A Guard for a Shattered Friend

The instant "Dismantle" in the soul domain reduced Ashiya Dōman to dust, the bone-chilling cold that could freeze even thought finally dissipated.

But for Mizuki Makoto, this was not a post-clear CG cutscene. It was the second half of a nightmare.

"Urgh..."

Forget groaning; the agony had robbed him even of the right to breathe.

The moment his consciousness took control of this body again, the overwhelming signals of pain made his brain crash, even bringing a brief numbness.

It hurt too much. It really hurt too much. Every nerve and every electrical signal in his flesh was screaming despair at his brain.

Although, during the incarnation, Ashiya Dōman's Special Grade-scale cursed energy had forcibly reinforced his bones like industrial-strength glue, a sorcerer's body was ultimately not a hard drive with infinite capacity.

Mei Mei's sacrifice of a hundred birds, the supersonic Black Flash: Divine Wind, Todo Aoi's three consecutive Black Flashes powerful enough to split mountains and shatter stone... all of that destructive power, enough to exorcise a Special Grade cursed spirit, had been poured into this flesh-and-blood body named "Mizuki Makoto."

Crack.

As the domain withered like a shattered mirror, Mizuki Makoto collapsed into the rubble like a pile of mud.

More than fifty percent of the bones in his body had been ground to pieces, while dark-red blood seeped from his seven orifices as though it cost nothing.

Right now, he looked like a porcelain doll that had been repeatedly run over by a heavy truck, then barely glued back together by a mischievous child. Even a slightly stronger gust of wind could make him fall apart on the spot.

Within 0.1 seconds of his consciousness returning, physiological overload completely "cut the power."

He had fainted in spectacular fashion, without the slightest suspense.

"Brother..." Todo Aoi tried to struggle to his feet, but he too was already at the end of his strength.

Under normal circumstances in Jujutsu Society, this would have been Mizuki Makoto's end—after a glorious finishing blow, he would have met his collapse alone amid the ruins.

The people from Kyoto Jujutsu High looked at one another, their eyes filled with nothing but deep helplessness.

None of them possessed the "miracle" known as the Reverse Cursed Technique, much less the advanced skill of projecting positive energy outward like a healer's spell.

If this followed the usual light novel formula, Mizuki Makoto should have started seeing his life flash before his eyes, then fought Ashiya Dōman again before Jizō Bodhisattva. After winning, he would compete with the Prison Realm guy for a 2018 resurrection match slot.

However, as a mature beauty and professional accountant with the [Streetlamp Ornament] trait, Mei Mei never put all her chips in one basket.

[Five Minutes Earlier · Edge of the Signal Dead Zone]

When Mei Mei realized that the Curtain had cut off all electronic signals and that Gojo Satoru might have been held back by something, she did not waste time waiting uselessly like an ordinary sorcerer.

As the senior of Gojo Satoru, Shoko Ieiri, and Utahime Iori—a genuine old hand who had watched them grow from immature children into adults—she did not try to contact Gojo Satoru, whose phone would obviously receive no signal. Instead, she called a highly unusual number.

It belonged to Ijichi Kiyotaka, an assistant supervisor who was basically assigned exclusively to Gojo Satoru.

"Ijichi-kun, although the roaming fee for this call will be charged to your account, if you don't want to see Gojo-kun visiting a grave with a grief-stricken face this time next year, or see a Gojo-kun who has truly 'gone crazy,' then contact Gojo-kun immediately."

The instant Ijichi received the message, terror nearly drowned him. But an assistant supervisor's professional instincts drove him to make the most insane move—rather than trying to break the Curtain, he used barrier reinforcement techniques to forcibly adjust the frequency of his cursed energy wavelength until it resonated with the Curtain.

It was no different from dropping a depth charge into a calm lake. Though he could not convey any specific information, this violent barrier disturbance, carrying Ijichi's personal signature, was like a blaze shooting into the sky on a pitch-black night to Gojo Satoru, who possessed the Six Eyes.

[Tokyo Streets]

Gojo Satoru, who had been handling a so-called Special Grade mission, suddenly stopped.

The Six Eyes caught that faint, almost imperceptible ripple, brimming with a cry for help.

Then the air "froze" in every sense of the word.

Jujutsu Society's strongest combatant became a literal [Natural Disaster].

Without any sign of anxiety, the [Strongest] merely stood expressionlessly in the bustling district and removed his blindfold. The scene reflected in those sky-blue eyes became unfathomably deep.

Domain Expansion—[Unlimited Void], 0.2 seconds.

There was no explosion, no roar. In an instant of absolute stillness, every cursed spirit, curse user, and ordinary person nearby had three months of useless garbage information indiscriminately crammed into their brains.

In an instant, the brains of the so-called Special Grade cursed spirit and every ordinary person around it all crashed.

"Yuta, hold on tight."

Before Okkotsu Yuta, who was in Kenya, could react, Gojo Satoru had already grabbed his shoulder with one hand.

[Lapse: Blue]—Maximum Output: Long-Distance Teleportation!

