Chapter 1: The Rebirth of the Six Eyes
There was supposed to be nothing.
Death, as the mortal mind comprehended it, was meant to be the final curtain. A cessation of neurons firing, a fading of the ego, an eternal and dreamless sleep. The man who had been hit by the careening truck, his spine shattered and his skull crushed against the wet asphalt of a mundane earthly city, had expected darkness. He had accepted it in those final, fleeting milliseconds of agony.
But the universe, it seemed, was entirely out of the business of granting him peace.
The transition was not a gentle waking. It was a violent, catastrophic detonation of sensory input.
It began as a sound—a high-pitched, screeching whine, like a million tuning forks vibrating at the exact frequency of a migraine, drilling directly into the center of his consciousness. Then came the tactile sensations: the feeling of cold, jagged calcified bone digging into his palms, the slick, wet squelch of something fleshy beneath his boots, the smell of ozone, dried blood, and absolute, ancient rot.
But none of that compared to the sight.
He didn't just open his eyes; the universe forced its way inside his skull.
Information.
An apocalyptic flood of atomic data, thermal signatures, cursed energy flow, gravitational micro-fluctuations, and the exact spatial coordinates of every single molecule within a hundred-mile radius. It was like staring directly into the core of a dying star while drinking the ocean through a straw. The sheer volume of raw, unfiltered reality pouring into his visual cortex was enough to vaporize a normal human brain in a fraction of a nanosecond.
He screamed, but no sound came out. His hands flew to his face, fingers clawing at the skin around his eyes—eyes that were no longer the dull, unremarkable color they had been in his previous life.
They were blue.
Not just blue. They were the brilliant, glowing, crystalline sapphire of the limitless sky, fracturing the absolute darkness of the abyss around him with an ethereal, unnatural luminescence. The Six Eyes.
"Ah… AAAAAAAHHHH!"
He collapsed onto his knees, his hands gripping his white hair. White. His hair was stark white.
Then, the second detonation occurred. The soul merge.
It was not a gentle overlapping of identities. It was a freight train made of twenty-nine years of lived experience colliding head-on with his own mind. He was crushed beneath the weight of a god.
The birth that altered the balance of the world. The crushing, isolating weight of being the pinnacle of jujutsu sorcery from the moment he drew his first breath. The endless stream of assassins. The taste of premium sweets eaten solely to keep a hyperactive, constantly burning brain from eating itself.
The Blue Spring. The smell of Okinawa sea salt. The sound of a basketball echoing on a wooden court. A boy with black hair tied in a bun, a smile that tasted like a normal youth, a voice that called his name with a warmth no one else dared to offer.
"Are you the strongest because you're Satoru Gojo? Or are you Satoru Gojo because you're the strongest?"
The blood. Oh god, the blood. Riko Amanai's brains splattered across the cold floor of the Star Plasma Vessel's chamber. The metallic tang of his own blood as Toji Fushiguro's inverted spear tore through his throat, carving down his chest, ripping his leg open. The delirious, intoxicating high of awakening. The feeling of the universe snapping to his exact whim.
"Throughout heaven and earth, I alone am the honored one."
Then, the descent into winter. The cold, biting snow of Shinjuku. The sight of Suguru walking away into the crowd. The quiet, devastating realization that being the strongest meant being entirely, inescapably alone. The alleyway in Kyoto. The weight of his own hand as he executed his one and only best friend.
And then… Shibuya.
Just minutes ago.
The suffocating press of non-sorcerers on the train platform. The grotesque transfigured humans. The absolute precision of his 0.2-second Domain Expansion. The sweat on his brow, the panting of his breath, the absolute certainty that he was going to win, that he was going to save them all.
And then, the box. The Prison Realm.
The voice.
"Yo, Satoru."
The stitch marks across Suguru's forehead. The soul-shattering paralysis of a mind forced to process three years of youth in an instant, triggering the sealing condition.
My Six Eyes tell me you're Suguru Geto. But my soul knows otherwise!
