Tokyo Jujutsu High, faculty office.
"So, is this your excuse for skipping an entire day of combat training?"
Satoru Gojo sat with his legs crossed, a playful glint in his eyes beneath his blindfold.
He twirled a pen in his hand, his gaze fixed on the boy standing before him.
Yoru stood in front of the desk, his signature guitar bag slung over his shoulder.
Though his expression remained as calm as still water, Gojo's Six Eyes keenly captured an unusual aura.
The scent of blood.
It wasn't Yoru's own blood, but rather a lingering residue of some extremely twisted and nauseating cursed energy.
"I wasn't skipping class."
Yoru's voice was soft, yet it carried an undeniable sense of earnestness.
He reached up to straighten his slightly messy collar, his hanafuda earrings swaying gently with the movement.
"I simply went to see a movie."
"A movie?"
Gojo raised an eyebrow and leaned forward slightly.
"What kind of movie could make a good boy like you cut class? 'Earthworm Man 3'?"
"No, it was a documentary about life."
Yoru lowered his gaze, the scene from that cinema in Kawasaki a few hours ago flashing through his mind.
Even with the template of Yoriichi Tsugikuni, that sight had stirred waves of emotion that were difficult to quell.
...
The scene shifted.
Three hours ago. Kawasaki City, Gideon Cinema.
It was an old-fashioned theater in a somewhat remote location, its facilities dilapidated and the air heavy with the scent of moldy popcorn.
Yoru had originally just been passing by.
Since reaching a 15% Synchronization Rate, his sensory acuity had far surpassed that of an average person.
Even through thick walls, he could hear faint, indistinct wails echoing from deep within the theater.
'This feeling...'
Yoru stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing slightly.
He looked up at the building.
In his vision, the once clear sky was now shrouded in a gray, murky deathly aura.
It wasn't the residue of an ordinary cursed spirit.
Ordinary cursed spirits mostly originated from human negative emotions; while evil, they at least followed certain biological instincts.
But this aura was different—it was filled with malicious playfulness and desecration.
"I should take a look,"
Yoru murmured to himself and stepped inside.
The ticket counter was deserted.
In the dim hallway, only the green glow of the exit sign flickered.
The deeper he went, the stronger that sickening stench became.
Yoru's hand instinctively gripped the strap of the guitar bag on his back.
Although Jujutsu High regulations prohibited carrying cursed tools outside of missions, he was accustomed to never being without his blade.
In this world full of curses, his only sense of security came from the sword in his hand.
'I'll probably see it once I open this door.'
Yoru stood at the entrance of Screening Room 3.
A dark-red liquid seeped from the gap beneath the door—blood highly compressed by cursed energy.
He reached out and pushed the door open.
*Creak—*
The heavy soundproof door slowly opened. No movie was playing inside.
The screen was pitch black, with only the rhythmic clicking of the idling projector echoing in the dead silence.
And in the back corner of the theater seats, three things lay there quietly.
If not for Yoru's exceptional eyesight, he wouldn't have been able to tell right away that they had once been human.
Three students wearing high school uniforms.
Their bodies looked as if they had been forcibly kneaded by some immense external force.
Heads were shoved into chest cavities, limbs folded backward at grotesque angles, and their skin was covered in purplish-black bruises—scars left behind after their souls had been forcibly reshaped.
Their faces still held the lingering despair of their final moments.
This familiar, disgusting style...
'Mahito.'
Yoru whispered the name in his heart. As a transmigrator, though many details were fuzzy...
He could never mistake the cursed spirit who had personally orchestrated countless tragedies in the original story.
"Is this what you call art?"
Yoru's voice rang out in the empty theater.
No one answered.
The culprit had long since departed, leaving behind this mess of works as if to boast to whoever came next.
Yoru walked slowly toward the three corpses.
He didn't scream or vomit.
He just watched silently.
In his vision, the souls of these three students had not dissipated.
Instead, they were being forcibly imprisoned within their broken husks, enduring endless agony even in death.
"This is truly excessive."
Yoru slowly knelt down.
He reached out and gently placed his hand on the forehead of one of the corpses.
Within his palm, the warm energy of Sun Breathing flowed out.
Sizzle...
As the golden light poured in, the twisted corpse began to soften, eventually dissolving into a pile of black ash.
A visible wisp of white smoke rose from the ashes, circling once in the air as if thanking him, before vanishing into the void.
Yoru performed the rite for all three in turn.
After finishing, he stood up.
In his red eyes, which were usually as calm as still water, a clear emotional ripple appeared for the first time.
It was anger.
"No matter who you are."
Yoru gripped the guitar bag behind him, his knuckles turning white from the force.
"Those who trample upon life will inevitably be forsaken by it."
He turned toward the exit of the screening room.
The faint, foul odor—like sewer sludge—still lingered in the air.
Mahito's scent.
"I've memorized this scent."
Yoru stepped out. The sunlight outside was still bright, but the aura around him was colder than midwinter.
"Since I have come here, those tragedies that were originally destined to happen..."
"...will be rewritten by me."
...
The memory ended.
Inside the faculty office, Satoru Gojo looked at the boy in front of him.
He could sense the lingering killing intent radiating from Yoru.
"It seems you've run into something unpleasant."
Gojo dropped his playful grin and sat up straight.
"Do you need your teacher's help?"
"No."
Yoru shook his head.
He looked up, meeting Gojo's eyes with a gaze that was clear and resolute.
"This is my fate."
"Since I've encountered it, I will be the one to sever it."
Gojo was taken aback for a moment, then a corner of his mouth quirked up.
"Ha, quite the spirit you've got."
He pulled a leave-of-absence form from a drawer, scribbled his signature on it, and handed it to Yoru.
"Go on then."
"I don't know what you're planning, but as your teacher, I approve."
"But remember one thing."
Gojo held up a finger, his tone becoming meaningful.
"Keep it clean. Don't add to Ijichi's workload."
Yoru took the form and bowed slightly.
"I will."
"After all, taking out the trash is a janitor's job."
With that, he turned and left the office.
Watching Yoru's retreating back, the smile on Gojo's face slowly faded.
He leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling and whispering to himself.
'That look in his eyes...'
'He's like a hunter who's spotted his natural enemy.'
"How interesting. It looks like we're in for a good show before the Goodwill Event."
In the hallway, Yoru stopped and pulled out his phone.
On the screen was a blurry photo—a still he'd captured from the surveillance footage near the cinema.
Wearing clothes covered in stitches, with long grey-blue hair, walking with a frivolous and eerie gait.
"Found you."
Yoru's finger lightly traced the figure on the screen, a flash of gold and red light passing through his eyes.
"Unforgivable."
In the original plot, no one could save Junpei.
But now, he was here.
From this moment on, the roles of hunter and prey had been completely reversed.