eyes, at the gold still faintly glowing in your palm. "You're the most interesting thing I've seen all week. Maybe all month. Definitely in my entire life."

Gojo crossed the clearing in a few long strides, coming to a stop just a meter away from where you lay on the ground. Up close, he was even more striking — the white hair, the breathtaking blue eyes.

"Sooo."

He crouched down, bringing himself to your level. His eyes — those impossible blue eyes — studied the four-year-old with an intensity that made you want to squirm.

"Do you want to tell me what just happened? Or should I guess? Because I have some very good guesses, and I want to know if I'm right."

You watched the teenage approach, and you felt something move in your chest.

Not fear, not quite.

It was something else, something that felt, in a completely impossible way, like the beginning of a long story you hadn't known you were part of.

[ New objective available. ]

The system notification appeared, and you could swear you heard Shinji's gentle laughter in the background.

[ Objective: Survive Gojo Satoru's interest. ]

[ Note: This may be significantly more difficult than surviving the cursed spirit. ]

You looked at the screen, then at the teenager crouched before you, with his too-bright eyes and his too-sharp smile and his too-casual confidence.

Survive Gojo Satoru's interest.

You looked back at the screen.

This may be significantly more difficult than surviving the cursed spirit.

You let out a long, slow breath.

Yeah, you thought. I'm starting to realize that.

"So?" Gojo prompted, his smile widening. "I'm waiting. And I'm not very patient. Well—actually, I'm extremely patient when I want to be. But right now, I don't want to be patient. So talk."

You looked at him — at Gojo Satoru, at the Six Eyes, at the future strongest sorcerer of his generation — and felt the last remnants of your hope for a peaceful life crumble to dust.

It seems, you thought, watching Gojo's too-bright eyes study you with that unnerving intensity. That my peaceful life was never going to happen in this one.

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note ∘ ∘ ∘ SOOO WHAT DO WE THINK ABOUT THIS CHAPTER HEHE??? we got to see a little bit of what the Golden Eyes can do + Reader unblocked a new technique — Golden Blood Manifestation 😋

( oh!! and the Archives i mentioned in the beginning are actually really important, and i did write all the content of The First’s original journals lol but its like 16k words so i’ll be including it little by little throughout the book! )

taglist ∘ ∘ ∘ @suunani @nikomenom @michisilly @bitterinkandblood @sukunaslilsocks @soafhie @d4iky-s-nsh1ne @im-so-goddamn-tired @ilovebattinson @starrykies @mentaltrouble2201 @lovely-venusss @getos-personal-slut-1 @ktkitty-v @unwittingmagesblog @1800imgay @noomsy ( please comment or send me a message if you wanna be added! )

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