The gates of flesh and bone snapping shut around him. The darkness.
"I…" he choked, his glowing eyes wide, staring at hands that were too large, too scarred, too perfectly calloused to be his old ones. "I am Satoru Gojo."
It was an undeniable truth. The original man from Earth who loved reading manga, who had agonized over the weekly chapters of Jujutsu Kaisen, who had cried at the tragic deaths of fictional characters—that man was gone. Or rather, he was completely amalgamated. The two souls dissolved into one another like ink dropped into a glass of pure water. There was no him and Gojo. There was only a singular, terrifyingly complex "I."
I am the Strongest. I am Satoru Gojo.
Gojo knelt in the darkness, his breath coming in ragged, harsh gasps. His brilliant blue eyes darted around the space, his enhanced vision cutting through the pitch blackness as if it were broad daylight.
He was in a nightmare.
The ground beneath him was not stone or earth; it was a sprawling, uneven wasteland of calcified human skeletons. Ribcages the size of houses, femurs scattered like fallen trees, skulls with hollow, weeping eye sockets. The walls of this infinite expanse were made of fleshy, geometric cubes—pulsating, wet, and squelching with a vile, stagnant cursed energy. Veins as thick as pythons throbbed beneath the surface of the walls, dripping a viscous, blackish-red fluid that smelled of rust and despair.
This was the interior of the Prison Realm. A sensory deprivation tank constructed of meat and bone, designed to hold the unholdable.
Gojo staggered to his feet. His tall, imposing frame stood in stark contrast to the morbid decay around him. He was still wearing the dark blue, high-collared uniform he had worn onto the train platform. The fabric was immaculate, untouched by the blood and grime of Shibuya, protected by the passive Infinity that still hummed just millimeters above his skin.
He raised a hand, pressing his fingers to his temples as the Six Eyes threatened to overload his newly integrated consciousness. He reached deep into the well of his cursed energy, finding the warm, golden hum of Reverse Cursed Technique. He channeled it directly into his brain, healing the frying neurons, soothing the atomic fire of his vision.
The pain receded, leaving behind a terrifying, crystalline clarity.
"Okay," Gojo whispered, his voice deep, smooth, and echoing strangely against the fleshy walls. "Okay. Deep breaths, Satoru. Let's look at the board."
The meta-knowledge—the memories of the earthly manga reader—began to contextualize the memories of the jujutsu god. It was a horrific, sickening synergy.
He knew exactly what was happening outside the Prison Realm.
Right now, Shibuya was burning.
His students, his precious, beloved students, were fighting for their lives. His heart twisted with a sudden, agonizing spike of paternal terror. Megumi. Yuji. Nobara. Maki. Toge. They were down there. In the meat grinder.
Because of him. Because he had let himself get distracted by a corpse.
"Nanami," Gojo breathed, his glowing blue eyes widening in horror as the manga panels flashed in his mind, overlaying his real memories. He remembered Kento Nanami's stoic face, his exasperated sighs, the quiet, hidden warmth he had for the kids. He's going to die. Mahito is going to blow his upper half apart. Nobara is going to lose her eye.
Yuji was going to be force-fed fingers. Sukuna was going to take the wheel. Malevolent Shrine was going to obliterate a two-hundred-meter radius of Shibuya, butchering thousands of civilians, and Yuji would wake up to a crater of blood, his soul fractured beyond repair.
Gojo took a step forward, his boot crushing a skeletal hand. The sound snapped like a gunshot in the silent realm.
His cursed energy flared, a terrifying, suffocating aura of absolute power. A blue sphere of condensed space formed at the tip of his index finger, pulling the surrounding dust and bone fragments into its gravitational well.
"Let me out," he snarled at the fleshy sky, his voice vibrating with a deadly, barely contained rage. "Let me OUT!"
He fired the Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.
The orb of destructive gravity tore through the endless dark, annihilating everything in its path, carving a trench through the mountains of bone. It struck a distant wall of flesh with the force of a tactical nuke. The explosion of cursed energy was blinding, shaking the very foundations of the realm. Blood and meat rained down in chunks.
