The infirmary doors closed softly behind them.
Sasha slept peacefully on the narrow bed, chest rising and falling in shallow but steady breaths. Crumbs still clung to her uniform like trophies from a hard-won battle. Alex lingered a moment longer, making sure she wouldn't roll off, then finally stepped away.
"Alright," he muttered under his breath, "potato girl secured. Mission complete."
Outside, the late afternoon light painted the stone corridors in warm orange tones. Historia walked a few steps ahead, holding the empty bread wrapping carefully in both hands. Ymir followed beside her, hands tucked into her pockets, eyes half-lidded but alert.
For a while, none of them spoke.
Then Historia slowed.
"…Ymir," she said quietly.
Ymir glanced sideways. "Yeah?"
Historia hesitated, fingers tightening around the paper. "Why do you think… she ate it so fast?"
Ymir didn't answer right away. They turned a corner, footsteps echoing faintly. Finally, she shrugged.
"People who've gone hungry don't trust food to stay. You eat it while it's there. Before it disappears."
Historia lowered her gaze.
"…That's why I brought the bread," she admitted. "I didn't think about punishment or rules. She just looked like she needed it."
Ymir stopped walking.
She turned fully toward Historia, studying her—small frame, gentle eyes, sincerity written plainly across her face.
"You're too kind for this place," Ymir said flatly. "That's gonna get you hurt."
Historia shook her head. "I don't think helping someone is wrong. Even if it costs me something."
Ymir clicked her tongue, annoyed—but not at Historia.
"That's exactly what I mean."
She looked away.
"You help people without asking what it'll do to you. You smile like it's nothing. Like you don't care if you get crushed."
Historia smiled faintly. "I just… want to be someone worth helping others."
Ymir exhaled slowly.
"…Idiot," she muttered, then added more quietly,
"Then don't do it alone."
Historia looked up, surprised.
Ymir didn't meet her eyes.
"If you're gonna be stupidly kind, at least let someone watch your back."
A small, warm smile spread across Historia's face.
"Thank you, Ymir."
"Yeah, yeah," Ymir waved it off. "Don't make it weird."
From a few steps behind them, Alex watched the exchange with mild interest, hands tucked behind his head.
Huh.
That's not romance.
That's survival-level attachment.
He smirked faintly.
The mess hall buzzed with noise—metal trays clattering, tired cadets talking over one another, the low hum of exhaustion mixed with adrenaline.
Alex entered last, grabbing a tray and eyeing the food suspiciously.
Brown stew. Hard bread. Something vaguely green.
He poked it with a spoon.
"…Wow," he thought dryly. "This would be considered a war crime where I'm from."
Still, he sat down near a familiar cluster of voices.
Eren was talking.
"I saw it," Eren said, fists clenched around his cup. "The Titans. When the wall fell. People crushed. Eaten. No one could do anything."
The table had gone quiet.
Armin listened closely, eyes sharp and thoughtful. Jean leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, clearly uncomfortable.
"They didn't even look human," Eren continued. "They smiled while killing us. That's why I joined. I won't live my life trapped behind walls like livestock."
Jean scoffed. "Easy to say until you're actually out there. Bravado won't stop you from getting eaten."
Eren slammed his hand on the table.
"At least I'll die fighting!"
"That's not the point!" Jean shot back. "There's nothing noble about dying pointlessly!"
The tension snapped tight.
Several cadets shifted uncomfortably.
Alex chewed his bread slowly, expression unreadable
…Classic.
Ideals versus reality.
Hope versus fear.
He swallowed and leaned forward slightly.
"You're both exhausting," he said casually.
Every head turned.
Alex gestured with his spoon.
"One wants to die dramatically. The other wants to live comfortably. Neither sounds that great, honestly."
Jean scowled. "What did you say?"
Alex shrugged.
"I'm saying survival's not about yelling the loudest. It's about not being stupid when it counts."
Eren glared. "You don't understand!"
Alex tilted his head.
"Sure I do. You're angry because you're powerless. You"—he nodded at Jean—"are scared because you're realistic. Congratulations. You're both normal."
The table fell silent.
Armin blinked. "That's… surprisingly fair."
Alex leaned back, stabbing at the stew with visible reluctance before forcing himself to eat it. His face twitched.
…This is awful.
No cursed energy, no flavor, and no refund.
He continued anyway.
"Look," Alex went on, voice lighter now,
"you don't need a perfect reason to be here. You just need one that keeps you breathing tomorrow."
Jean looked away, jaw tight.
Eren didn't respond—but his fists slowly unclenched.
The tension eased, just a little.
Alex smirked to himself.
Mood stabilized.
No one flipped a table.
I'll call that a win.
Across the room, Historia helped Sasha sit upright as she was brought in, still groggy but alive. Ymir hovered nearby, pretending not to worry.
Sasha sniffed the air weakly.
"Is… that food…?"
Historia smiled. "Yes. But slowly this time."
