Chapter 26

  Geto Suguru took a deep breath through his nose, admiring the pristine mountain air. He detected a brief scent of floral notes from the blossoming spring flowers that covered so many of the trees in and around campus.

  Tokyo Jujutsu Academy was, as far as schools went, the prettiest he had ever seen. That’s why he had come up to the roof of the main building, an enormous drum tower mostly made of wood and cut stone. He stood underneath the curved eaves of a black stone roof, on a balcony that he hadn’t been able to reach without using one of his cursed spirits to fly up there.

  He had done it in a fit of mischief that didn’t become him at all. Being in this place, where the use of cursed techniques was not strictly speaking forbidden, and indeed, expected from its student body, he had felt a surge of freedom to do as he pleased. And to do it around people that understood him.

  His parents had been supportive, but he hadn’t been able to tell his friends about this part of him. His bond with them just hadn’t merited such a reveal. Thus, until now, he had been completely alone.

  He had summoned a bird curse the size of a small car, and had held it by its legs as it flew him up, all the while as a captive audience of young students and children saw him.

  They stopped, stared, and cheered.

  That had been some few minutes ago. Some of the children still stopped to point up at him, while most of them had already moved on, inside of this building that he was standing on.

  This building was apparently for the Junior High and High School year levels of the academy. All grades from seven to thirteen would share the building, with each year level taking up their own floor. There were some shared facilities, however, like the ones for sports, the arts, and theatre. The school, though it was dedicated to raising a new generation of exorcists, still didn’t skimp on granting its students a well-rounded education.

  Suguru approved.

  “Ah, let me guess.”

  Suguru startled at the sound of someone next to him.

  His eyes widened when he saw him. He floated mid-air, like an ethereal spirit of some kind. Stark white hair, piercing, sky blue eyes that looked out of this world peaking right above a pair of round, black shades. He was tall, too. Taller even than Suguru.

  He floated downwards softly, like he was only allowing gravity to affect him.

  The shock of his appearance came crashing down at the sight of his smirk. All Suguru could feel, then, was a mild outrage from being startled, and the foreboding sensation that this might not be a positive interaction.

  “You’re a freshman on your first day, and you’re thinking this is supposed to be your big debut, huh?” he said. “So you came up here to look all regal and show off to the underclassmen.”

  Am I being… bullied?

  That was… novel. In all his life, no one had ever dared to bully him. He was bigger, and had always been stronger than the other kids. Not to mention better-looking. Really, he never imagined that this would ever become a problem for him.

  “What’s it to you?” Suguru asked, tilting his head.

  “Whoa, there. Calm down before I wet my pants, Dragon of Fujisugimotoyasuwara Middle School, or wherever the hell you came from,” he chuckled, looking him up and down as he did. Probably at his uniform. His baggy pants did resemble the kind of uniform that old-school delinquents wore, but that was an incredible generalization. “I didn’t mean it in a bad way. I did see you preening like a peacock at all the attention you got.” He hopped slightly to sit on the railings, dangling his feet. “Just thought I’d come up here and see how your ego handles pressure.”

  “Is that all?” Suguru snorted.

  “You never denied that you’re a freshman,” the guy said. “Well. Me too,” he tilted his head and flashed a flashlight smile.

  Huh? “Then why’re you hassling me?”

  “Hah! I don’t know! Just thought you needed some hassling, big dragon of—“

  “I’m from Kamakura,” Suguru said. “And my name is Geto Suguru. And for your information, I came here because I thought the view would be nice.”

  The guy looked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. “This crap?”

  Crap? “It’s good architecture.” Traditional, yet functional, and it blended excellently with the greenery.

  “Ahhh,” he nodded in realization. “I guess to anyone who hasn’t spent their entire life around this oldie style of architecture might appreciate it. To me, it all looks like where I’m from.” He looked to Suguru. “Nice to meet you, Suguru.” Suguru felt a twitch in his eye at the all-too-abrupt cutting of distance with the use of his given name, followed by no honorifics. “I’m Gojo Satoru. You’ve probably heard of me.”

  “Not… at all,” Suguru replied.

  Gojo fell backwards over the railings, waving his hand in shock and surprise. Still, whatever technique allowed him to fly saved him before he could fall. “You’re kidding!” he righted himself and stood on the balcony. “You’re not from a sorcerer family? But you have this aura about you!”

  “I’m not. Is that a problem?”

