I woke up laughing.
Not because I was happy. Because I thought this had to be a dream.
The ceiling above me was white, with a cracked corner near the edge and a cheap fan spinning lazily overhead, struggling against the summer heat.
My body felt... wrong. Light and heavy at the same time, like gravity had shifted a few degrees off.
I sat up slowly, and the blanket slid off my shoulders. Pink hair draped down past my eyes.
Pink hair?
I'd never had pink hair in my life.
I opened my palms and stared at them. They were smooth, without a single scratch or callus—definitely not my hands. When I flexed my fingers, I could feel lean muscle packed beneath the skin like coiled steel, well-defined and structured. A physique I could only dream of in my old life.
Heart pounding, I stumbled to the mirror across the small dorm room.
The reflection showed me *him*.
Yuji Itadori.
Except this wasn't the Yuji from battles with curses and domain expansions. There were no scars crisscrossing the skin. No Sukuna marks. No cursed energy humming in the air like static electricity.
Just raw physical presence. Pure and overwhelming.
"...You've got to be kidding me."
I rushed to the window, nearly ripping the curtain off its rod.
Outside? Not Tokyo.
Seoul.
Uniformed students walking in clusters. Street vendors shouting about fresh tteokbokki. High school delinquents arguing on a corner, shoving each other with practiced aggression.
And then I saw the sign across the street, bold letters against faded paint.
J-High.
My stomach dropped like an anchor.
This wasn't Tokyo. This wasn't Jujutsu Kaisen. This was Lookism—a world where appearances meant everything, where fighters climbed hierarchies through brutal combat, and where the strong ruled with iron fists.
---
I staggered back from the window, my mind racing.
Okay. Think. Process this.
I'm in Lookism. But I look like Yuji Itadori. That means—
I clenched my fist experimentally.
The air cracked but there was no glow, no aura and no cursed energy swirling around my knuckles. Just the sound barrier threatening to complain about being pushed too hard.
"...Oh."
I squeezed harder, focusing on the sensation.
The wooden desk beside me splintered from the pressure wave alone, pieces clattering to the floor.
That was a technique. That was just strength. Unfiltered and Absolute strength that no normal humanw as supposed to posess.
My pulse slowed as understanding dawned.
Heavenly Restriction.
That had to be it. Like Toji. Like Maki after everything. A complete absence of cursed energy traded for a body pushed past all human limits—superhuman speed, strength, durability, and senses that bordered on precognition.
No "talent" in the traditional sense. No awakening system. No special moves to unlock.
Just a body forged as a weapon from birth.
In a world that ran on martial arts mastery and systematic growth... I was the anomaly.
---
There was a sharp knock at the door.
"Hey, new transfer! You alive in there? Homeroom's starting soon!"
Transfer? Right. I must've been slotted into the timeline somewhere early in the story.
I opened the door.
Three guys stood outside in messy J-High uniforms, their knuckles already bruised and scabbed. Classic background delinquents—the kind who extorted lunch money and acted tough until someone stronger came along.
One of them looked me up and down, his eyes narrowing.
"...Pink hair? Seriously?"
Another snorted. "You trying to stand out on purpose, newbie? That's a bold choice."
I didn't answer. I was too busy measuring them with senses I didn't fully understand yet.
Posture sloppy. Weight distribution uneven. Breathing loud and uncontrolled. Telegraphing every micro-movement before they even knew what they were doing.
Weak.
"Fresh meat," the leader smirked, stepping closer. "Hand over your lunch money. Consider it a welcoming gift to J-High."
Ah. So we're starting like this.
I exhaled slowly.
"Do me a favor," I said casually.
They blinked, caught off guard.
"What?"
"Punch me."
Confused silence filled the hallway.
"...What?"
"Full force," I repeated, my tone completely serious. "Don't hold back."
The leader frowned, then laughed—a harsh, mocking sound. "You've got a death wish, pinkie."
He swung.