--

Mizuki Makoto's vision was already beginning to blur. He vaguely heard something like thunder, or perhaps the wail of space being forcibly torn apart.

—Ah, dying like this would be way too pathetic! A whoosh, then a hey—Reverse Cursed Technique, get moving already!

—Too bad. When people are pushed too far, they might be able to kill a Special Grade sorcerer, but what can't be done simply can't be done.

—But Yuta could do it!

—Do you think you're Okkotsu Yuta, "me"?

Boom!!

As the smoke cleared, the man who no longer wore a blindfold, his hair slightly disheveled, landed steadily atop the rubble. He was also carrying a bewildered Okkotsu Yuta under one arm, Yuta still clutching his famous sword.

"Yo, looks like it's not time to collect the body yet." Gojo Satoru swept his gaze around. When his eyes fell on Mizuki Makoto's nearly ruined body, the look beneath his blindfold instantly dropped below freezing.

The pressure was so immense that even Utahime Iori felt as though the air had stopped moving.

"Yuta, keep him alive first." Gojo Satoru casually tossed Okkotsu Yuta forward.

"Y-Yes! Reverse Cursed Technique—Output!!"

Okkotsu Yuta did not hesitate in the slightest. Behind him, the massive Special Grade shikigami—Rika—let out an earth-shaking roar, and pure, immense positive-energy cursed power so vast it inspired despair surged like a tide into Mizuki Makoto's fading flame of life.

Visible to the naked eye, shattered bones reassembled and flesh regenerated.

--

When Mizuki Makoto opened his eyes again, all he saw was an eye-searing white that smelled of disinfectant.

—I survived... right?

His brain felt as though thousands of rusty steel needles had been shoved into it. Every thought he turned over brought a faint ache.

He tried to raise a hand, only to discover that his body felt as heavy as lead.

His gaze lowered, and he saw something that made his heart skip a beat.

On the folding chair beside the hospital bed, Maki was curled up. Her signature ponytail was somewhat messy, and the sharp, blade-like eyes she usually wore had been replaced by tightly shut lids, with dark circles so deep they seemed impossible to dissolve.

She seemed utterly exhausted. Her chin rested against the edge of the bed as she dozed fitfully, her breathing shallow and rapid.

"Yo, your life is so tough that even the underworld doesn't dare take you."

The door opened, and Shoko Ieiri walked in wearing her ever-present white coat, an unlit cigarette pinched between her fingers.

"...How long was I dead?" Mizuki Makoto's voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against the ground.

"Ninety-nine days." Shoko walked to the window and pulled open the curtains. "You woke up just before the hundredth day. Should I say that's just like you?"

Mizuki Makoto fell silent.

—Ah, the King of Cursed Sorcerers who was sealed away.

After ninety days, he regained his heartbeat,

after nine days, he regained consciousness,

after nine hours, he regained his strength,

then regained the world in nine seconds.

There was no way something like that could happen to him.

"During those ninety-nine days, whenever Satoru wasn't around, this girl, Panda, and that rice-ball-speaking kid took shifts guarding your bedside. They were practically never more than a step away, making sure someone was watching over you twenty-four hours a day." Shoko glanced at the drowsy Maki by the bed, her tone meaningful. "After all, when someone encounters a Special Grade cursed spirit and an ancient Special Grade cursed sorcerer one after another within half a year, even an idiot should realize someone is targeting their life from behind the scenes."

Mizuki Makoto looked at Maki's exhausted profile, and the carefree irreverence he had carried for years suddenly felt clogged in his chest.

...This time, I really can't repay it...

After a moment of silence, his fingers trembled as he brought them together with immense difficulty.

Clap!

A faint clap echoed through the hospital room.

Technique Mimicry—[Boogie Woogie].

In an instant, Maki, who had been leaning over the bedside, swapped places with Mizuki Makoto on the bed. In her sleep, Maki only felt her body grow light before she fell into soft bedding. Exhausted beyond measure, she merely mumbled in her dream and somehow did not wake up.

Meanwhile, Mizuki Makoto fell awkwardly onto the folding chair, baring his teeth in pain.

"Tch, causing trouble the moment you wake up." Shoko somehow produced a wheelchair and stuffed Mizuki Makoto into it like a kitten. "Come on, time for an examination. Don't survive that resurrected Special Grade curse user only to die in my infirmary. That would be ridiculous."

The wheelchair rolled through the quiet corridor.

"Oh, right." As Shoko pushed the wheelchair, her tone as flat as if she were discussing the weather, she said, "That long masterpiece you wrote before leaving on your mission, <The Polar Star Imprisoned by the Chain Called 'Strongest': A Record of Six Eyes Infant Indoctrination and Tsukumo Yuki's Remaining Years in the Basement>, I anonymously posted it on the internal sorcerer forum for you."

The wheelchair made a faint scraping sound in the empty corridor, while Shoko's back looked especially languid beneath the sunlight.

"That..." Mizuki Makoto swallowed, feeling as though fire was rising in his throat. "You really posted it? The whole thing?"

