Chapter 1 – Orphaned, No Car, No House
Pain!
So much pain!
His eyes burned—something was rushing into them, as if ants were gnawing on the blood vessels inside his eyeballs.
The sharp agony jolted Tatsuro awake from his sleep. He instantly clutched his eyes and screamed.
He didn't understand—why would his eyes hurt just from sleeping? Had he stared at his phone too long?
"Mika! My eyes hurt! Call 120, quick!"
No response. The room was eerily quiet, only a faint breeze brushing against his temples.
Tatsuro assumed Mika was just sleeping deeply. "Don't sleep, Mika! Hurry, call 120!"
"Mika?"
The lack of response felt strange. They had been chatting about their dreams and future before bed. Now Mika was gone, and his own eyes hurt like hell.
He tried to get up, but his hand touched a coarse, gritty surface. Exploring further, he felt something sticky—still warm.
Retracting his hand, he brought it to his nose. No smell. He licked it instinctively.
Salty. Metallic.
As a medical student, he knew instantly—it was blood.
But why was there blood? Could it be Mika's?
No. Impossible.
This was a medical university. Everyone here had a bright future. Murder was unthinkable. And the surface—this wasn't the clean tiled dorm floor. It felt like gravel.
Where was he?
What was this place?
A creeping fear made him fall silent. He didn't dare speak again. What if the killer was still nearby?
Ignoring the searing pain in his eyes, Tatsuro began groping around, trying to understand his situation.
The pain wouldn't kill him. But if the murderer came back, that would.
He had to escape. He was only 18—he couldn't die here.
He felt a stone wall and followed it along, but panic made him clumsy. He tripped on some steps and crashed hard to the ground.
Shit!
His head hit the floor with a dull thud, and warm liquid trickled from his forehead. Dazed, strange memories not his own flooded his mind.
A kind and gentle woman. A man who always read the newspaper. They spoke fluent Japanese and looked at him with soft, affectionate eyes.
What was this?
It felt like watching a movie, yet it was inside his own head. Familiar and foreign at once. As the vision continued, the eye pain slowly subsided.
After what felt like forever, he had fully absorbed the memories.
His parents—killed by a monster. He had avenged them… though the monster had looked oddly familiar…
Tatsuro opened his eyes. The air was thick with dark mist, and before him lay carnage. He didn't know what that black smoke was, and he didn't want to touch it. It lingered where the monster had died.
But for now, he was safe. No murderers in sight. As for more monsters… he couldn't be sure.
He looked at the ruined house and the bodies of his "parents." His brow furrowed slightly, but tears rolled down his cheeks. His lips moved of their own accord:
"I'm sorry. I couldn't save you."
That apology wasn't his. It came from the original owner of this body. It stirred sadness in him—and fear.
As he slumped in the corner to rest, a mocking voice cut through the silence:
"Well, well… did you kill your parents?"
In the quiet night, those words were like a lit fuse.
Tatsuro flinched, eyes turning crimson in panic as he grabbed a piece of broken brick, ready to defend himself.
The newcomer was tall, silver-haired, and wore a white cloth over his eyes. His image overlapped with a familiar anime character from memory.
"Satoru Gojo?"
Tatsuro blurted out instinctively.
"Oh? You know me?"
Gojo looked intrigued. The boy's red eyes had a swirling black tomoe inside—brimming with immense cursed energy.
Interesting.
"Hey, wanna join Jujutsu High?"
"Jujutsu High?"
Tatsuro loosened his grip on the brick. Looking at Gojo, he sighed in relief. Just now, his vision had slowed down for a moment—now it was back to normal. He realized where he was now.
Jujutsu Kaisen.
A world where curses are born from negative emotions.
But why had he come here?
Other people got hit by trucks. What had brought him here?
No use worrying about that. First, he needed shelter. Otherwise, he'd die fast in this world.
Tatsuro took a deep breath and glanced at his parents' corpses.
"Can I bury them first?" he asked.
"Of course."
Gojo watched the boy haul the bodies. There was no hatred or despair in his eyes—just calm. His crimson pupils faded back to black, and the cursed energy returned to his body.
What a promising kid. Imagine what he could become with proper training.
Tatsuro grabbed a shovel and began digging into the blood-soaked earth. Halfway through, he suddenly paused.
Wait, don't you need a death certificate to bury someone?
He turned to Gojo and asked, "Can you help arrange a funeral? I don't really know how to do this."
"Huh? A funeral?"
Gojo scratched his head. "Don't you have any relatives?"
"Relatives…"
Tatsuro shut his eyes, sifting through the original memories. They were all out of town—and he didn't know how to contact them.
This was a lawful society. Deaths had to be reported. But how would he explain it?
A paranormal attack?
His parents killed by some hideous monster, and he survived?
Wait…
Wasn't this exactly the kind of thing jujutsu sorcerers handled?
He looked at Gojo. "How do I explain it? That some grotesque monster killed my parents?"
"So cold… your parents just died in front of you," Gojo said with a grin. "Were they bad to you or something?"
"No," Tatsuro shook his head. "They were wonderful. It's just… I feel sorrow, but I can't cry. It's strange."
"I see…"
Gojo pulled out his phone, dialed a number, gave the address, and hung up.
"What's your name, kid?"
Tatsuro answered truthfully, using the name from the body he now inhabited:
"My name is Tatsuro."