The scent grew stronger until it led him to a modest storefront tucked between darkened buildings. A faded sign, lanterns swaying above the entrance, and the unmistakable smell of ramen pouring out into the night.
Just some no-name shop. Perfect.
Toji pushed the curtain aside with a flick of his wrist and stepped in.
The shop was cramped—barely more than a counter with a handful of stools and a few wooden tables pressed against the walls. A steaming pot of broth hissed from behind the counter, filling the room with the heavy perfume of pork and soy.
A handful of late-night customers slurped at their bowls quietly. Too quietly.
Toji didn't need cursed energy to feel it—the shift in air, the tension that clung to the room. The sharp, metallic scent that wasn't just broth or soy, but sweat and aggression barely contained.
His lips curved into a faint smirk. "Smells like scum," he muttered under his breath.
He stepped fully inside, shoes clicking against the wooden floor, his eyes lazily sweeping the place. Most kept their heads down, but a pair of figures at the back corner didn't bother hiding their stares. Young, lean, wearing the same strange headbands as the corpses in the alley. Their eyes narrowed the moment they spotted him, as if they'd been waiting for someone to walk in.
Toji ignored them at first, sliding onto an empty stool near the counter. His hand rested casually on his thigh, close enough to reach the kunai tucked away.
The shopkeeper glanced nervously between him and the corner table but said nothing. Just ladled noodles into a bowl, pretending not to notice the storm about to break.
Toji smirked again, leaning forward, his voice low and amused.
"Guess dinner's gonna come with some entertainment."
Toji leaned against the counter, raising a hand lazily.
"Ramen. Whatever's hot."
The shop owner froze for a second, darting a nervous glance at the corner table before giving a stiff nod. He busied himself with the pot, the clatter of ladles and bowls filling the silence.
Toji sat back, resting his elbow on the counter. From the outside, he looked calm, almost bored—but inside, thoughts moved.
The last thing he remembered was pain. Not just any pain, but Satoru Gojo's smug grin flashing in his vision, followed by the searing impact that ripped through his torso. Half his torso had been destroyed—there was no walking away from that. He had felt his life slipping, darkness closing in.
So why was he here, breathing, moving, killing again?
His fingers tapped idly against the wood as he considered the possibilities.
A cursed technique?
It made the most sense. Some sorcerer's twisted idea of an experiment, dragging him back to see what he'd do. But if that was the case, whoever had brought him back should've been nearby. Watching. Testing.
And yet, there was no trace. No cursed energy. Nothing that reeked of jujutsu sorcery at all.
Instead, there were headbands, vests, and odd weapons that weren't quite modern but weren't archaic either. A different kind of world altogether.
He frowned faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching downward.
"…What the hell did I get dumped into?"
The shopkeeper slid a steaming bowl in front of him, the aroma sharp and comforting. Toji's smirk returned as he picked up the chopsticks.
Whatever the answer, he figured it'd show itself soon enough. Until then, he'd eat.
The broth was good. Hot, savory, with just the right bite of garlic and soy. Toji slurped the noodles without hurry, ignoring the sideways glances boring into him from the back of the shop.
Every few minutes, one of the headband-wearing punks would lean forward, their eyes narrowing like predators sizing up prey. Toji didn't bother returning the look. He just kept eating, his posture relaxed, his smirk hidden behind the rising steam of his bowl.
It didn't take long for their patience to run out.
Chairs scraped harshly against the floor. Heavy footsteps circled closer, until Toji could feel their presence looming behind him. The chatter of the other patrons died instantly, the air tightening like a rope pulled taut.
"Hey," one of them growled. "Who the hell are you?"
Toji slurped another mouthful, not even glancing back.
"You're no shinobi. Not from this land, not from anywhere I know. So I'll ask again—where'd you crawl out from?"
Silence. The only sound was the clink of Toji's chopsticks against the bowl.
His lack of reaction made the men bristle. One slammed a hand on the counter next to him, making the shopkeeper flinch.
"You deaf, bastard? We're talkin' to you. Come outside. Now."
Finally, Toji set his chopsticks down and tilted his head, giving them a lazy look out of the corner of his eye. His lips curved into a faint smirk.
"Sure," he said evenly, "but you're paying for the food first."
That made them blink. "What?"
He leaned back on the stool, utterly calm.
"The bill. Yours, mine, everyone's. Pay up, then I'll step outside."
The shop fell silent. Even the shopkeeper froze, staring at him like he'd lost his mind.
Toji's smirk widened just enough to show teeth. His voice was low, steady, and sharp enough to cut through the tension.
"I don't fight on an empty stomach."
The one closest to him finally lost patience. With a snarl, the man yanked a kunai from his pouch and lunged.
Toji moved before the blade even cleared the man's chest. His elbow snapped back, colliding squarely with the attacker's face.
Crack.
The shinobi's head snapped sideways, his body stumbling back before tumbling across the floorboards. He rolled three, four times before crashing into a table, splintering wood and sending bowls clattering to the ground.
The shop fell into stunned silence.
Toji frowned. Not at the man lying groaning on the ground—but at his own arm. A dull ache throbbed in his elbow, sharp enough to annoy him. He flexed his hand, testing the joint.
"…Tch. That shouldn't hurt."
Even without cursed energy, his raw physical power was monstrous—more than enough to crush skulls and tear apart sorcerers. An elbow strike like that should've ended it instantly. Instead, it felt… muted. Weaker.
His smirk vanished, replaced with a calculating scowl.
Did something change when I came here?
He clenched his fist. His body was still strong—stronger than most—but it wasn't the overwhelming, inhuman strength he remembered. It was as if the Heavenly Restriction that had defined him had been tampered with, dulled just enough to make him notice.
The second man bristled, stepping forward with a snarl, kunai gleaming in the dim light. "You bastard—!"
Toji's eyes locked on him, sharp and hungry despite the realization.
Weaker or not, he still had more than enough to kill.
He smirked again, rolling his shoulders.
"Guess this'll be a little more fun than I thought."