It was fast for a normal student—maybe even respectable by street fighting standards.
But to me? It was **slow**. Like watching someone move underwater.
I didn't dodge.
His fist slammed into my cheek with everything he had.
CRACK.
Silence.
He stared at me, eyes wide. I stared back, completely unfazed.
It didn't hurt. Not even a sting. Like being tapped by a toddler.
His knuckles, though? They were already swelling, bent at unnatural angles. At least two were definitely broken.
"...Again," I said calmly.
His expression shifted from confidence to confusion to dawning horror.
He punched harder, putting his shoulder into it this time.
I didn't move.
This time I felt something—not pain, but information. Angle. Velocity. Muscle tension. Impact distribution. My body absorbed the data automatically and adjusted, redistributing the force across my entire frame until it was barely noticeable.
By the third punch, I wasn't even feeling impact anymore.
The other two delinquents backed up, their faces pale.
"W-What the hell is this guy...?"
The leader stumbled back, clutching his mangled hand. "You— you're a freak!"
I tilted my head, genuinely considering it.
"No," I said honestly. "I'm just built different."
That's when the leader's eyes hardened with desperate anger.
"Get him!" he screamed at his two friends. "All at once!"
They hesitated for a heartbeat—then charged.
The one on the left threw a wild haymaker. The one on the right went for a body tackle. The leader, despite his broken hand, lunged with a knee aimed at my ribs.
Time slowed.
Not literally—there was no jutsu, or technique. But my perception accelerated to the point where I could see every detail: the beads of sweat on their foreheads, the fear beneath their aggression, the exact trajectory of each attack.
I stepped forward into the chaos.
My hand shot out and caught the haymaker mid-swing, fingers wrapping around the student's wrist like a vice. The impact of our collision sent a shockwave down the hallway that rattled the lockers.
The student's eyes bulged. "What—"
I pulled, redirecting his momentum, and he crashed face-first into the wall with a sickening crunch. He slid down, unconscious before he hit the floor.
The one going for the tackle reached me next.
I didn't even look at him.
My knee came up—barely a quarter of full strength—and caught him in the solar plexus.
The air exploded from his lungs. He flew backward like he'd been hit by a car, tumbling across the floor until he slammed into the opposite wall. He wheezed, curled into a ball, unable to breathe.
The leader was last.
His knee was inches from my ribs when I caught it with my hand.
"Bad idea," I said quietly.
I pushed.
Not hard. Just... pushed.
He rocketed backward, hit the floor, and skidded ten feet before stopping. He tried to get up, failed, and collapsed, groaning.
Three seconds. That's all it took.
I looked down at my hands, at the three bodies scattered across the hallway like discarded toys.
"This is too easy," I muttered. "Way too easy."
But the leader wasn't done.
I heard the scrape of shoes behind me—turned to see him somehow back on his feet, face twisted with rage and humiliation. Blood dripped from his nose. His broken hand hung uselessly at his side.
"You... you think you're tough?" he spat. "I'll kill you!"
He charged with everything he had left—a reckless, desperate rush.
Something in me snapped. Not anger. More like... irritation at the inconvenience.
I stepped into his charge and threw a straight punch.
Just one.
Not full power. Maybe thirty percent. Maybe less.
My fist connected with his chest.
BOOM.
The sound was like a thunderclap in the enclosed hallway.
For a split second, nothing happened.
Then the shockwave hit.
The leader's eyes went blank. His body lifted off the ground and flew backward like a missile, crashing through the hallway with such force that he dented the wall where he finally stopped.
He crumpled to the floor and didn't move.
The hallway went dead silent.
I stared at my fist, at the tiny wisps of steam rising from my knuckles.
Blood trickled from the leader's mouth. His chest barely moved—shallow, labored breaths. His ribs were definitely broken. Maybe internal bleeding.
I'd almost killed him.
With **one punch** at partial strength.
"...Shit," I whispered.