The nightmare came at 4 AM, as they often did. Ryouta woke with a gasp, his heart hammering, the phantom sensation of loss still clawing at his chest. In the dream, he'd been too slow—Satoru had fallen, Geto had turned, Shoko had been killed. All the futures he was fighting so desperately to prevent had collapsed into a single moment of absolute failure.
He sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, forcing his breathing to steady. His Primordial Omniscience could map the entire city, could track threats from miles away, but it couldn't stop the nightmares. Couldn't stop the fear that despite all his planning, despite all his power, he would fail the people he loved most.
A soft knock on his balcony door made him look up. Satoru stood there in pajama pants and a wrinkled t-shirt, his white hair messed from sleep, his Six Eyes perceiving what Ryouta's own power couldn't hide—the spike of cursed energy from his distress.
Ryouta opened the door, and Satoru stepped inside without a word. He didn't ask what was wrong. He just sat down on the bed beside his twin, shoulders touching, a silent presence in the darkness.
"Another one?" Satoru asked finally, his voice quiet.
"Yeah," Ryouta admitted. He didn't elaborate. Didn't need to. They'd been having these conversations since they were five years old, when young Ryouta had woken screaming from nightmares of a future that might never come to pass.
"You know," Satoru said after a moment, "sometimes I think you forget that you're not alone in this. Whatever you're planning, whatever burden you're carrying—you don't have to carry it by yourself."
Ryouta turned to look at his brother, seeing the concern in those brilliant blue eyes. Satoru, for all his arrogance and jokes, understood him better than anyone. Could sense when the weight was becoming too much, even if he didn't know the specifics.
"I know," Ryouta said softly. "But some things... some things I need to handle on my own. Not because I don't trust you, but because—"
"Because you're trying to protect me," Satoru interrupted, a small smile on his face. "I know, Ryo. You've been doing it our whole lives. But you know what?" He bumped his shoulder against Ryouta's. "I'm doing the same thing for you. We're both idiots trying to shield each other from the world."
Ryouta laughed despite himself, the tension in his chest loosening. "We really are."
"So here's the deal," Satoru continued, his tone becoming more serious. "Whatever happens, whatever crazy plans you've got cooking in that terrifying brain of yours—we face it together. You don't get to sacrifice yourself to save me. That's non-negotiable."
"Satoru—"
"No." The firmness in his brother's voice stopped Ryouta cold. "I'm serious. I've seen the way you look sometimes, like you're calculating acceptable losses. And I know you well enough to know that you'd consider yourself an acceptable loss if it meant keeping the rest of us safe. But I'm telling you right now—that's not happening. You're not allowed to die for me. Understand?"
Ryouta felt something crack in his chest, a wall he'd built without realizing it. His eyes burned with unshed tears. "You're my brother, Satoru. My other half. If I had to choose—"
"Then don't choose," Satoru said, pulling him into a rough embrace. "We both live. We both survive. That's the only option I'm accepting."
They sat like that for a long moment, two brothers clinging to each other in the darkness, the weight of the world pressing down but bearable because they bore it together. When they finally pulled apart, Satoru's grin was back, though his eyes were suspiciously bright.
"Besides," Satoru said, his tone deliberately light, "who else is going to keep me humble?"
"No one could ever keep you humble," Ryouta replied, matching his tone. "It's a lost cause."
"True," Satoru agreed cheerfully. "But you try anyway. It's adorable."
They stayed up until dawn, talking about nothing important—new techniques they wanted to try, restaurants they'd been meaning to visit, whether Geto's new hairstyle made him look more or less like a cult leader. Normal things. Human things. The kind of conversation that reminded Ryouta why all his schemes, all his plans, all his power meant nothing compared to moments like this.
The coalition meeting the next day was tense. Word had spread about the failed assassination attempts, and more sorcerers were joining their cause—but so were the dangers. The higher-ups were escalating, and Ryouta could sense through his omniscient awareness that they were preparing something big.
"We have a problem," Mai Zenin said, spreading out a document on the table. "The clans are moving to have you four declared rogue sorcerers. If they succeed, it becomes legal—mandatory, even—for any sorcerer to attack you on sight."
"Let them try," Satoru said dismissively, but Ryouta held up a hand.
"It's not about whether we can survive the attacks," he said calmly. "It's about the precedent. Once we're declared rogue, the clans can justify any action against us. They could target our allies, our students, anyone associated with us. It makes everyone around us a liability."
He could see the realization dawning on Geto's face—this wasn't just about them. It was about Nanako and Mimiko, about Yaga, about every sorcerer who'd spoken up in support of reform.
"So what do we do?" Shoko asked, crushing out her cigarette with more force than necessary.