"Of course. It would be such a waste not to share this kind of 'literary creation' capable of shaking Jujutsu Society to its foundations." Shoko opened a door with one hand and checked her phone with the other. The screen was filled with densely packed reply notifications.

"Especially the part about 'Gojo Satoru being excessively educated by Tsukumo Yuki in childhood, awakening a warped mother complex, then forcibly locking her in the Gojo Clan basement after becoming the Strongest and fabricating Tsukumo's disappearance'... Tch, it was so vivid that even I almost believed it. I have to say, Mizuki, your exploration of 'human nature' has truly gone beyond the boundaries of morality."

She pushed the wheelchair onward, scrolling through her phone as the curve of her lips became increasingly strange. "And then there was the chapter about 'Gojo Satoru's desperate addiction to sweets actually being a psychological compensation mechanism'—you wrote that Tsukumo Yuki excessively exploited him as a child, giving him severe oversized-baby syndrome and a dependence on breast milk. His sweet tooth was only to conceal his secret obsession with breast milk... Tch, that section practically pinned Gojo's dignity to the ground and rubbed it back and forth."

Feeling a chill rise from the back of his head, Mizuki Makoto shrank his neck. "Well... I just thought that ordinary imprisonment alone might not produce enough feedback power. To make everyone in Jujutsu Society form that impression of 'this is perverted, but somehow it makes sense if it's Gojo Satoru,' I had to add some psychologically striking characterization."

"The results are indeed outstanding." Shoko stopped the wheelchair and turned her phone toward Mizuki Makoto. On the screen was a hot post pinned at the very top, its title entirely red.

[Topic: An In-Depth Sociological Analysis of Gojo Satoru Carrying Kikufuku Everywhere—A Hidden Hunger for Milk Beneath the Sugar?]

1st Floor (Anonymous): After reading Basement Records, I can never look directly at Gojo-sensei eating desserts again. Yesterday, I saw him take out a box of daifuku and instinctively asked, "Is that milk-flavored?" The look in his eyes—my god, it was like he wanted to kill me to keep me quiet...

2nd Floor (Anonymous): Take care, commenter above. The Gojo Clan has indeed been purchasing fresh milk in bulk lately. They say it's for developing new sweets, but combined with that bizarre work... it's terrifying when you think about it.

Cold sweat had already begun streaming down Mizuki Makoto's forehead.

"Do you know how popular that section is now?" Shoko chuckled. "Not only Kyoto Jujutsu High—even those old men in the higher-ups are secretly investigating the coordinates of the Gojo Clan basement. They know it may be a rumor, but as long as that 'perception' exists for even one day, Gojo Satoru's image as the Strongest will be shadowed."

"...And the power I share will keep getting stronger." Mizuki Makoto felt the flow of cursed energy within him. Though weak, it was still active. This power gained by ruining his teacher's reputation truly carried a sweetness that had "absolutely no moral bottom line."

"Oh, right." Shoko suddenly stopped the wheelchair and tilted her head slightly, her eyes carrying a trace of schadenfreude. "After Satoru saw the update yesterday, he immediately went and demolished three of the Gojo Clan's ancestral cellars to prove that he had not secretly imprisoned Tsukumo Yuki. But he tore them down too aggressively, so the higher-ups filed a complaint for destroying historical artifacts. He's writing a self-criticism right now."

"..."

"Oh, and one more thing." Shoko continued pushing the wheelchair. "When Maki wakes up and learns that, during the ninety-nine days you were unconscious, the most widely circulated reading material in Jujutsu Society was your masterpiece, do you think she'll hit you with Playful Cloud first, or ask you for the basement details first?"

Mizuki Makoto guessed that the freshly healed bones in his body were starting to ache.

"Shoko, before the examination, could you arrange a transfer for me first? Somewhere Gojo Satoru can't find and Maki can't enter."

"Somewhere like that?" Shoko pushed him into the elevator and watched the numbers rise, her tone faint. "Probably only that basement you wrote about would meet those requirements."

Cold sweat instantly poured down Mizuki Makoto's face. "...Shoko, are you serious?"

"The reply count has already exceeded ten thousand." A look of eager anticipation curved Shoko's lips. "Incidentally, Satoru only saw it yesterday, and he's currently searching the entire world for that 'talented writer who doesn't know the meaning of death.' Though I wonder whether Tsukumo-senpai has seen it yet... Congratulations. The feedback power of your [Limitless] technique has now reached its highest peak in history."

Sitting in the wheelchair, Mizuki Makoto looked up at the bright sunshine outside the window and suddenly felt that...

Maybe he should stay unconscious for another ninety-nine days.

Meanwhile, on the other side of Tokyo, Gojo Satoru sat in his office writing a self-criticism, staring thoughtfully at a cup of milk tea before him—he had stared at that milk coffee for ten minutes already, yet still did not dare take a sip.

Because just moments ago, he had discovered that the assistant supervisors passing by were looking at that cup of milk tea with an indescribably complicated, even deeply "concerned," look in their eyes.

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