The path opened up suddenly.
One moment, Izana was still framed by trees and stone, the mountain pressing in close around him. The next, the space widened, unfolding into a broad courtyard that felt at once deliberate and unfinished—like something that had grown over time rather than been built all at once.
It was quiet.
Too quiet.
Izana slowed, his steps soft against the packed earth and stone. The kind of quiet that wasn't empty, but waiting. He could hear the wind moving through the leaves overhead, the distant creak of wood somewhere deeper in the grounds, the faint call of birds nesting far above the rooftops. Nothing mechanical. Nothing modern.
The buildings looked like they'd been assembled rather than planned. Traditional Japanese structures pressed close together at odd angles, roofs overlapping, corridors branching in ways that didn't feel intuitive until you followed them. Some walls were pristine, freshly maintained. Others bore the marks of age—weather-darkened wood, stone softened by moss and rain.
Nature hadn't been pushed out here.
It had been allowed in.
Trees grew close to the buildings, some so near their branches brushed against tiled roofs, leaves casting shifting shadows across paper windows. Roots pushed up through cracks in stone paths, unapologetic. Shrines stood tucked into corners that felt less like designated spaces and more like places the land itself had chosen. Statues watched silently from beneath canopies of green, half-hidden by vines and time.
And everywhere—torii gates.
Smaller ones this time. Shorter. Some painted, some bare wood, some so worn they were little more than frames. They stood at the entrances to paths, near shrines, sometimes seemingly in the middle of nowhere. Izana frowned slightly as he passed one, unsure what boundary it was meant to mark.
Protection, maybe.
Or warning.
He couldn't tell.
The air felt… different. Not heavy. Not oppressive. Just dense in a way that made his skin prickle faintly, like standing too close to a storm that hadn't decided whether it would break. He'd felt this before—near places where the world layered over itself, where things slipped through without asking permission.
So this really was it.
Tokyo Jujutsu High didn't look like a school. Not the kind he knew, anyway. There were no crowds, no bells, no obvious order to where things were supposed to be. It felt less like an institution and more like a settlement—something meant to be lived in rather than passed through.
Izana adjusted the strap of his bag, glancing around again. He'd expected… something. Guards, maybe. A formal entrance. Someone waiting for him with a clipboard or a list.
Instead, there was only stillness.
He took another step forward, then another, the quiet stretching on until it almost became funny. A small huff of breath escaped him before he could stop it—not quite a laugh, but close.
He'd climbed all those stairs for this?
And then, faintly, carried on the air—
Noise.
Raised voices. Arguing. Something thumping against wood. Not alarmed shouting. Not fear. Just people being loud in a way that suggested familiarity rather than danger.
Izana's mouth tilted slightly, the smallest hint of amusement touching his expression.
So the quiet wasn't emptiness after all.
He followed the sound across the courtyard, toward a central building that looked more functional than ceremonial, its doors closed but clearly not soundproof. Whatever was happening inside, it was lively enough to bleed through the walls.
As he approached, Izana felt something settle in his chest—not certainty, not relief, but possibility.
Maybe this place wouldn't be so silent after all.
The noise grew clearer the closer Izana got.
At first it was indistinct—just a blur of sound bleeding through the stillness of the courtyard. But as he climbed the shallow steps leading up to the building, individual notes began to separate themselves. Raised voices. Sharp, argumentative. A tone that wasn't angry so much as insistent, like someone refusing to accept a decision that had already been made.
Izana slowed near the top.
There was another sound—a heavy thud, solid enough to make the wooden frame beneath his feet vibrate faintly. Something large had hit the floor. Whatever it was, it had weight behind it. The kind of impact you felt more than heard.
A beat of silence followed.
Then—laughter.
Not loud. Not mocking. Just a short, unrestrained burst of it, quickly cut off as if someone had tried—and failed—to take the situation seriously again.
Izana stopped in front of the door.
The building itself was unassuming, its exterior plain compared to the scattered shrines and layered rooftops around it. Paper windows lined the walls, their surfaces trembling faintly with each raised voice from inside. The door was shut, solid wood smoothed by years of use. There were no markings, no signs to explain what this place was meant to be.
He listened.
The voices overlapped now—one loud and indignant, another calmer, attempting to interject. A third presence remained quieter, offering the occasional dry remark that seemed to only make things worse. Somewhere beneath it all, that soft, almost careless giggle surfaced again.
Izana blinked once.
So people actually lived here.
The thought caught him off guard. He'd half-expected the place to be deserted—an empty institution filled with rules and silence, echoes of people who passed through but never stayed. That was how it had felt outside. Preserved. Contained. Like a space waiting to be used.
But this—this was messy. Human. Alive.
He adjusted the strap of his bag again, fingers tightening briefly around the fabric. There was no apprehension in the motion, just grounding. A reminder that he was here, that this wasn't something he was observing from a distance.
The noise didn't stop when he reached for the door. No one called out. No one noticed his presence from the other side. Whatever argument was unfolding inside had momentum of its own.
Izana rested his hand against the wood for a moment longer than necessary, listening as another thud shook the room, followed by a string of indignant complaints and a sharp reprimand that carried authority without needing to shout.
This was not what he'd expected.
But—he realized quietly—it might be better.
With a small breath, Izana pushed the door open.
The door opened onto warmth and noise.
