Inside the primary conference hall of the Zenin estate, the atmosphere was thicker than cement.
Standing in a semi-circle around the main tatami mat were five of the most senior Zenin clan elders. Every single one of them was staring at the head of the room with a mixture of disbelief, dread, and deep psychological trauma.
At the center of the room sat Naobito Zenin.
Or, more accurately, what was left of him.
The 26th Clan Head was currently pressing a freezing-cold ceramic jug of high-grade sake against his left eye socket, which was swollen to the size of a billiard ball. His lips were busted, his right cheek was a glorious shade of deep purple and violent blue, and his legendary mustache was sticking out at a completely crooked angle.
"C-Clan Leader..." one of the senior elders stammered, wiping cold sweat from his forehead. "Are you... are you really, truly sure about this decision?"
Naobito paused, took a massive gulp of sake directly from the jug, and immediately winced as the alcohol stung the dozen micro-fractures in his jaw.
"What do you think?" Naobito grunted, his voice sounding like two pieces of sandpaper grinding together. He lifted the icy jug from his face and gestured vaguely at his bruised, battered head. "Does my face look like I'm having a damn laugh?!"
He gently touched his swollen cheekbone, and a sharp, white-hot bolt of pain instantly shot straight through his nervous system. He let out a suppressed hissed curse through his teeth.
"Motherfucker..." Naobito grumbled under his breath.
All he had wanted to do was play the wise, experienced elder! He had just wanted to teach a promising, arrogant junior a quick, valuable lesson about how cruel and fast the real jujutsu world could be!
And what did that evil, demonic little beast do in return?!
Not only did the kid completely ignore basic martial arts etiquette, but he also cloned himself thirty-six times and launched an organized, merciless, multi-directional gang beatdown! They didn't just beat his old bones—they kicked him like a soccer ball until his face looked like a bruised eggplant!
Zero respect for elders. Zero dignity. Kids these days were absolute, ruthless monsters!
"Anyway," Naobito sighed, taking another careful sip of sake. "What do you old geezers want to do about it? You wanna walk out to the courtyard and fight him yourselves?"
The room went dead quiet.
None of the elders said a word. In fact, a few of them instinctively took a small step backward.
"That's what I thought," Naobito scoffed. "So I'm stepping down. I am officially resigning from the position of Clan Head. If any of you old bastards want to fight for the throne, go right ahead. I don't give a shit anymore."
The elders' mouths twitched violently, but nobody dared to raise an objection.
What could they even say? They had all stood up in the viewing stands and watched the entire massacre with their own eyes.
Forget about Mahoraga for a second—Naobito, the fastest sorcerer in the clan, had just been pinned down, stomped, and beaten into submission by thirty-six identical, gray-skinned, Graphene-armored six-year-old goblins.
It wasn't that the elders were unwilling to accept a new leader. The Zenin clan operated on a brutal, absolute meritocracy where physical strength was worshipped above all else. A six-year-old boy who could tame the legendary, undefeated Divine General Mahoraga—and who possessed a second, completely broken absorption technique—was, by all laws of their family, more than qualified to sit on the throne.
At first, the elders had desperately coped by telling themselves that Megumi must have used some kind of dirty trick or secret item to tame Mahoraga. But after seeing him stack three shikigami buffs onto his own body and clone himself into an army, they had to face reality: the kid was just a walking, god-like cheat code.
The problem wasn't his power.
The problem was that... he was six years old!
For the first time in their multi-century history, the Zenin elders were forced to confront a terrifying, unexpected realization: strength isn't everything.
"How... how is this going to work?" one elder whispered, his face turning pale. "Can a six-year-old child handle our clan's political negotiations with the Jujutsu High Board of Directors?"
"Forget the Board!" another elder hissed, gripping his robes. "Who is going to manage our multi-billion-yen dollar estate portfolio?! Can a first-grader even do calculus?!"
"Calculus?!" a third elder groaned, slapping his own forehead. "I just got a report from our informants in the city... the kid officially dropped out of elementary school this morning! HE'S AN ELEMENTARY SCHOOL DROPOUT!"
