Life at Tokyo Jujutsu High settled into a rhythm, a strange and compelling cadence of adolescent normalcy punctuated by the brutal reality of their profession. The four of them—the two Gojo twins, the righteous Geto, and the stoic Shoko—became a self-contained unit, a class of four against a world of curses. The institution itself, a sprawling complex hidden behind thousands of veils and Tengen's barrier, was less a school and more a fortress, a sanctuary where they were honed into the next generation of weapons.
Academically, the differences between the twins became even more pronounced. In Yaga-sensei's classroom, which was more of a tactical briefing room than a traditional lecture hall, the lessons were dense and complex. They covered everything from the esoteric mathematics of barrier creation to the historical precedents of cursed object sealing.
Satoru was, to put it mildly, a terrible student. He'd slouch in his chair, feet propped up, his attention drifting. He relied entirely on his Six Eyes to absorb information, not by listening, but by perceiving the cursed energy imbued in the texts and Yaga's demonstrations. He could replicate any technique he saw, but ask him to explain the theory behind it, and he'd just grin and say, "Who cares? It works." This led to endless friction with Yaga, who once threw a cursed puppet at Satoru's head for answering a question about the nature of a Domain Expansion with, "It's the thing you do to win real hard."
Ryouta, on the other hand, was a model student. Too much of one. In his first few exams, his perfect scores drew unwanted attention. His past life as a programmer had given him a mind perfectly suited for understanding complex systems, and jujutsu, at its core, was the ultimate system. He quickly learned to intentionally flaw his work. He would answer complex theoretical questions with elegant, insightful essays, but always leave out one minor detail, ensuring his grade would fall just below Geto's, who worked tirelessly for his top marks.
It was a delicate balancing act. He had to appear brilliant enough to be worthy of the Gojo name, but not so brilliant that it raised questions his concealment couldn't answer. He became the class's quiet intellectual, the one Geto would turn to for a deep debate on jujutsu ethics, and the one Satoru would copy notes from five minutes before an exam.
Their friendships deepened in the small, quiet moments between the chaos. Yaga, perhaps as a form of character-building punishment for Satoru's classroom antics, often assigned them menial tasks. One sweltering summer afternoon, he tasked the four of them with cleaning and cataloging one of the school's oldest cursed tool storage rooms.
The room was a dusty, forgotten corner of the school, filled with shelves of sealed objects that hummed with a low-grade malevolence. Satoru and Geto immediately turned it into a competition, racing to see who could clean and seal their designated shelves faster, their cursed energy flaring as they used their techniques for dusting and lifting heavy boxes in a flagrant misuse of power.
Ryouta and Shoko, by unspoken agreement, took a more methodical approach. They worked in a comfortable, efficient silence, their movements synchronized. Ryouta would use his Primordial Six Eyes to perceive the nature of the curse sealed within each object, while Shoko would assess its potential physical toll on a human body.
"This one's nasty," Shoko commented, pointing to a rusted, ornate dagger sealed in a glass case. The air around it felt cold. "The curse on it is designed to cause cellular necrosis. A single cut would be untreatable, even with my Reverse Cursed Technique."
Ryouta looked at the dagger. His eyes saw far more than just the curse. He saw the residual energy of its creator, a sorcerer from the Edo period. He perceived the creator's own despair and self-loathing, the emotions that had given birth to the curse. "It wasn't made to kill others," Ryouta said softly. "It was made by someone who wanted to erase themselves."
Shoko looked at him, her usually bored expression replaced by one of surprise and intrigue. "How could you possibly know that?"
"Just a feeling," Ryouta deflected, turning his attention to another object. "The energy feels... lonely."
Shoko didn't press, but she filed the moment away. She was beginning to understand that Ryouta's perception of the world operated on a fundamentally different level. They finished their section in silence, the quiet understanding between them more profound than any conversation Satoru and Geto were having on the other side of the room.
The rivalry between the two strongest was a constant, crackling energy. They were always competing—in training, in grades, even in who could eat the most ramen. But it was a rivalry born of deep, mutual respect. Geto's calm, strategic mind was the perfect whetstone for Satoru's brilliant, chaotic power. Satoru's boundless confidence pushed Geto to embrace the full, overwhelming scale of his own abilities.