  Gojo Satoru’s confused expression turned to a grin. “Sick. I like you already.”

  With a slight feeling of horror, Geto Suguru sensed that he was being befriended.

  Should I cut it off conclusively? Nip my connection to this weirdo at the bud?

  He ought to. And yet…

  “Let’s be friends!” He reached his hand out to Suguru. He stared at it for a beat too long, which normally would have had any sane person retract their hand out of shame.

  Then he kept staring at it. They looked so soft. This guy had to be some kind of pushover. Or a clown.

  Still, try as he might, Suguru couldn’t see a reason to just reject him, weirdness notwithstanding. They were going to exorcise curses for a living. They were all allowed to be a little weird.

  Suguru took the hand and shook it. “Sure,” he sighed.

  000

  Kobayashi Jun had crafted his persona carefully. The uniform he wore consisted of a long, dark navy blue trench coat with golden buttons that was unbuttoned at his waist and below. He wore neatly pressed dark navy blue pants as well, and black leather shoes shined to a mirror polish.

  And on his hand was a copy of Charles Baudelaire’s Flower of Evil in its original French.

  He didn’t speak French, but he could more or less pronounce and quote everything in the book at his leisure. He could do the same for the Bible as well, though it made more sense to quote it in Japanese. Indeed, he could also quote the Flower of Evil’s Japanese translation anytime the moment demanded it. He just kept the book around to maintain the appearance that he was well-learned.

  He had arrived two hours early before homeroom to find a seat near the back row of the class, closest to a window that he could open and allow the wind to billow his shoulder-length black hair that he kept swept backwards.

  His glasses had no strength—he had twenty-twenty vision, but the frames were rectangular and perfectly evoked the vibe that he was going for, a vibe that had been informed from his own general appearance, and what embellishments might best bring about a dark aura of mystery and foreboding.

  The devil was in the details. Unlike normal students, he didn’t carry around a plebeian backpack. He carried a briefcase, black, leather, and entirely too expensive. The single most expensive purchase he had made. He had saved for months working a part-time job against the rules of his middle school before he had been able to afford it. Where most simpletons his age would have saved for video games or figurines, he had shed blood, sweat and tears for something far more valuable: verisimilitude.

  Verisimilitude: the quality of seeming true, or having the appearance of being real.

  The dictionary definition flashed before his mind’s eye, entirely unbidden.

  He pushed up his glasses, carefully brushing a hand over the handle of his briefcase. Brief-chan’s leather handle, polished black like the rest of it, had a satisfying and bumpy texture that he liked to rub against his face when no one was looking. He had gone to sleep with it after first purchasing it, sleeping shirtless so that he could feel the texture against more of his skin.

  He did so sparingly, however, as he knew that the natural oils of his body might degrade the leather’s black finish over time. Therefore, he limited himself mostly to just fondling the handle, always careful to dust it and polish it every day.

  It seemed strange to him, that a mere object held such a sway over him. He couldn’t really explain it, nor did he see a reason to stop as long as he didn’t bother anyone.

  The moment the first student entered the room, Jun drew his hand back from the handle, composing himself. He cast a glance at the girl, a chubby, short girl with brown hair, currently tied up in a messy bun in the middle of her head. She wore a standard sailor uniform as well. She ran to the back row of class with an arm-full of notebooks and art supplies, not acknowledging Jun for even a moment.

  She sat down, and started furiously scribbling, her expression twisting into a sort of focused glee. He could hear her breathing.

  Jun activated his secret cursed technique, the Coward’s Dance.

  It was a technique that he would never openly reveal to anyone, for if they knew what trifling might his inner power lent him, they would surely mock him until the end of his days.

  The Coward’s Dance gave him an intuitive knowledge over where to stand in order to not be in any danger.

  It told this to him using several sensory cues—dimensions that described the nature of the danger that he was in, as well as the effective range of said danger.

  Immediately, he saw the world painted in a bright yellow.

  It was quiet. No buzzing. Neither was there any tension in his chest.

  Curious. This girl’s effective range was extremely wide. Jun looked out the window and saw that this yellow zone extended a fair bit away from the building as well. Perhaps in a twenty to thirty-meter range.

  And yet the range was yellow. Quite harmless. The lack of sound or tactile feedback indicated that he, personally, wasn’t in any danger, even should this girl turn her ire on him.

