As Richard advanced towards the exit of the dark alleyway, the silence wrapped around him like a shroud, and the stark white of his hospital gown offered the only contrast to the gray ruin around him.
His heart pounded, as though an unseen drummer beat against his ribs, both foreign and achingly familiar. For a long moment, he just breathed — deep, tremulous breaths that tasted of asphalt and new beginnings.
The alley breathed too — a narrow vein carved between crumbling concrete and trash-strewn walls. Rusted dumpsters sagged like wounded beasts, cardboard boxes curled and damp, and the smell of rust and rot wove into the electric pulse beneath his skin.
He forced himself forward and, with careful attention, catalogued every sensation: the tingling hum in his fingertips, the subtle rush of wind that whispered past his ears, and the throbbing in his temples that felt like distant thunder. He was different now. His senses were firing on all cylinders. Conveying even the most useless of information with graphic clarity.
He instinctively scanned his environment. He knew this world. And you couldn't be too careful. And right he was because— he saw something now.
A grotesque shape, motionless but unmistakably alive in its horror, hovered near a dented trash bin. It swayed like smoke caught in a draft, its form a grotesque mockery of life: distorted limbs made of ragged ashen flesh, eyes like rotten muck, glowing languidly between jagged folds of darkness. Richard's breath hitched, his pulse spiking so abruptly that it felt as though his very blood thundered in his ears.
"A...curse." He muttered in fright.
He had memorized similar creature appearance in every frantic rewatch, every late-night binge session of Jujutsu Kaisen. He had seen these abominations countless times on screen: misshapen horrors born of fear and hatred and the darkest echoes of human emotion. But now one stood only a couple distance before him — real, tangible, and sickeningly close.
Richard froze. The world tightened, sounds faded to a distant drone, and every instinct screamed at him to run — to flee back into the safety of obscurity. Yet, beneath the raw fear, a spark ignited. A whisper in his bones hinted that he was no ordinary man anymore. Something inside him stirred — something powerful.
He hadn't even tried to use his newly bestowed powers since arriving in this world. And he wasn't certain it would be effective. Yet he could see this spirit. That meant something. Maybe — just maybe — he could fight it.
An ache of longing curled in his chest — a desperate, beautiful yearning to matter here, to survive, to live. He reached deep inward, past the quaking fear, beyond the parted chaos of his thoughts, and touched that flickering ember of power that was beginning to settle within him.
Psychic energy.
In the world of jujutsu Kaisen— the world that breathed with the electricity of cursed energy and spirits — his own power was strange, alien, and untested. But Richard had absorbed enough from knowledge and instinct that came with the mob template to know he wasn't out of his depths on this one.
He exhaled slowly, raising his right hand — palm open, trembling like a chord plucked too soon.
Please work.
For one breathless second, nothing happened.
Then a shimmer — soft, blue, like moonlight caught in silk — coalesced around him. It felt like breath on his skin and fire in his veins. The air hummed. The very atoms vibrated with unspoken promise.
And then — boom.
The curse that wreathed in grotesque shadow, exploded into invisible particles of cursed energy, as if struck down by a deity unseen.
Richard staggered backward, the echo of impact thundering in his ears, heart pounding like a war drum.
Silence reclaimed the alley.
Richard stared at his hands — trembling, unsteady, alive. Shock blurred into disbelief, and disbelief bled into euphoria. He had done it. He had exorcised a cursed spirit. And without cursed energy — with pure psychic power.
He let out a breath he didn't realize he had been holding. A laugh — soft, shaky, and impossibly joyful — rose from his throat. A surge of excitement rushed through him, hot and bright like the sun cresting a horizon long hidden. I am a jujutsu sorcerer now. No — maybe even something new. Something unbound by the old rules that governed this world.
Still. He soon turned somber. He wondered if in addition to psychic energy, he could also manifest cursed energy.
Richard knew he was being greedy. But he was in the world of jujutsu Kaisen. If he couldn't one day invoke a domain expansion or an innate cursed technique, he would be greatly saddened.
However, he soon calmed himself as his reality settled in — cooler this time, sobering in its clarity.
He was still in a hospital gown.
Still alone.
Still in a strange world with no name, or shelter.
His template synchronization rate was still at 8%. For some reason he could tell that the curse he had just exorcised like swatting a fly was a fourth-grade curse.
He already had so much power at eight percent, Richard wondered what he could accomplish at ten, twenty, or fifty. He was also curious how he could raise his synchronization level, but he chose not to dwell on that at the moment.
He finally stepped out of the alley and onto a street that felt alive with possibility.
The city before him stretched in all directions — towering buildings of glass and steel that glittered beneath fading sunlight, neon signs flickering like distant beacons of promise, and streets that pulsed with the rhythm of existence.
This was Tokyo, but not the Tokyo from Earth. This was the Tokyo from the world he had lived through on a screen — vibrant, unforgiving, and full of spirits unseen by ordinary eyes.
The sidewalks swirled with life: business people in both crisp suits and traditional garbs like kimonos, students with backpacks slung low, street vendors hollering the day's last call. The air thrummed with the electric hum of city life — horns, chatter, distant trains, the scent of grilled food and gasoline and possibility.
Richard stood at the brink of it all, heart in his throat.
He was alive — truly alive — and life beckoned with open arms.
Then — without warning — a black BMW cut through his awe like a blade.
Time slowed in that fractured instant: the sleek machine rounding a corner at speed, Richard's foot stepping forward without thought, the sharp shock of dread that shot through him too late. Before he could react — before he could call upon the strange powers still unfamiliar in his veins — the car struck him with bone-shuddering impact.
Metal screeched. World spun. Pain bloomed — red-hot and blinding.
you've got to be kidding me! was the only taught that rang through his head at the irony of his current situation. He was about to lament more to the heaven for dying in such a lame way, right as he was given a second chance at life, when the car stopped.
And then — silhouettes.
Dark hair brushing a suit collar. A voice, frantic and sharp. A hand on his chest, breath warm against his cheek.
"Are you okay? Speak to me!"
Another voice — softer, deeper — almost seductive, hovers closer. He feels the weight of her presence before he sees her: a woman with blue-tinted silver braided hair cascading over one eye, lips that gleam like polished rose petals, curves defined like sculpture. She moved with the grace of a dancer, strength hidden beneath elegance. Her eyes — sharp, intelligent, and threaded with concern — bore into his, and something in Richard's mind flares, sharp and familiar.
Recognition — like a spark struck in darkness.
And then — nothing.
His world went black.
Richard had lost consciousness.