North or South

"So-called choices are really just a game of whether to turn left or turn right."

Mizuki Makoto lay on the training field's grass, staring up at Tokyo's white, almost unreal sky. The metallic taste of blood still lingered in his mouth, and his brain had entered a philosophical shutdown.

"But for me, there are only two choices now: either play dead on the ground, or get hauled up by Gojo-sensei for another combo."

Some time had passed since the world-shaking Night Parade of a Hundred Demons. The smoke over Shinjuku had cleared, Jujutsu High's ruined walls had mostly been repaired, and even Gojo Mai: Widowed Arc had sold out in fan circles.

The world seemed to be getting back on track.

Except for one "last letter" that should never have appeared.

Just a few days ago, Gojo-sensei had opened a letter with no sender's name, yet carrying a faint scent of "man-bun."

It was an utterly irresponsible letter, even carrying the pretentious air of an artsy youth—Suguru Geto had actually decided, after I cursed him out badly enough to break through his defenses, to give up his position as cult leader and go "find himself." In the letter, he wrote that he was heading south, to see islands without cursed spirits and consider possibilities beyond "killing all monkeys."

Of course, at the end, he had not forgotten to expertly emotionally blackmail his former best friend.

"Satoru, I'll leave my 'family' in your care, especially those two children. After all, I'm now an unemployed drifter without even a pension."

Gojo Satoru stared at that letter for a full half hour. At last, he gave an incredibly punchable grin, crumpled the letter into a ball, and tossed it into the trash.

"Looks like Suguru has reached his rebellious phase too."

That was how the man put it.

So, to celebrate his best friend's "rebirth," and to reward the students who had performed "outstandingly" during the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons, Gojo-sensei decided to treat us to some extra training.

"Makoto, Yuta, Kinji, come take a little lesson!"

That was the beginning of hell.

Originally, Mizuki Makoto had stepped onto the training field with an incredibly innocent mindset—perhaps even one tinged with rosy fantasies—because Maki had been walking with him at the time.

"Even Maki-chan can join this kind of special training?" he had rubbed his chin and naively thought. "Could it be that sensei has finally found his conscience and is going to give Maki-chan a cheat?"

Without the slightest guard up, Mizuki Makoto had thought it would merely be another ordinary sparring session.

Until he saw Hakari Kinji's face, which practically read, "May heaven help you," as well as Maki and Kirara standing at the side with their arms folded, sympathy in their eyes that seemed to say, "Rest in peace."

It turned out Maki and Kirara really were attending the little lesson.

—They were in charge of watching.

—And after the training ended, they were responsible for scraping Mizuki Makoto's soulless lump of flesh off the ground and carrying him back.

"Makoto, don't space out. Your hands may be fast when you draw doujinshi, but to a Special Grade sorcerer, your reaction speed doesn't even count as slow motion."

Gojo Satoru smiled as he removed his blindfold, the flash of cerulean blue looking especially cold beneath the sunlight.

The next ten minutes were a pure nightmare for an "ordinary person."

Those two beasts, Hakari Kinji and Okkotsu Yuta—one possessed nearly limitless cursed energy and could maintain his body's strength at any time, while the other had already touched the threshold of [Reverse Cursed Technique]. If his ribs were broken, he could set them back in place in a moment; if his teeth were knocked out, he only needed to close his mouth for them to grow back.

But what about me?

I was just a Grade 2 Sorcerer who used a bootleg "Ushura Bullet" to drift through space, with maxed-out defense but a paper-thin health bar! I didn't have a cheating plug-in like Reverse Cursed Technique!

Bang!!!

Gojo Satoru's uppercut smashed hard into Mizuki Makoto's abdomen—although I had used [Ushura Bullet] at the critical instant to distort space and deflect ninety percent of the force, the remaining ten percent still made me feel like I had been hit head-on by a charging boar.

His insides churned violently, and the bowl of ramen he had eaten for lunch seemed determined to burst out of his throat.

"Pwah—!"

Mizuki Makoto curled up on the ground like a boiled shrimp, vomiting stomach acid and saliva in great heaving gulps. Reflexive tears blurred his vision. That blank sensation, as though his brain had been physically emptied, left him unable to remember which page of his doujinshi he had been drawing.

"Oh dear, down again?" Gojo Satoru stopped three steps away, tilting his head with an innocent expression. "Makoto, I didn't reinforce myself with cursed energy this time. Could it be that drawing Household Affairs has exhausted you lately, leaving your waist too weak? Oh my, young people need to know moderation."

Bullshit! You definitely put more force into it!

You're absolutely taking revenge over the grudge of me drawing you like that! There's no proof, but I'd bet that punch had at least ten years of skill and five hundred kilograms of resentment behind it! This isn't training students at all—you're executing a doujinshi artist who drew you!

"Tch, passed out again?"

Maki's cool voice, carrying that familiar note of disdain, sounded beside his ear.

Then, a familiar force wrapped around Mizuki Makoto's body, firm and impossible to resist.

It was not a gentle helping hand like Yuta's, nor a fluffy embrace like Panda's. They were arms wrapped in bandages and calluses, brimming with explosive strength. In an efficient motion, almost like carrying some heavy trophy, they scooped his entire body up from the grass soaked with vomit and sweat.

Yes, the legendary... princess carry.

Mizuki Makoto felt a pair of strong arms hook beneath his armpits and lift him from that grass covered in vomit and sweat. Maki expertly held him in her arms, moving as briskly as if she were carrying a sack of rice.

"Mizuki, if this 'get beaten for ten minutes, stay unconscious for two hours' routine of yours gets written into the school history, it'll definitely become the most embarrassing record in Jujutsu High's history."

As she spoke, she patted his dust-covered cheek.

Mizuki Makoto forced one eye open, looking at Maki's heroic profile as he weakly let out a breath.

"Maki-chan... next time... can you talk to sensei... and ask him to use a gentler form of revenge... like... just confiscating my drawing pens..."

"You think that's possible? Since when has that blindfolded bastard ever listened to anyone else?" Maki snorted and shifted him higher in her arms. "Kirara, help me carry his notebook. If this guy dies here and the next issue of Gojo Mai goes on hiatus, Inumaki will be sad."

Mizuki Makoto closed his eyes completely, letting his consciousness slip into darkness.

In the final second before he lost consciousness, he was still thinking:

Suguru, heading south, and Yuta, heading north, would both eventually find their answers.

And for someone like me, beaten until I can't tell north from south, there seems to be only one answer—Gojo Satoru, you narrow-minded strongest, you definitely put more force into it!!!

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