  Still, the all-encompassing yellowness of the space would get old quite quickly. He decided to filter her out.

  For the time being. She was unlikely to attack him, and in spite of his technique’s name, he himself was not a coward.

  The next girl to enter also approached the back row. She was a plain-looking short girl with ear-length black hair cut in a bun. Her uniform style was standard, too.

  Coward’s Dance.

  She had a red zone five feet in every direction, and her fists and feet were enveloped with red. He heard a drum beat from her, and felt tension in his chest that made it difficult for him to breathe, if only for a moment.

  This girl is strong!

  He made sure to mark her as someone to step easy around. Perhaps he could befriend her—though that might prove too forward. He would hate to be mistaken for a suitor. In all honesty, he was far more interested in assembling a group of strong allies that fit his ideals for image. This girl was perfect. She had an understated physical appearance that belied a decent skill in fighting.

  The next girl to enter looked like a total sukeban. She had a head of fiery red hair tied up in a bristly ponytail, and her uniform was heavily modified. Her dark blue top was cropped short, revealing her belly button, and her long skirt started on her waist and ended near to her ankles.

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  And her sleeves were decorated with stickers and writing in a bold red.

  Her aura was orange, close to her. She was dangerous. Dangerous to him as well, based on the pinch he felt.

  “Why’s it so quiet in here?” she asked, giving everyone a once-over. Jun made sure to gaze nonchalantly out the window while she sized everyone up, intending to transmit the vibe that she wasn’t a threat to him.

  She was, but unlike the unassuming girl, Jun felt like he could potentially stand up to her. She was the type of person to appear exactly as they really were. She didn’t have a dishonest bone in her body.

  “Hello? I’m talking to you guys!”

  The girl who was drawing looked up, furrowed her brows and grimaced at the sukeban in disgust before resuming her writing.

  Oh no. Now, she will get bullied.

  Not on my watch.

  Jun cleared his throat. “A time to love, and a time to hate; a time for war, and a time for peace. Ecclesiastes 3:8.”

  Shit. I’m reaching a little, but I can make it work.

  He met the girl’s eyes. She narrowed them.

  “As Jujutsu Sorcerers, much of our time will be spent combating hatred while embroiled in a war,” he explained patiently. “Naturally, this leaves us with precious few options for peace. Now, I believe, is our time for exactly that.”

  Whoah! That was a good pull!

  “Says who? You?”

  He pushed his glasses up and narrowed his gaze at her. “If determining a hierarchy is your desire, you should wait until everyone has arrived. I would gladly meet your challenge then.”

  He wouldn’t have to. Once everyone was here, the teacher would arrive to stop any madness before it developed. Fighting amongst one another was strictly forbidden. The penalties weren’t clear, but Jun assumed them to be quite steep.

  He would have ample opportunity to avoid her challenge even after he left the sight of a teacher. His Coward’s Dance, when he poured more cursed energy into it, could give him the exact steps to take in order to avoid even far-flung danger.

  The delinquent scoffed and said no more. Instead, she just clicked her tongue and took a seat near the front row.

  This was, indeed, a quiet classroom. The unassuming girl was in her own headspace while the nerdy girl was busy scribbling away.

  That was to be expected, of course. These people weren’t here to become Sunday school teachers.

  Still, Jun expected the pressure to mount with each new student.

  The next one to walk in was, thankfully, a boy. For a moment, he had been scared that he would be heavily outnumbered by girls. Those were much harder to posture around. They always had a knack for sniffing out his acts. And the prettier they were, the worse he got at maintaining his act.

  He was a large boy, both wide and tall, and he smiled guilelessly as he made his way to the middle of the room where he settled, humming a ditty to himself.

  Next, an extremely pretty girl. Her uniform was customized into a dark blue cheongsam slitted near the middle of her thighs. She had a head of long, flowing black hair, dark blue eyes that matched the uniform’s color, and a pale face.

  Goodness, she even smells good. A subtle, floral scent.

  A little shameless, given that they were in school of all places. This one clearly cared about her appearance to an absurd degree. Too bad she was a girl, and incredibly pretty to boot. He could never work alongside her without compromising his image.

  She went to the back of the classroom and struck up a conversation with the quiet, dangerous girl. Jun activated his cursed technique and saw her threat level.

  Mild, though her range was very wide. Not as wide as the nerdy writer girl, but wide nonetheless.

