"Gojo, I have to admit, you're a genius."
Kashimo's voice drifted through the ruins, neither loud nor soft, as casual as a remark about the pleasant weather. He stood amid the rubble, the remnants of the Black Rope on his fist still giving off tiny sparks. The blood staining his body could no longer be traced to its owner.
"But four hundred years ago, I killed plenty of geniuses like you."
Satoru Gojo's eyes widened as he stared fixedly at Kashimo. Those azure pupils reflected the man before him, reflected that face, half spattered with blood and so cold it bordered on merciless.
What was this guy talking about?
Four hundred years ago? What did he mean? Before his brain could process those words, an immense force exploded against his head.
Kashimo's fist had not even drawn back to gather strength. He simply swung it as casually as if swatting a fly hovering before his eyes. But the instant that punch struck Satoru Gojo's temple, the entire space seemed to shudder.
Boom-!
Satoru Gojo's body shot straight toward the ruined building behind him like a cannonball. His back punched through the outer wall, and broken bricks and chunks of concrete erupted into a cloud of murky dust the instant he crashed inside.
His body lodged deep within the building, his limbs hanging limp, his head tilted to one side. Blood ran down from his temple, dripping onto the shattered floor slab. He remained embedded there, motionless, like a rag doll carelessly stuffed into a crack in the wall.
His consciousness wavered between haze and clarity. The light before his eyes grew dimmer, the sounds around him more distant, yet images kept flashing through his mind.
The hallway that summer, sunlight slanting in through the windows and cutting a bright strip