Ryouta watched them, his role that of a silent observer and occasional catalyst. He knew the tragic end of their friendship, a story he'd read in another life. Every time he saw them laughing together, every time they stood back-to-back in a sparring match, a pang of melancholic foresight hit him. He had planted a seed of a different philosophy in Geto's mind, but would it be enough to counter the slow, grinding despair of a sorcerer's life?
His own training with Satoru continued in their private dojo, their "real" spars that happened late at night, away from the watchful eyes of their instructors. It was here that Ryouta pushed his brother, forcing him to evolve beyond the limits of conventional jujutsu. He was no longer just negating Satoru's attacks; he was presenting him with impossible problems.
He would use Primordial Convergence to subtly alter the trajectory of Satoru's own Red, making his repulsive force attacks curve in mid-air. He would use Primordial Divergence to momentarily separate the "light" from a room, plunging Satoru into absolute, conceptual darkness that not even the Six Eyes could pierce.
"This isn't fair!" Satoru would yell, laughing even as he was completely outmaneuvered. "You're breaking the rules of physics!"
"Then you need to learn how to break them back," Ryouta would reply, his voice calm.
It was during one of these sessions that Ryouta had an idea. He knew that the key to Satoru's future evolution, the thing that would allow him to survive Toji Fushiguro, was the Reverse Cursed Technique. But teaching it was famously difficult, as it required a sorcerer to multiply negative cursed energy by itself to create positive energy—a concept that was mathematically and intuitively nonsensical.
"You rely too much on output," Ryouta said, as they took a break, both breathing heavily. "Your cursed energy is a sledgehammer. You need to learn how to make it a scalpel. And you need to learn how to run it in reverse."
"Reverse Cursed Technique?" Satoru scoffed. "Yaga-sensei says only a handful of sorcerers in history have mastered it for healing. Shoko's a freak of nature."
"It's not just for healing," Ryouta pressed, his silver-gold eyes intense. "It's for replenishing your own cursed energy. Imagine never running out. Imagine being able to keep your brain fresh with positive energy, allowing you to use the Six Eyes and Limitless 24/7 without burnout."
Satoru's cocky grin faded, replaced by a look of intense concentration. The strategic advantage was immediately obvious to him. "How?"
"Don't think of it as multiplying negative by negative," Ryouta said, giving his brother a carefully chosen piece of the truth he perceived. "That's just a metaphor. Your cursed energy comes from your gut. Feel it there. Now, instead of pushing it out… pull it in. Pull two streams of it towards the same point in your head and smash them together. Don't multiply. Collide."
It was a gross oversimplification of a profoundly complex process, but it was a tangible, physical instruction that bypassed the confusing theory. Satoru closed his eyes, his brow furrowed in concentration. He tried, and failed, the feedback giving him a splitting headache. He tried again, and again.
Ryouta watched him, using his All-Perceiving Eyes. He could see the streams of cursed energy moving within Satoru's body. He could see the exact point where they needed to collide, the precise frequency of energy required. But he said nothing more. This was a wall Satoru had to break through on his own. Ryouta could show him the door, but Satoru had to be the one to walk through it.
That night, alone in his room, the system flared to life. Ryouta had been working on his own version of a barrier, not for defense, but for concealment. He was trying to create a field around himself that would perfectly replicate the cursed energy signature of a non-sorcerer, the ultimate stealth technique.
╔═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
║ ◇ PRIMORDIAL SYSTEM ◇
║
║ [TECHNIQUE MASTERED: Barrier - Signature Dampening]
║ [CURRENT MASTERY LEVEL: INTERMEDIATE]
║
║ [10X PRIMORDIAL AMPLIFICATION AVAILABLE]
║
║ AMPLIFIED FORM: "THE VEIL OF UNBEING"
║ [MASTERY LEVEL UPON AMPLIFICATION: TRANSCENDENCE]
║
║ The Veil of Unbeing transcends simple energy concealment.
║ It creates a conceptual field around you that convinces
║ reality itself that you are not a target of interest. It
║ doesn't hide your presence; it erases your relevance. You
║ would not be invisible, but you would be conceptually
║ unnoticeable. Observers' attention would slide off you,
║ hostile intent would fail to lock on, and even automated
║ surveillance would register you as insignificant data. It
║ is the ultimate power of being hidden in plain sight.
