Extra 2: For the Sake of the Underclassmen's Lives, the Legacy of Jujutsu High Rests on Us

Gojo Satoru's office was, as always, filled with the cloying scent of daifuku and the suffocating air of the corporate grind.

"Makoto, look at this. This is one of your teacher's treasured 'relics of youth.'"

The white-haired bastard grinned with obvious ill intent as he mysteriously pulled a slightly yellowed laminated photo from the depths of his desk, which was as messy as a cursed spirit's nest.

Mizuki Makoto's fingertips twitched. He adjusted the monocle over his eye, then leaned closer with eyes that said, "I want to get beaten up," in the left and, "Or maybe twice," in the right.

At the center of the picture was Kento Nanami, the elite finance worker currently immersed in the belief that "work is hell."

Except this was seventeen-year-old Nanami, still at some kind of "life-or-death crossroads."

He wore a white shirt and an absurdly short skirt, slumped on the floor with lifeless eyes and the expression of someone the white-haired man next door had thoroughly ruined.

Mei Mei was kindly patting his head. Shoko Ieiri, young, free of dark circles, and still full of collagen, was trying to pull her own stockings onto him. Another upperclassman held lipstick, apparently intending to draw a heart on Nanami's face, which practically screamed, "Just destroy everything already."

"Pfft—"

He failed to hold it in and nearly sprayed his iced cola all over Gojo Satoru's limited-edition sunglasses. "Mr. Nanami... used to play this hard?"

"Gojo, you—"

At that moment, the office door was violently shoved open. Shoko Ieiri walked in wearing a white lab coat, carrying a cup of coffee that had long gone cold, exhaustion written all over her face.

The instant she saw the photo in Gojo's hand, Shoko's perpetually sleepy dead-fish eyes flew wide open. Then she fixed him with a frigid gaze, as though looking at non-recyclable garbage.

"Gojo Satoru. Are you even human? After what happened to Nanami back then, didn't we agree to destroy every single photo and never keep backups?!"

"Oh, Shoko, don't be so fierce."

Gojo calmly burned the photo and flashed an extremely innocent smile. "I didn't keep it. I'm deleting it now. I just deleted it a tiny little bit late... just a tiny little bit."

He smoothly pulled out his phone, pressed the delete button right in front of Shoko, and even deliberately showed her the empty gallery.

"See? Deleted. Your teacher is very trustworthy."

Shoko snorted and was about to leave when Gojo suddenly leaned close to his student. He lowered his voice, with the shameless tone of someone saying, "I'm just passing along a message."

"Of course, Shoko, you know how it is. If a student with 'exceptional artistic inspiration' reconstructs the grand scene from certain stories told by their seniors, painstakingly analyzes it, and even turns it into art, then that isn't my problem, right?"

Shoko froze mid-step.

She turned around, looked at Gojo's handsome face that seemed to declare, "A scourge lives for a thousand years," and let out a sigh of grief that transcended the ages.

"Gojo Satoru, you bastard. You really aren't human."

Gojo completely ignored the compliment. Instead, he pulled out the loudspeaker engraved with cursed inscriptions and cranked the volume to maximum.

"Makoto, did you hear that? This is an artist's intuition!"

He put his sunglasses back on. His azure Six Eyes were filled with "affection" and "expectation" for the younger generation.

"This is a traditional skill of Jujutsu High! Shoko and I, as upperclassmen back then, did an excellent job fulfilling our 'duty of guidance' toward our juniors. As my most prized disciples, you and Yuta can't let such fine school spirit die out in your hands!"

"Gojo Satoru! Shut the hell up! What kind of bullshit tradition is that?! That was bullying!" Principal Yaga's roar from next door shook dust from the ceiling.

Gojo automatically filtered out the physical noise. Gazing out the window with deep feeling, he elegantly rested his cane—chocolate pipe—against his lips, his eyes full of "I want to watch this unfold" and "I have high hopes for you."

"So, we have to carry this legacy forward. For example, there are some underclassmen enrolling next year. There's a particularly interesting one. Look at that cool guy face. Aren't you going to leave him with some profound youthful memories? A pink skirt, perhaps? Otherwise, how could you call yourself Gojo Satoru's student in the future?"

Mizuki stared at Gojo. The gear in his mind called the "soul of a scumbag" turned in perfect sync with Gojo's, grinding out destructive sparks.

"Teacher, worthy of being the 'first generation' above me. On the path of [Limitless], I would call you the strongest!"

"Not at all, not at all. When it comes to the lower limits of morality, Makoto, there's no need for modesty. You surpassed your teacher long ago. As your teacher, I'm already far from being your match."

Mizuki adjusted his monocle, which flashed with an evil chill, and the corner of his mouth curled into a somewhat unhinged, upperclassman's sneer.

Since I've received parental permission, then dear underclassmen, your senior has no choice but to "bless" you with a wonderful high school life full of "youthful spirit."

As the sun set, Mizuki watched Gojo disappear around the end of the corridor. Then he turned toward his trembling inner disciple, Okkotsu, bared a row of gleaming white teeth, and grinned.

"Yuta, bring me that pink marker over there. Don't hide. For the sake of the future underclassmen, as a senior, you naturally have to experience it first, right? Come on, let me see how well you've developed."

That night, the screams from the first-year dormitory at Jujutsu High lasted until dawn.

Two days later, on a peaceful afternoon after the sister-school Exchange Event.

Kento Nanami sat in a quiet café not far from Jujutsu High, holding a cup of black coffee. His eyes carried the exhaustion of someone thinking, "This world is full of shit, but I still have to endure it for my hourly wage."

He was about to look over the financial report Mei Mei had sent him when he spotted an extremely ominous attachment title in the email: Genderbend: Jujutsu High—Hidden Inventory Arc.

Nanami's eye twitched. His trembling finger clicked download.

At that instant, the coffee cup in his hand gave a faint, dangerous crack.

It was a set of drawings. Beautiful, meticulous, and filled with the deranged scumbag brushwork of someone named Mizuki Makoto.

At the center of the drawing was a "girl Nanami" in black stockings, her eyes dead and the tips of her ears flushed red from humiliation. Gojo Mai and Ieiri Takashi were pinning her to the dormitory floor for "artistic processing," and the despair in her eyes seemed ready to spill from the screen as black liquid.

At the end of the drawings was also a sketch of Gojo Satoru in a maid outfit, annotated with a particularly punchable line of tiny text: "Jujutsu High's fine tradition, inheritance imminent. —Makoto."

Kento Nanami fell silent. His usually stern face became darker than pure crude oil.

Unhurriedly, he pulled his phone from his school uniform pocket and skillfully dialed a number.

"Hello, Mr. Gojo. That student of yours named Mizuki Makoto... if possible, I would like, in the name of an adult, to give him an extremely profound 'moral education.' One that may even leave him with severe psychological trauma. I'll cover all expenses, so long as I can chop up his drawing board and his face together and feed them to fish."

On the other end of the call, Gojo Satoru burst into wild laughter, delighted at the prospect of chaos.

Nanami hung up, looked at the desperate fifteen-year-old version of himself on the screen, and delivered the truest assessment of this world, one that transcended time itself.

"Gojo Satoru really is shit."

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