A collective, heavy gloom settled over the room.
The thought of an illiterate, six-year-old dropout sitting at the head of the prestigious Zenin Clan was so absurd it made their heads spin.
"If news of this gets out to the conservative faction... or the Gojo clan..." an elder whimpered, his voice trembling with embarrassment. "People are going to laugh us right out of Jujutsu society! We'll be the laughingstock of the century!"
"Are you old men fucking stupid?"
A sharp, arrogant voice cut through the despair in the room like a fresh blade.
The elders snapped their heads around toward the entrance. Sliding the door open with a lazy kick was a teenager with bleached-blonde hair, sharp piercing eyes, and a permanent, condescending smirk plastered across his face.
Naoya Zenin—the son of Naobito.
"Naoya!" one of the elders barked, trying to regain his authority. "Know your place! The adults are discussing serious clan matters!"
Naoya let out a loud, mocking snort, shoving his hands casually into the pockets of his traditional hakama. "Adults? You mean the pathetic group of 'adults' who don't even have the balls to stand in front of a six-year-old kid?"
"You brat—!"
"Shut up and use your tiny brains for once," Naoya interrupted smoothly, stepping into the room and glancing at his battered, swollen father with an amused grin. "Why the hell do you think Jujutsu society is going to laugh at us? They aren't going to laugh... they're going to look at the Zenin clan with pure awe!"
The elders blinked, momentarily thrown off by his absolute confidence. "W-What do you mean?"
"Think about it, you idiots," Naoya said, rolling his eyes as if he were explaining basic math to toddlers. "A six-year-old boy didn't just tame Mahoraga—the legendary beast that killed both a Ten Shadows user and a Six Eyes user in the past—he also beat our current Clan Head using his own power!"
Naoya leaned forward, his eyes glinting with a sharp, dangerous light.
"Sure, outsiders might think our clan got embarrassed," Naoya continued, his voice rising with excitement. "But that will only be their second thought! Do you know what their very first thought will be?!"
The elders leaned in instinctively. "What?"
"Their first thought will be: A six-year-old monster who surpassed the entire Zenin clan has been born! A god stronger than Satoru Gojo now carries the Zenin name!"
Silence fell over the hall once again, but this time, the heavy gloom began to rapidly evaporate.
The elders looked at each other, their eyes slowly widening as Naoya's logic washed over them.
"Wait..." an elder muttered, his brain rapidly connecting the dots. "He's right... At the end of the day, his surname is still Zenin! This is just an internal family transfer of power!"
"Exactly!" another elder chimed in, his gloomy expression instantly transforming into a proud grin. "Why would people look down on us?! A six-year-old who holds ultimate power... everyone in the country will have to treat him with absolute reverence!"
"Of course!" a third elder added, clapping his hands together. "Why wouldn't the Prime Minister negotiate with him?! The Prime Minister won't just talk to him—he'll bow his head and hand over whatever we ask for!"
"Not just the Prime Minister," Naoya interrupted from the side, a dark, thrilled smile spreading across his sharp face. "Don't forget, he commands Mahoraga. Right now, at six years old, he is fundamentally the strongest living entity on this entire planet."
"Yes! YES!" The elders were practically beaming now, their previous humiliation completely forgotten. "The strongest sorcerer in the world belongs to the Zenin Clan! What more could we possibly ask for?! He's only six years old... we can't even fathom how terrifyingly powerful he'll become when he grows up!"
As the elders began enthusiastically chattering about how to announce their new, six-year-old god-king to the rest of the Jujutsu world, Naoya turned his head toward the open courtyard window.
He didn't give a damn about clan politics. He didn't give a fuck about the Zenin Clan.
All Naoya cared about was the boy currently sitting in the kitchen, eating his fourth chicken.
The true, unadulterated bloodline of Toji Fushiguro.
A smile spread across Naoya's face—a look of pure, unhinged fanboy worship.
Toji-sama's son... Naoya thought, his chest rising with excitement. A true, perfect man.
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