The leap from childhood to adolescence was less a leap and more a slow, grinding shift in atmospheric pressure. At thirteen, the world no longer saw Ryouta and Satoru as the Gojo clan's miraculous children; it saw them as its future. The sprawling estate, once a playground for their mischief, had become a crucible. Every corridor echoed with the whispers of expectation, every dojo was a stage for their burgeoning power, and every glance from a clan elder was a measurement.
Satoru thrived under the pressure. He was a natural star, his charisma as potent as his cursed energy. He was the center of gravity around which their generation of young sorcerers orbited, his laughter echoing in the training grounds, his brilliant blue eyes sparkling with the confidence of someone born to stand at the pinnacle. He collected friends and admirers with the same ease he collected new techniques, a radiant sun that warmed everyone in his vicinity.
Ryouta, true to his chosen path, became a more pronounced shadow. He was respected for his intellect and feared for his unnerving skill in sparring, but he was not loved in the way Satoru was. He moved through the same spaces as his brother, but where Satoru filled them with light and noise, Ryouta seemed to absorb it. His presence was quiet, his silver-gold eyes observant, his words few and precise. He was an enigma, the quiet twin whose power was undeniably vast but strangely subtle. They called him the "Silent Gojo," a name whispered with a mixture of awe and apprehension.
His days were a meticulously balanced equation of concealment and growth. Mornings were for brutal physical conditioning and the endless, painstaking katas of the Gojo clan, performed with a perfection that bored their instructors. Afternoons were for academic study, where Ryouta devoured texts on jujutsu history, cursed object theory, and barrier techniques, his past-life adult mind allowing him to absorb and synthesize information at a terrifying rate. He'd even managed to get his hands on a relic from his past life—a handheld gaming console, a modified antique he'd had one of the clan's tech-savvy servants procure for him under the guise of "studying non-cursed electronics." In the quiet moments, he and Satoru would huddle in his room, the bright, pixelated worlds of games like Final Fantasy and Chrono Trigger a secret escape from the heavy weight of their reality. It was in these moments that they were not prodigies or heirs, but just brothers, arguing over whose turn it was and celebrating a hard-won boss battle.
But the evenings... the evenings were for rivalry.
The training dojo was silent save for the sound of their breathing and the faint hum of cursed energy. They stood opposite each other, two sides of the same divine coin. Satoru was a live wire, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his cursed energy a crackling blue aura that was barely contained. Ryouta was stillness personified, his energy a deep, calm well that betrayed none of its primordial depths.
"Ready to finally show me something real, Ryo?" Satoru taunted, his grin wide and challenging. At thirteen, he had achieved a level of mastery over Blue and Red that full-fledged Grade 1 sorcerers would envy.
"I could ask you the same," Ryouta replied, his voice even.
Satoru laughed, and the sound was the signal. He moved, not as a boy, but as a phenomenon. He didn't run; he used Blue to pull the space in front of him, covering the twenty meters between them in an instant. His fist, wreathed in the same attractive force, was aimed not at Ryouta's body, but at the space just behind him, intending to yank him off balance and into a follow-up strike.
It was a brilliant, high-level application of the technique. And to Ryouta's All-Perceiving Eyes, it was as predictable as a line of code.
He didn't dodge. He didn't counter. He simply activated Primordial Divergence, but at an output so minuscule it was conceptually invisible. He didn't create a repulsive force; he introduced the concept of "separation" between Satoru's technique and its intended effect.
Satoru's Blue, which should have warped space and pulled Ryouta into its grasp, simply… unraveled. The vortex of cursed energy fizzled into nothingness a foot from its target. The attractive force, disconnected from its purpose, dissipated harmlessly. Satoru, his momentum carrying him forward, stumbled, his perfectly executed attack having failed for no reason he could comprehend.
His Six Eyes, the most powerful observational tool in the world, saw the technique perform perfectly and then inexplicably fail. It was like watching a ball thrown at a wall simply cease to exist before impact.
"What...?" Satoru breathed, catching his balance.
Ryouta didn't give him time to think. He moved, using his own Primordial Convergence not to pull Satoru, but to pull the floorboards beneath him, making the ground itself rush up to meet his brother's feet and disrupting his stance. It was a subtle, almost petty, application of a godlike power. To Satoru, it just felt like he'd tripped.
"You're sloppy," Ryouta stated calmly, already transitioning into his next move.
The comment lit a fire in Satoru's eyes. "Sloppy?!" He roared, and this time he unleashed Red. A wave of pure repulsive force, powerful enough to flatten a building, erupted towards Ryouta.
Again, Ryouta didn't erect a barrier. He met the wave of force with a pinpoint application of his own Red—Primordial Divergence. But instead of meeting force with force, he used its conceptual authority. He separated the "force" from the "wave." The visible shimmering of cursed energy washed over him harmlessly, utterly devoid of its kinetic impact. It was like being hit by a silent, powerless hologram of an explosion.
The fight continued in this vein. Every brilliant, powerful attack from Satoru was met with a quiet, incomprehensible negation from Ryouta. It was a battle of overwhelming force versus absolute concept. To any observer, it would look like Satoru was having an unlucky day, his techniques failing at the last second, his footing inexplicably slipping, while Ryouta capitalized on every mistake with unnerving precision.
Finally, Satoru, panting and drenched in sweat, stopped. "This is infuriating," he said, but he was grinning, a wild, ecstatic look in his eyes. "It's like you're not even playing the same game. I'm playing chess, and you're the one deciding how the pieces are allowed to move."
"It's still just jujutsu," Ryouta lied, his own breathing perfectly even.
"No," Satoru insisted, shaking his head. "It's not. But I'll figure it out." He pointed a finger at Ryouta, his promise a sacred vow. "One day, I'll land a clean hit. And you won't be able to stop it."