Ryouta had been planning for this contingency for months. "We preempt them. Before they can declare us rogue, we formally separate from the clan system entirely. We invoke the Ancient Right of Sovereignty—it's an old law, almost forgotten, but it allows Special Grade sorcerers to establish themselves as independent entities, outside clan jurisdiction."
"That's basically declaring war," Yaga said, his expression grave.
"No," Ryouta corrected. "It's declaring independence. There's a difference. We're not attacking them—we're simply refusing to be governed by their rules. And here's the key part: we extend protection to any sorcerer who wants to join us. Create a new faction, a new way of doing things."
"A sanctuary," Geto said slowly, understanding dawning. "For sorcerers who want to work outside the corrupt clan system."
"Exactly," Ryouta confirmed. "We can't destroy the clans—they're too entrenched, too powerful. But we can create an alternative. Drain their power slowly by offering a better option."
It was a strategy that served multiple layers—protecting their allies (immediate), establishing a new power base (medium-term), and fundamentally reshaping jujutsu society (long-term). But most importantly, it kept everyone he cared about safe under a umbrella of protection that even the clans would have to respect.
"The logistics alone would be nightmarish," Shoko pointed out. "Where would this 'sanctuary' even be?"
"I've already secured a location," Ryouta said, pulling out a map. "An abandoned temple complex in the mountains north of Tokyo. Heavily warded, defensible, and large enough to house a small community. The Gojo clan technically owns it, but it's been forgotten for decades. I had the deed transferred to my name three months ago."
Everyone stared at him. "You've been planning this for three months?" Mai asked incredulously.
"Longer," Ryouta admitted. "I've been preparing for multiple scenarios. This one seemed most likely once the assassination attempts began."
What he didn't say was that he'd been planning variations of this strategy for over two years. Every conversation, every alliance, every piece moved on the board had been building toward this moment. But saying that would make him sound like a calculating machine rather than someone trying desperately to protect the people he loved.
The formal declaration was made three days later, in the same ceremonial chamber where they'd delivered their initial challenge. But this time, Ryouta didn't let the higher-ups maintain their power advantage. He'd prepared a technique specifically for this moment.
As they entered the chamber, he activated a modified version of his Primordial Omniscience—not to perceive, but to project. Every hidden camera, every surveillance talisman, every secret recording device in the building suddenly became active, broadcasting the proceedings to every major clan compound, every jujutsu school, every sorcerer with the equipment to receive it.
The higher-ups' first indication that something was wrong came when representatives from other clans started appearing through communication talismans, demanding to know why they were being shown this meeting.
"Because," Ryouta said calmly, his voice carrying not just through the chamber but through every broadcasting device in the jujutsu world, "this concerns everyone. The age of hidden decisions and secret machinations is over. From this moment forward, transparency is not optional."
The play was brilliant in its simplicity—by making the proceedings public, he'd made it impossible for the higher-ups to threaten or manipulate them without everyone watching. It was a cage built from accountability, and the higher-ups had walked right into it.
Satoru delivered the formal declaration with his characteristic flair, but every word had been carefully chosen by Ryouta. They weren't attacking. They weren't rebelling. They were simply... leaving. Taking their power, their influence, and their principles and building something new.
"Any sorcerer who wishes to join us," Satoru announced, "who is tired of corruption, of exploitation, of a system that values profit over lives—you are welcome. We offer protection, training, and a chance to be part of something better."
The higher-ups tried to respond, tried to spin it as rebellion, but their words rang hollow when broadcast to thousands of watching sorcerers. Ryouta had outmaneuvered them completely, and he'd done it without violence, without cruelty—just superior strategy and perfect timing.
As they left the chamber, Ryouta felt his Primordial Ascension humming beneath his skin, his body growing stronger with each passing hour. But what mattered more was the look of fierce pride on Satoru's face, the relieved smile on Geto's, the approving nod from Shoko.
He'd protected them. That was all that mattered.
Training with Geto the next day had a different quality to it. His friend moved through his forms with renewed purpose, his cursed spirits responding with greater coordination. The crisis at the village, the philosophical conversations, the exposure to corruption—it had forged him into something stronger without breaking him.
"You saved me, you know," Geto said during a water break, not looking at Ryouta. "That day at the village. If you hadn't stopped me..."
"You would have stopped yourself eventually," Ryouta said, though he wasn't entirely sure that was true.
"Maybe. Or maybe I would have become exactly what the system feared." Geto finally met his eyes. "But you gave me another path. Showed me that anger could be directed at legitimate targets, that change didn't require becoming a monster. I don't think I've thanked you properly for that."
"You don't need to thank me," Ryouta said, and he meant it. "You're my friend. That's what friends do—they keep each other from falling."
"Still," Geto insisted, "I want you to know that I see what you're doing. All the planning, all the scheming, the weight you carry. And I want to help carry it. You don't have to shoulder everything alone."