  They spoke too quietly for him to hear without craning his head, so he elected to simply ignore it while he read his book.

  A few more boys streamed in. One looked like a classical muscle-head. He had a short, blond-dyed buzzcut, an x-shaped scar on his cheek underneath his eye, and he was chewing on a toothpick. He was also dragging a sledgehammer behind him, which he then leaned against his desk before sitting down roughly and throwing his feet over the same desk. His uniform jacket was unbuttoned, revealing a black shirt.

  Next was a boy with a hoodie version of the regular uniform. He had a head of thick… dreadlocs of all things, a pair of black shades, and headphones attached to a Walkman on his belt. He was humming as he approached a random desk and sat, arms behind the backrest of his chair. His sleeve drew back, revealing the beginnings of a—a tattoo!

  Those two boys both had quite decent threat-levels. None that approached the girl in the back that had made fast friends with the really pretty girl, however. She seemed to be in a league of her own!

  Jun checked his pocket-watch—a vintage item he had found in an antique shop. It usually hung from a brass chain attached to his coat’s lapel, resting inside his right breast pocket, out of view. The chain matched the color of the watch’s frame as well.

  It was seven forty-five. Fifteen minutes until homeroom began.

  And according to what Yaga-sensei had told him in his entrance interview, he would share a class with eleven other people.

  Thus far, only four were unaccounted for…

  These couldn’t be any worse than the guy with the hammer, or the guy with the actual tattoo.

  The first thing that Jun saw of the next entrant was their foot as they kicked the door so hard that it was a wonder why it hadn’t flown off its hinges.

  “Must you embarrass us?” Came a tired voice behind the one with the leg outstretched. Then that leg stepped through.

  White hair, bright blue eyes, and shades. His appearance was a little odd, but that?

  It had nothing on his aura.

  The day that Jun had first learned that his cursed technique could directly harm him was the same day that he had received instructions on how to control his cursed energy by a moth woman, invisible to all but him.

  He had used Coward’s Dance on her, and the sheer threat level had suffocated him for several long seconds, almost causing him to black out.

  The sight of this man made his technique reflexively activate to its lowest possible sensitivity. Even then, he felt the feedback like an elephant on his chest. He fought for composure as the fit passed, looking past the white-haired boy and to the one behind him, with short black hair and thin, narrowed eyes.

  Again—!

  Deep breaths in.

  Deep breaths out.

  “Hahahah,” the boy with the blonde buzzcut stood up. “Gojo Satoru, as I live and breathe. I had a feeling they’d put me in the same class as you. They say you’re the strongest student in this school.” He brought his sledge hammer to rest on his shoulder. “Care to bet your life on that, punk?”

  Gojo Satoru raised an eyebrow at him. “And who’re you supposed to be?”

  “Satoshi Ren,” he poked his thumb at his chest. “Engrave it into your heart, because once I’m done with your sheep-white dome, you’ll have trouble remembering even your mom’s name.”

  “Ah, okay. Go ahead. Take your biggest shot. I won’t even move.”

  “Fucking punk!” Satoshi roared as he drew his hammer back and swung.

  It stopped dead an inch from Gojo’s face. Jesus, he aimed for his face?!

  “What?” Satoshi growled. He retracted the hammer and tried again. It stopped right above Gojo’s hair.

  The guy behind Geto sighed. “You might want to stop provoking him before he breaks something, Gojo.”

  Gojo looked to his friends with a forlorn expression. “I told you to call me Satoru!”

  Satoshi took another swing. That, too, was stopped dead. “What the fuck is this?!”

  “Fine—Satoru.”

  Gojo grinned brightly. “Was that so hard?”

  He refocused on Satoshi with a raised eyebrow. “You done?”

  “What—what the hell is this?” Satoshi growled, his arms shaking as he kept trying to push his hammer through.

  Jun could easily answer that.

  This was the dreaded negative difficulty mob defeat, no better than the swatting of a fly!

  Gojo Satoru’s nonchalant attitude wasn’t engineered! It was genuine! It contrasted so sharply with Satoshi Ren’s expression of fury and consternation that it made for a textbook example of a fly swatting!

  Jun made a promise to himself right then and there: to never, ever come to blows with Gojo Satoru.

  And who was the guy behind him? He still hadn’t made a move. Jun had had to activate his technique to feel that one give him too much feedback—that certainly made him an order of magnitude less frightening than Gojo. Or the moth woman, both of whom had activated his technique unbidden.