Ryouta allowed a small, genuine smile. "I look forward to it."
Later that night, sitting in the silent dark of his room, Ryouta felt the familiar hum of the system. He had spent the past month practicing a new skill in secret—not a Gojo clan technique, but something he had extrapolated from his understanding of jujutsu barriers and his own primordial power. It was the foundation for a Domain.
The black-golden panel materialized, its light illuminating his serious expression.
╔═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
║ ◇ PRIMORDIAL SYSTEM ◇
║
║ [TECHNIQUE MASTERED: Domain Foundation - Conceptual Space]
║ [CURRENT MASTERY LEVEL: BEGINNER]
║
║ CURRENT ABILITY:
║ You can create a small, unstable pocket of space where
║ your will has minor influence over physical laws. At
║ Beginner level, the space is only a few meters wide, last
║ for seconds, and requires immense energy to maintain. It
║ is the barest framework of a true Domain Expansion, a
║ canvas upon which a greater technique could be built.
║
║ [10X PRIMORDIAL AMPLIFICATION AVAILABLE]
║
║ AMPLIFIED FORM: "PRIMORDIAL GENESIS"
║ [MASTERY LEVEL UPON AMPLIFICATION: PRIMORDIAL]
║
║ Primordial Genesis transcends the concept of a Domain
║ Expansion by creating a pocket reality that exists
║ conceptually before the establishment of physical laws.
║ Within this domain, you are not a participant; you are
║ the author of reality itself. You can define what is
║ possible, what is logical, and what is allowed to exist.
║ Time, space, causality, and even abstract concepts become
║ variables you can manipulate at will. At Primordial level,
║ the domain is a self-sustaining universe of your own
║ creation, its rules absolute and its authority complete.
║ It is not a technique; it is the ultimate expression of
║ control over existence.
║
║ ► YES - Transform to "Primordial Genesis" forever
║ ► NO - Continue developing a standard Domain
╚═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
Ryouta read the description, and for the first time since his reincarnation, he felt a tremor of genuine fear. This was different. Blue, Red, even the energy blast—those were tools. This was… authority. The power to create a universe, no matter how small, where he was God. The irreversible nature of the choice suddenly felt crushing. To accept this was to accept a burden of responsibility so immense it was difficult to comprehend.
He thought of his philosophy: Always say yes to power. Was there a limit to that? Was there a point where a tool became too dangerous to even possess?
He looked out his window, at the moon hanging in the sky. He thought of the story he remembered. The Shibuya Incident. The Culling Game. The death of so many people he was coming to know as colleagues, as distant family. The pain in his brother's eyes after losing his best friend.
The fear subsided, replaced by a cold, hard resolve. To change that future, to protect him from that pain, I need more than tools. I need authority.
With a will of iron, he selected his choice. YES.
The integration was not a surge of power. It was a change in his very soul. He felt his consciousness expand, brushing against the fundamental architecture of reality itself. He now carried the seed of his own private universe within him. The weight of it was terrifying, and exhilarating.
He stood and walked to the clan library, needing to ground himself in something solid, something real. He pulled out a map of Japan, its surface covered in notations of cursed energy hotspots and recent incidents. His finger traced a line from Tokyo to Kyoto.
His mind went to the timeline he carried within him. We're thirteen. In the manga, Satoru and Geto are fifteen, maybe sixteen, when the Star Plasma Vessel mission happens. That gives us two, maybe three years. That's the first great tragedy. That's where it all begins to fracture. Toji Fushiguro, the Sorcerer Killer. The man who will prove to Satoru that being the strongest isn't enough, and will prove to Geto that the world of non-sorcerers is not worth protecting. Satoru, right now, is a genius. He's powerful. But he's not the enlightened one who returned from the brink of death. He's not ready for Toji. He can't use the Reverse Cursed Technique consciously. His Hollow Purple is still just a theoretical exercise. He will lose that first fight. And the consequences...
He felt a knot tighten in his stomach. The weight of foresight was a unique form of torment. He knew the disasters that were coming, but to prevent them outright would be to reveal himself completely. He couldn't just tell Satoru about Toji. He had to prepare him. He had to make him stronger, faster than he was in the original story. Their rivalry was no longer just a game; it was a whetstone upon which he was sharpening the world's greatest weapon.
"You're thinking too hard again."
Ryouta turned. Satoru was leaning against the doorway, a can of soda in his hand. He tossed it to Ryouta, who caught it without looking.
"I can almost hear it," Satoru continued, walking over and slumping into the chair beside him. "The gears in your head, grinding away."
Ryouta gave a small smile, the tension in his shoulders easing at his brother's presence. "Someone has to."
Satoru was quiet for a moment, his usual boisterous energy subdued. "That move you used today," he said, his voice low. "The one that made my Red just... unravel. I've been running it through the Six Eyes over and over. It doesn't make sense. The energy was there. The technique was perfect. But the effect... it was just gone." He looked at Ryouta, his blue eyes piercing. "It's like you're playing a different game entirely."
Ryouta met his gaze. "It's still just jujutsu," he said, the familiar lie feeling thinner than ever.
Satoru shook his head slowly. "No. I don't think it is." He sighed, not with frustration, but with a strange kind of acceptance. "But it doesn't matter." He held out his fist, a gesture that had become their silent pact. "As long as we're on the same team. Always."
Ryouta looked at his brother's outstretched fist, at the unwavering loyalty in his eyes. This was the anchor. This was the purpose. All the power, all the secrets, all the burdens—they were worth it for this.
He bumped his fist against his brother's. "Always."
In the silent library of the Gojo clan, surrounded by the ghosts of their ancestors and the looming shadows of a future only one of them could see, the two strongest brothers in the world solidified their bond, an unbreakable promise made in the quiet space between the light and the shadow.