Ryouta felt that same crack in his chest from his conversation with Satoru. "I'm not good at asking for help."
"I know," Geto said with a slight smile. "So I'm not asking. I'm just telling you—I'm here. Whatever you need, whenever you need it. No questions asked."
The simple declaration of loyalty, of friendship, meant more than Ryouta could articulate. He nodded, not trusting his voice, and they returned to training with a renewed understanding between them.
That weekend, the four of them—Ryouta, Satoru, Geto, and Shoko—took a day completely off. No missions, no planning, no politics. Just four friends spending time together like normal teenagers.
They went to an arcade in Akihabara, where Satoru's competitive streak led to him trying to beat every high score while Ryouta quietly achieved perfect scores on rhythm games through his enhanced perception. Geto won them all stuffed animals from the claw machines, while Shoko provided running commentary on their collective immaturity.
They ate at an absurdly expensive sushi restaurant, where Satoru insisted on ordering everything on the menu and Ryouta calculated that they'd spent enough to feed a family for a month. They didn't care. For once, they were just kids with too much money and too little sense.
As the sun set, they found themselves on the roof of a shopping center, watching Tokyo light up like a constellation brought to earth.
"You know what's funny?" Shoko said, lighting a cigarette despite their protests. "Six months ago, I would have said we'd all be dead by now. The clans don't forgive challenges to their authority."
"Yet here we are," Geto added. "Not just alive, but winning."
"We're winning because we have something they don't," Satoru said, then grinned. "Me."
"And your humility," Shoko deadpanned.
"That too," Satoru agreed cheerfully.
Ryouta watched them, felt the easy warmth of their friendship, and thought about all his plans, all his schemes. In that moment, he understood with perfect clarity why he was doing all of this. Not for abstract ideals of justice or reform. Not for his own power or evolution. But for moments exactly like this—for the ability to protect the space where his friends could laugh and joke and be young.
"We're going to be okay," he said quietly, and they all turned to look at him. "Whatever comes next, whatever the clans try to do—we're going to survive it. Together."
"Damn right we are," Satoru said, bumping his fist against Ryouta's.
"Together," Geto echoed.
"I hate you all," Shoko said, but she was smiling.
Late that night, alone in his meditation chamber, Ryouta allowed himself to be completely honest about his motivations. His Primordial Ascension was progressing—he could feel his body changing, strengthening, transcending human limitations with each passing day. His plans were unfolding across timescales measured in decades. His power was approaching levels that would make him effectively godlike.
But none of it meant anything if he lost the people who made him human.
That's the difference, he thought, remembering Aizen from Bleach, Light from Death Note, every genius villain who'd sacrificed humanity for power. They forgot why they wanted power in the first place. They lost sight of what mattered.
Ryouta's schemes were complex, operating on six simultaneous layers. But beneath all the strategy, beneath all the manipulation and long-term planning, his motivation was devastatingly simple:
I will protect them. All of them. No matter what I have to become.
His intelligence was a weapon aimed at their enemies. His power was a shield raised in their defense. His evolution toward godhood was driven by the desire to protect them forever, to be strong enough that nothing—not clans, not curses, not fate itself—could take them from him.
If that meant carrying the weight of impossible knowledge alone, he'd do it. If that meant making decisions no one else could understand, he'd make them. If that meant becoming something more than human while desperately clinging to his humanity, then that was the price he'd pay.
Because at the end of all his plans, all his schemes, all his machinations, was a simple goal: a world where his friends could grow old. Where Satoru could be the strongest without being the loneliest. Where Geto could find peace without sacrificing his principles. Where Shoko could heal without burning out. Where Nanako and Mimiko could laugh without fear.
Everything else was just the methodology.
The next strategic move came two weeks later, when thirty-seven sorcerers—from various clans, independent operators, and even a few from the auxiliary families—formally requested sanctuary with the new faction.
The clans were furious, but they couldn't act without looking like tyrants. Ryouta had built the perfect trap: every aggressive move the clans made would drive more sorcerers to seek his protection, strengthening his position while weakening theirs.
It was manipulation on a masterful scale, a long-game strategy that would take years to fully unfold. But it would work. Ryouta knew it would work because he'd calculated every variable, planned for every contingency, and built redundancy into every level of the plan.
And most importantly, he'd done it all while keeping his friends safe. Not one of them would be sacrificed on the altar of his ambitions. That was the promise he made to himself, the one principle that would never bend no matter how powerful he became.
As he stood on the balcony of the abandoned temple that would become their sanctuary, watching the first arrivals settle in, Ryouta felt his Primordial Ascension pulse with approval. His body was evolving, yes. His power was growing, yes. But his heart—the part that loved, that protected, that refused to see his friends as anything other than precious—that remained achingly, beautifully human.
And it always would.