But as the dust settled, the fleshy wall simply writhed, bubbled, and knitted itself back together in a matter of seconds.
The Prison Realm could not be broken from the inside. Canon had stated it clearly. Gojo Satoru was trapped until the seal was undone from the exterior.
Gojo lowered his hand, the blue glow fading from his fingertip. The rage slowly drained out of him, replaced by a cold, creeping dread.
He couldn't save Nanami. He couldn't save Nobara. He couldn't stop the massacre of Shibuya. He was utterly, entirely powerless. The Strongest Sorcerer in the world, reduced to a spectator in a box while his children bled.
He slumped down, sitting on a massive, calcified sternum, resting his elbows on his knees and burying his face in his hands.
The grief of Satoru Gojo and the foresight of the reader merged into a singular, suffocating depression. But as he sat there in the dark, his hyper-active brain refused to shut down. The Six Eyes processed the stagnant cursed energy of the realm, the slow, rhythmic pulsing of the fleshy cubes.
And then, his mind moved past Shibuya. It moved to the Culling Games. And then, it moved to the Shinjuku Showdown.
Gojo slowly lifted his head. His hands dropped from his face.
Megumi.
The image of Megumi Fushiguro—the grumpy, fiercely loyal boy he had raised since he was a first-grader, the kid who was more of a son to him than anyone else in the world—flashed in his mind. But it wasn't Megumi's face. It was Megumi's face etched with black tattoos, a second pair of eyes blinking open on his cheeks, his mouth twisted into an arrogant, evil sneer.
Sukuna taking over Megumi's body. The bath of evil. Tsumiki's death by Megumi's own technique. Megumi's soul sinking into the abyss, taking the burden of Mahoraga's adaptation.
"No," Gojo whispered, the word sharp and absolute.
And then, the final, most terrifying piece of meta-knowledge clicked into place. The end of his own story.
Chapter 236.
Gojo Satoru remembered the manga panels with perfect, eidetic clarity. He remembered the unsealing. He remembered setting the date for December 24th. He remembered the battle in Shinjuku. The domain clashes. The thrill of the fight. The Black Flashes. The hollow purple that nuked the city.
"Gojo Satoru has won."
And then, the next page.
An airport. Suguru, Haibara, Nanami, Yaga.
"How was the King of Curses?"
"Insanely freaking strong! And he wasn't even giving it his all!"
And then, reality. The bottom half of his body standing upright, blood geysering into the rubble. His torso lying on the ground, bisected at the waist. A smile on his face as Sukuna praised him.
The World-Cutting Slash.
A slash that didn't target Gojo Satoru, but targeted the space, the existence, the world that Gojo Satoru occupied. Infinity didn't matter if the canvas it was painted on was torn in half.
Gojo stood up. His heart was hammering against his ribs, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of his neck.
He looked down at his own torso. He could almost feel the phantom sensation of a blade of invisible cursed energy slipping effortlessly through his flesh, severing his spine, his stomach, his aorta. He could imagine the sudden, terrifying loss of sensation in his legs, the sickening lurch of gravity as his top half slid off his bottom half.
"I die," Gojo murmured to the empty, skeletal wasteland. "I come out of this box, I fight Sukuna, I fail to save Megumi, and I get cut in half. And then my students are left to clean up my mess."
A profound, sickening revulsion bubbled up in his chest. Revulsion at the original timeline. Revulsion at the canon Gojo's seemingly peaceful acceptance of his death.
"He wasn't even giving it his all."
"I'm glad I died to someone stronger than me."
"Bullshit," Gojo spat, the word echoing off the flesh walls with venomous force.
He felt Satoru Gojo's inherent battle-lust, the desire to find an equal, the loneliness of the pinnacle. It was there, woven into his soul. But it was now overridden by the furious, protective instincts of a man who knew the absolute devastation his death would cause.