  Still, he was head and shoulders more powerful than Satoshi, or even that mousy girl at the back!

  “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Gojo taunted Satoshi. “But seriously, who are you?”

  He drew back his hammer. “I told you!” He shouted. Then he brought the hammer down. “Satoshi Ren! The Dragon of Saitama!”

  Gojo turned around to his friend while poking his thumb at Satoshi mockingly.

  “You can’t keep this shield on forever!” Satoshi roared.

  “I literally could,” Gojo’s grin was wide and toothy.

  The girl delinquent stood up then. “So you’re supposed to be the big-shot of this school, pretty boy?”

  “Yes. By all means, go ahead, try to hit me!” Gojo said. “All of you!”

  Jun glanced around surreptitiously. The entire room seemed laser-focused on Gojo—with the sole exception to the girl still scribbling away like none of this mattered to her.

  The pretty girl looked fascinated. The quite girl was staring at Gojo emotionlessly. The rotund boy was… grinning placidly, tapping his fingers. The one with the tattoos had taken off his headphones and was grinning widely at Gojo, as if he was about to get up himself and join the fray.

  “—even you, glasses guy! Sitting and acting all nonchalant! You must be strong. Why don’t you give it a try, too?”

  Gojo had said that to Jun of all people. Jun pushed up his glasses while holding his breath to calm his heart rate.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—

  Alright. Quickly, time to think of a quote! You can do this!

  Jun dove into his mind palace, rifling through every shelf of every solitary crumb of text that he had ever read.

  His eidetic memory allowed him the ability to recall every crumb of text that he had ever read in his life. With it, he had crafted for himself a veneer of inscrutable perfection. All throughout school, his grades had been near-flawless—with an unfortunate exception of mathematics. He was even famous in his local parish, as the boy that had memorized the scripture at such a young age. His parents had foreseen for him a bright future due to that. They believed that God would bless him for his ‘piety’ or that he would gain entry into a good university based on his grades.

  Not once in his life had God ever blessed him.

  The monstrous parasites that only he could see, that slowly sucked out the lifeforce from his parents, had not gone away, no matter how long and hard he had prayed, no matter how much he promised of himself to God. His teachers too, infested with small monsters covering their bodies like suction cups, extracting joy and injecting hatred and anger. Or his priest, who was the worst among them, for he had a devil sitting on his shoulders like a little child of pure malevolence.

  When his parents had lost their jobs and had become alcoholics, he still hadn’t felt blessed, even though the people of his community called him a blessing. They all saw the truth that was convenient to them. Jun had learned early on that his real truth was inconvenient to both himself and everyone else—and so, he took steps to conceal it. At all times.

  By the time the bug woman had come to exorcise the curses attached to his parents and the people of his community, it had already been too late for them. Their behavior had become a self-sustaining loop. His parents had lost something essential to them. And he could no longer live with them.

  They did not even know that he was training to become a Jujutsu Sorcerer. Only that he had enrolled into a religious school—they didn’t even care to check which religion. Ideally, once he grew up, he would mail them a portion of his check every month, and come to visit during the holidays. And they would continue to remain in blissful ignorance.

  God had never blessed him, but he had learned how to bless himself. By lying.

  To lie was the ultimate virtue.

  “Violence for violence is the rule of the beasts,” Jun intoned evenly, wondering where the hell that had come from.

  Nowhere. It had come from nowhere. A rare improvisation pull. A good one, too. Indeed, not all sayings had to be quotes to still be poignant. The ones who appeared the wisest were often smart-aleck writers with such a knack for bullshit that generations would study their useless scribbles from then on. Like Akutagawa, Dazai and Ranpo.

  “And as you can see,” Jun stood up, feeling a shred of joy that his knees weren’t wobbling from all the fear pumping through his veins. He held a hand on the side of his book, keeping it open on the page he was ‘reading’. “I am a man.”

  “A man, are you?” Gojo chuckled.

  “Though should you attack me,” Jun snapped the book shut, loudly. The sound commanded the attention of everyone. “I shall act to defend myself.”

  Please, please, please, please, please don’t.

  The boy behind Gojo held up a hand. “That won’t be necessary, really. Satoru.”

  “What am I supposed to do?!” Gojo yelled at his friend, aggrieved. “They’re attacking me!”