Sasha nodded solemnly.
"I will… respect the bread."
Alex watched the scene, spoon halfway to his mouth.
Huh.
They're already a unit.
He took another bite of the stew and sighed internally.
…Still terrible.
But for the first time since waking up in this world, surrounded by fear, death, and walls closing in—
The noise felt… almost warm.
And Alex Satoru, strongest sorcerer trapped in a child's body, smiled into his bowl.
Yeah.
This world's broken.
But it's got interesting people.
And that, he decided, was enough—for now.
Later that night, the barracks settled into an uneasy quiet.
The lamps were dimmed, shadows stretching across wooden beams and narrow beds. The air smelled faintly of sweat, metal, and old wood—humanity packed together, pretending sleep meant safety.
Alex lay on his back, hands folded behind his head, staring up at the ceiling.
The bed was… uncomfortable. Thin mattress. Too narrow. His feet nearly brushed the edge.
Yeah. Definitely a kid's body.
He flexed his fingers slowly.
Something answered.
Not the vast, effortless presence he remembered—but not nothing either. A faint pressure, like space hesitating around him. The barest hum beneath his skin.
…Huh.
So it's there.
Just… quiet. Restrained. Like it's wrapped in rules his old body never had to care about.
Alex frowned, then smirked.
Figures. Drop the strongest sorcerer into a twelve-year-old body and expect peak performance? Rude.
He eased off instinctively. Even that small response made his head throb faintly, the body sending a clear message.
Easy. Not yet.
Around him, the cadets breathed softly—some restless, some already lost to exhaustion. Someone muttered in their sleep. Another turned sharply, as if expecting a Titan to be waiting when they opened their eyes.
Alex closed his eyes.
Then opened them again.
Sleep still felt optional.
His thoughts drifted—then slowed.
There was something he'd been avoiding.
…So who am I, exactly?
He turned the question over lazily, like a stone in his hand.
Was he Satoru Gojo, dropped into another world, borrowing a body named Alex like a bad disguise?
Or was he Alex Satoru—a boy born here—who'd simply woken up one day with memories that weren't supposed to be his?
The memories felt real. Both sets did.
Alex's childhood—vague, ordinary, quiet—existed. Training registration. Cadet numbers. Hunger. Fear.
And then there was everything else.
Infinity. Students. Battles that bent reality. Confidence earned, not borrowed.
No resistance. No rejection.
The body didn't fight the memories.
It accepted them.
Alex clicked his tongue softly.
…That's inconvenient.
Reincarnation would be easy. Clean. "I died, now I'm here." Story over.
But this?
This felt more like overlap.
Like two lives stacked on top of each other, and he just happened to remember the better one.
Or maybe—
He snorted quietly.
Maybe I'm just overthinking it.
That was also very him.
Whatever the answer was, it didn't really matter right now.
This body moved when he told it to. The power responded—even if slower, quieter. The instincts were still his.
And the name?
Alex Satoru.
Yeah.
That fits a little too well to be an accident.
His thoughts drifted again—far away, to another life.
Students laughing too loudly. Complaining. Growing stronger when they weren't supposed to. A boy who carried too much guilt. A girl who burned bright and stubborn. Another who hid kindness behind silence.
They'll be fine.
The certainty came naturally.
They didn't need him hovering anymore.
I taught them to survive without me.
A faint smile tugged at his lips.
If anyone could live in a broken world, it was the ones he left behind.
The ceiling creaked softly as wind passed along the outer wall.
This world was simpler in its cruelty. No curses born from fear. Just fear itself—giant, naked, and hungry.
Honest. Brutal.
Alex turned onto his side, facing the narrow aisle between beds.
Eren slept like he was still fighting—jaw clenched, brow tight. Jean lay stiff, arms crossed even in rest. Armin slept quietly, thoughtful even in dreams.
Kids with reasons.
Kids with fear.
Somewhere else in the compound—behind different walls, different rules—Sasha was probably asleep in the infirmary or the girls' quarters, stomach full, dreaming of bread like it was treasure.
Alex huffed a quiet breath into his pillow.
Yeah… that tracks.
He wasn't at full strength. Not even close. This body couldn't handle it yet—bones too light, nerves too raw, instincts still syncing.
But the power was there.
Waiting.
Growing with him.
I just need time.
And patience.
He exhaled slowly, letting his thoughts settle.
Tomorrow would bring training, evaluations, shouting, pain.
Maybe danger.
Probably stupidity.
And somehow… he was looking forward to it.
As sleep finally crept in, one last thought surfaced—lazy, confident, unmistakably Gojo.
Whether I'm Alex who remembe
rs being Gojo…
or Gojo pretending to be Alex—
Doesn't really matter.
I'm still the strongest.
The barracks fell quiet beneath the towering walls, and Alex Satoru slept—identity unresolved, power sealed behind a fragile body, already adapting to a world that had no idea what it was growing into.