What right did he have to be satisfied with a good fight when his adopted son's soul was drowning in darkness? What right did he have to smile in the afterlife while Yuji, Yuta, and Maki were being butchered by the King of Curses above his rotting corpse?
None.
The original Satoru Gojo had been a god playing at being human, carrying a burden he thought only he could bear, ultimately finding solace in defeat. But this Satoru Gojo? This amalgamation of canon-awareness and infinite power?
He refused the script.
"I am not dying," Gojo said aloud, his voice gaining strength, resonating with a terrifying, absolute authority. "I am not leaving them alone. I am going to save Megumi. And I am going to butcher Ryomen Sukuna."
But to do that, he needed to survive the World-Cutting Slash. He needed to defeat Mahoraga's adaptation. If he fought Sukuna exactly the way he did in the manga, the universe would correct itself, and he would end up severed in the dirt.
Sukuna was a genius of jujutsu. He learned how to target the world by watching Mahoraga bypass the Limitless. He adapted.
"If he adapts," Gojo muttered, his glowing eyes narrowing as his hyper-processing brain went into overdrive, "then I just have to evolve faster. I have to break the ceiling."
He looked around the infinite, dark expanse of the Prison Realm.
According to canon, time did not pass here. Physical time was a non-entity. A minute outside could be a thousand years inside, and vice versa. He wouldn't age. He wouldn't starve. He wouldn't tire.
Which meant he had an absolute eternity.
An eternity of perfect isolation. An eternity with no distractions, no missions, no higher-ups, no curses to exorcise. Just him, his Six Eyes, and the infinite well of his cursed energy.
The fear, the grief, the panic—it all crystallized into a singular, monolithic resolve. The Six Eyes flared brighter, casting long, eerie blue shadows across the skeletal wasteland.
Gojo sat back down, cross-legged on the bone-strewn ground. He rested his hands on his knees and closed his eyes.
Even with his eyelids shut, the Six Eyes saw everything. He looked inward. He observed the flow of cursed energy within his own body. He watched the negative emotions—the fear of the future, the grief of Shibuya—convert into dark, volatile cursed energy at his gut. He watched his brain automatically multiply it against itself, generating the positive, life-giving golden light of Reverse Cursed Technique.
He examined the Limitless.
His innate technique brought the concept of infinity into reality. The Achilles and the Tortoise paradox. An object approaching him would slow down indefinitely, never reaching him, trapped in the converging, infinitely dividing fractions of space.
But Sukuna's slash bypassed the fractions. It didn't travel through space to hit him. It commanded the coordinates of space that Gojo occupied to simply sever.
"If Sukuna targets space itself," Gojo whispered in the dark, his mind operating at a speed that would make a supercomputer look like an abacus. "Then making space infinite isn't enough."
He needed a new application of the Limitless. Something beyond Neutral (Infinity), Lapse (Blue), Reversal (Red), and Hollow (Purple).
What if he didn't just infinitely divide space? What if he stopped its fundamental movement altogether? What if he applied the concept of absolute zero to the fabric of reality itself, creating a localized, passive domain where space could not be altered, expanded, or severed by an outside command?
Or what if he weaponized the Six Eyes to perceive the spark of a cursed technique before the cursed energy even formed, allowing him to dodge or neutralize the World-Cutting Slash before the incantation was even thought of?
The theories spawned in his mind, multiplying, branching out into thousands of complex jujutsu calculations.
He had 19 days in the outside world before Angel would break the seal with Jacob's Ladder.
In here, that could be a century. It could be a millennium.
A slow, terrifying smirk spread across Gojo Satoru's face. In the pitch blackness of the Prison Realm, the Strongest Sorcerer of Today vanished deep into the recesses of his own mind, beginning a training arc that the world of jujutsu could never even comprehend.
Wait for me, kids, he thought, the hum of cursed energy vibrating through the fleshy walls. Just hold on a little longer. Sensei is coming back.
And when I do… Kenjaku, Sukuna… you have absolutely no idea what's waiting for you.