The room was larger than Izana expected, its ceiling held aloft by thick wooden pillars that rose straight and solid from the pristine floor. Candlelight flickered from sconces along the walls, joined by the steady glow of torches set deliberately between them. The light didn't feel ceremonial—it felt practical, lived-in. Shadows gathered high above, leaving the space below clearly visible, grounded.
The floorboards were immaculate. Polished to a soft sheen, unmarred by dirt or clutter, as if someone took great care to keep this place exactly as it was meant to be. The air carried the faint scent of wax and old wood, something steady and reassuring beneath the chaos.
And there was chaos.
At the center of the room, a white-haired teenager was locked firmly in a headlock, his tall frame twisted awkwardly as he struggled against it with exaggerated effort. Black sunglasses were still perched stubbornly on his face, refusing to budge no matter how much he thrashed.
"This doesn't make any sense!" he protested loudly, voice sharp with indignation. "I asked for a room closer to the vending machine. That's a completely reasonable request."
The man holding him didn't so much as flinch.
He was older, broad-shouldered, built like someone who'd never had to raise his voice to be heard. His head was shaved clean save for two straight parts wrapped around it, and his face was framed by a neatly kept mustache and goatee. His grip was firm but controlled, practiced in a way that suggested this was far from the first time he'd dealt with something like this.
"Reasonable," the man repeated flatly. "Is not the word I'd use."
The white-haired boy twisted again, nearly knocking his own sunglasses askew. "You can't punish me for wanting basic amenities!"
"I can," the man replied, tightening the hold just enough to make his point. "And I am."
Off to one side of the room stood another teenager, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His hair was tied back, still short enough to keep neat, though a single strand had slipped free and hung over his left eye. Large circular disks adorned his earlobes, catching the candlelight whenever he shifted his weight.
He looked resigned.
"This is why I told you not to argue," he said calmly, tone even, almost bored. "You always make it worse."
"That's easy for you to say," the white-haired boy shot back. "You're not the one being assaulted."
The dark-haired teen sighed. "You're not being assaulted."
A soft sound came from the far side of the room.
Giggling.
Leaning against one of the pillars was a girl with short brown hair that barely brushed past her chin, bangs swept casually to the side. A cigarette rested between her lips—unlit, forgotten—as she watched the scene unfold with open amusement.
"You really should've stopped while you were ahead," she remarked, voice dry. "You had a good thirty seconds."
"I was making progress!" the white-haired boy insisted.
"You were being loud," she corrected.
The man holding him finally spoke again, voice calm but carrying undeniable authority. "Enough."
The word settled over the room like a weight. The struggling slowed, then stopped entirely, the white-haired boy still grumbling under his breath but no longer fighting the inevitable.
Silence followed—not complete, but close. Just the flicker of flame, the faint creak of wood, the steady presence of four people occupying the same space.
From the doorway, unseen and unaddressed, Izana took it all in.
The door closed behind Izana with a solid thud.
It wasn't deliberate. He hadn't meant for it to be loud. But the wood met the frame with a sharp, decisive sound that cut cleanly through the room, echoing once before settling into silence.
Every head turned.
The white-haired boy was still firmly trapped in the headlock, one arm pinned uselessly at his side, but that didn't stop him from craning his neck to look. His sunglasses tilted slightly as he squinted, clearly more curious than annoyed.
"Oh," he said, blinking once. "Hey."
His gaze lingered on Izana for a moment, head still trapped against the older man's arm. Not hostile. Not judgmental. Just openly inquisitive.
"Who's the red-eyed guy?" he asked. Then, after a beat, "Has he been standing there this whole time?"
The teenager with his hair tied back glanced over as well, eyes flicking briefly to Izana before returning to the spectacle at the center of the room. One corner of his mouth twitched.
"Wow," he said dryly. "Guess the great Satoru Gojo's famous eyes aren't as flawless as advertised."
Gojo scoffed immediately. "Hey. Rude."
"You didn't notice him walk in," the other teen replied, tone calm and unbothered. "That's on you."
"They're not broken," Gojo shot back. "I'm just dealing with more pressing matters. Like gross misuse of authority."
The girl by the pillar snorted softly, finally pushing herself upright. The cigarette shifted between her lips as she tilted her head, eyes briefly meeting Izana's before drifting away again, already bored with the spectacle.
"You were yelling about a vending machine," she said. "That's not a pressing matter."
"It absolutely is," Gojo argued. "Do you know how far I have to walk now?"
The boy with the tied-back hair sighed, rubbing at his temple. "You walked into this."
"Traitor."
"Accurate."
Before Gojo could launch into another complaint, the arm around his neck tightened—just slightly, but enough.
Gojo hissed, shoulders tensing. "Hey—!"
The older man spoke without raising his voice. "Quiet."
The room stilled again, the argument collapsing in on itself as quickly as it had flared. Gojo fell silent, grumbling under his breath but no longer struggling, sunglasses still stubbornly in place.
Only then did Masamichi Yaga shift his attention fully to the doorway.
His gaze settled on Izana, steady and assessing, the same look he'd worn years ago in that narrow alley. No surprise. No doubt.
Just confirmation.
Behind him, the other two teenagers—Suguru Geto and Shoko Ieiri—watched quietly, curiosity tempered by familiarity, as if this was simply the next unexpected thing the day had decided to offer.
Izana stood where he was, dark red eyes calm, unreadable.
For the first time since stepping onto the grounds, he wasn't alone in the room.