  He waved absently at Satoshi. An unseen force blew his body back towards the edge of the room. He skidded to a stop, gnashing his teeth in anger. “Oi,” Gojo said, walking up to him. “Don’t make me throw you out the window.” Then he froze, standing stiffly and upright. Suddenly, he grinned, turning towards the doorway where a new figure emerged.

  She wore a traditional rendition of the uniform: a dark blue hakama, kosode and a white obi, over which she wore a golden haori embroidered with patterns of white insects. She wore black lacquered wooden sandals and split-toed white socks.

  And her skin was a terrifying, stark white. On her head, she seemed to wear a headband, though he couldn’t actually make out the ‘band’ part. Just two sticks that stuck out of them. Like antennae, almost.

  Her eyes—

  Jun felt his technique activate against his will as well, sending shockwaves through his body and constricting his breathing. He cut off his cursed energy from his technique as instantly as he could, only getting away with a few seconds of not being able to breathe. Hopefully, that wouldn’t mar his act.

  “Finally!” Gojo shouted before pointing his finger at the girl. “You’ve been dodging me for three years! Well?! We’re here now!”

  The ghostly girl’s disturbed expression twisted into the mother of all grimaces of disgust. “You will always just be an impudent child.”

  “Oooh,” a girl behind her hummed. Her presence was so muted as to almost be imperceptible. Compared to the stark white girl, she was a complete non-factor! “You told me he was ‘nobody’, Teira-chan. Were you lying?”

  “Totally was!” Gojo replied. “She came to this school to challenge me.”

  “I’m not here for you,” the ghostly girl said. “I’m here because the higher-ups forced me to. For the sake of my clan. You’re here to lord your strength over people. And I suggested you wait this long because it was the only way to get you to quit. Stalking. Me.”

  “Stalking you?” Gojo furrowed his eyebrows at that. “All I wanted was a meeting.”

  “I know it doesn’t register to thick-headed young boys who’ve spent all their lives getting smoke blown up their asses,” the girl bit back, “but no means no and nothing else. But you’re right. We’re here. So what do you want from me?”

  The girl delinquent walked up to Teira. “Oi. Kuchisake-Onna. Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

  Teira didn’t so much as move her head, which made it difficult to tell where she was looking, what with the fact that she didn’t have pupils.

  “You’re loud for an ant,” she said, facing above the girl’s head, as if to refuse her the acknowledgment of her direct attention.

  “The name’s Suzuki Yui—”

  “Who asked.”

  The delinquent looked up at her. “You really want to take that tone with me, ghost freak?”

  “Don’t provoke me.”

  Suzuki snorted. “You act like I have no business talking to you! We’re here to learn how to fight. It’s only natural we try to figure out who the top dog is. And with an attitude like yours…” Jun instantly sensed that Suzuki was preparing for violence.

  “Don’t ignore me!” Satoshi roared at Gojo as he rushed him with his hammer.

  At that exact same moment, Suzuki’s form flickered, from standing, to punching straight at the girl with the stark white skin. She tilted her head to the side, dodging the blow easily.

  “Get lost,” both Gojo and Teira spat at the same time.

  Gojo blew Satoshi Ren away with an unseen force, launching him towards the window, shattering it as he flew out and into the nearby sport’s field.

  Teira struck Suzuki right on her stomach. Black lightning flashed from the contact before she was launched off her feet, striking the window at exactly the same time as Satoshi.

  They both flew a fair distance away.

  Gojo snorted. “A Black Flash, huh? You really had to dig so deep for just one ant?”

  The girl grinned with pure malice. “Not even.”

  He turned to the broken windows and held a hand over his eyes. “Hmmm, my ball flew further!”

  “Your ball could handle the extra impact. I kept mine relatively uninjured.”

  “Hah!” Gojo slapped his thigh. “So this is happening, then. I assumed there’d be more subtlety involved, but that redhead said it best, herself. To be or not to be… top dog. That is the question. So, bug-chan. Wanna find out?”

  Bug-chan?

  Wait… this couldn’t be the same person, could it…?!

  Teira tilted her head. “I wager you’re not used to feeling pain, Gojo-kun. Are you sure you want to do this? Are you really, really sure?”

  “Hah! I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life!”

  Jun calmed down. At the very least, he wouldn’t be the focus of either of their ire.

  …As long as they didn’t fight inside the classroom, of course. Then, they’d all likely be dead.