║
║ ► YES - Transform to "The Veil of Unbeing" forever
║ ► NO - Continue developing standard dampening
╚═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
Ryouta stared at the panel. This was, in many ways, the most terrifying amplification yet. Primordial Genesis offered godhood in a pocket universe. This offered a kind of godhood in the real world: the power to become a ghost, a background character in the story of reality. It was everything his philosophy was built on, but the finality of it, the idea of "conceptual self-erasure," sent a chill down his spine. What if he couldn't turn it off? What if he became so irrelevant that even Satoru's perception of him began to fade?
He thought of his purpose. To protect his brother. To be the shadow. This technique was the perfect expression of that purpose. To be the ultimate guardian, he had to be the ultimate ghost.
His resolve hardened. He was not Alex Chen anymore, a man who feared fading into obscurity. He was Ryouta Gojo, and his obscurity was his greatest weapon.
[YES]
The change was profound and subtle. He felt no surge of power. Instead, he felt a quiet shift in the world's relationship to him. It was as if the universe, which had always had its eye on the two Gojo twins, had blinked, and now only saw one. He was still there, solid and real, but he was no longer a focal point. He was part of the scenery.
The next morning, he tested it. He walked through a crowded corridor, and no one gave him a second glance. A first-year student, rushing and not looking, was on a collision course with him. At the last second, the student inexplicably veered to the side, his brain subconsciously deciding that the empty space next to Ryouta was a more logical path. It was incredible. It was terrifying.
He walked into the classroom. Shoko looked up, gave a brief nod, and looked away. Geto offered his usual polite smile and returned to his reading. Satoru, however, was different. He looked up, and his Six Eyes narrowed.
"Whoa," Satoru said, his voice low. "That's new. For a second there… it was like you weren't even here. The Six Eyes saw you, but my brain was telling me to ignore you."
Ryouta's heart skipped a beat. Of course. The Six Eyes could see the technique, even if Satoru's mind couldn't properly interpret it. But more than that, their bond, the profound connection between their souls, was stronger than a conceptual veil. Satoru would always see him.
"Just practicing my presence concealment," Ryouta said calmly.
"That's more than concealment," Satoru muttered, studying him with an intensity that made Ryouta slightly uncomfortable. "That's… cheating."
Ryouta just gave him a small, enigmatic smile.
As the months ticked by, Ryouta's internal timeline became a source of constant, low-level anxiety. We're fifteen now. According to the manga, the Star Plasma Vessel mission is just around the corner. Next year. Everything hinges on that mission. Geto's fall. Satoru's enlightenment. Toji's rampage.
He redoubled his efforts in training Satoru, using their spars to push his brother to the brink. He needed Satoru to have his breakthrough with the Reverse Cursed Technique before he faced Toji, not after.
One evening, after a particularly brutal session that left Satoru gasping on the floor, Ryouta knelt beside him.
"You're still trying to force it," Ryouta said. "You're treating it like a technique. It's not. It's… a feeling."
"Easy for you to say," Satoru grumbled, wiping sweat from his brow. "You make everything look easy."
"Nothing is easy," Ryouta said, his voice quiet but firm. He held out his hand, and for the first time, he let Satoru see a sliver of his true control. A warm, golden light, the pure positive energy of the Reverse Cursed Technique, bloomed in his palm. It was small, no bigger than a firefly, but it was perfectly stable, radiating a feeling of profound vitality.
Satoru's eyes widened, his exhaustion forgotten. "You… you can do it? Since when?"
"Since I stopped trying to use my cursed energy and started letting it use me," Ryouta said, another carefully constructed half-truth. He then extinguished the light, his expression becoming serious. "Satoru. I need you to promise me something."
"Anything," Satoru said, his gaze locked on his twin.
"No matter what happens, no matter how strong you get, never believe you're invincible," Ryouta said, his silver-gold eyes filled with the weight of the future he could see. "Arrogance is a blindfold. And there are things in this world that even the Six Eyes can't see coming."
Satoru, for once, didn't have a cocky retort. He saw the grim seriousness in his brother's eyes, the depth of a worry he couldn't understand. He simply nodded. "I promise."
"Good," Ryouta said, standing up. "Now get up. We're not done yet."
Satoru groaned, but he pushed himself to his feet, a new fire of determination in his eyes. He didn't know why, but he felt that his brother's strange, prophetic warning was the most important lesson he had ever been taught. The game was changing, and he needed to get stronger. Not just to be the best, but to be worthy of the silent, immense faith his shadow was placing in him.