—How strange… I'm certain there shouldn't have been any mistake in the plan… Then how did I end up in Kanagawa Prefecture?
Silence was the only answer to the question that lingered in the air.
After all, there he was, motionless, exactly at the same spot where he had manifested in some incomprehensible way. He had not taken a single step since then, as if the world itself had no power to move him.
And despite having arrived so suddenly, a single glance around him was enough.
It was an almost imperceptible movement, just a slight tilt of his face that gently shifted the silhouette wrapped in mystery. There was no startle, no doubt, no confusion in his eyes.
That simple and silent assessment was sufficient.
Within seconds, he understood with precision exactly where he was.
Kawasaki. Faint memories of that place returned to his mind like scattered flashes, blurred fragments of a city that never seemed to fully sleep. It did not possess the dazzling brilliance of Tokyo nor the open, refined elegance of Yokohama, but it had something different, something rawer and more authentic: a constant, almost metallic pulse that seemed to vibrate beneath the asphalt and industrial structures. Amid that dense, persistent urban murmur, a faint memory also surfaced—one he was certain he had left behind long ago.
He shook his head. Decades had passed since he had overcome it. There was no reason to relive that dark memory.
Now there was something more important than revisiting the past: the present. How and why he had arrived in that place were the only questions that truly mattered.
And, for the first time since his arrival, that figure wrapped in mystery—seemingly radiating a dark, oppressive aura—began to walk without a defined destination, guided only by the idea of finding more answers than questions.
However, as if fate had decided to play a cruel trick on him, the questions did nothing but multiply with every step he took. Far from becoming clearer, his situation seemed to grow denser, more tangled—like a thread pulled tight to the point of breaking. Each street he crossed, each building he vaguely recognized, added a new doubt to the silent list forming in his mind.
When he finally reached a crowded area—a wide commercial district illuminated by bright signs and flickering screens—the contrast was immediate. Overlapping voices, scattered laughter, the constant murmur of conversations, and the distant sound of traffic formed a chaotic symphony that shattered the solitude that had surrounded him until then. The air felt heavier there, charged with movement, with urgency, with lives continuing on their course without noticing his presence.
It was in that instant, beneath the shadow of his hood, that something changed.
A slight tension tightened along his jawline. His steps, until then firm and steady, slowed for just a second. And although his face remained largely hidden, a subtle expression of confusion—almost imperceptible—etched itself onto his features. It wasn't fear, nor was it surprise. It was bewilderment.
For the first time since he had appeared in that place, his apparent confidence wavered.
The architecture was the first thing that caught his attention. The building facades were not covered by giant screens or polished glass structures; instead, simpler surfaces predominated, with static advertisements and designs that seemed anchored in another era. There was no trace of the massive holographic projections or the interactive panels he remembered. Everything felt… more solid, more rudimentary.
Then he noticed the people.
The cell phones they held were not translucent sheets or almost invisible devices integrated into the skin; they were compact gadgets with defined edges and small screens that glowed with a less intense light. Some even had physical keyboards. The watches did not project floating interfaces in the air either; instead, they were limited to marking the time on traditional dials or simple digital screens. Even the cars moving along the avenue lacked the silent emission of sound; their engines roared with real combustion, letting out vibrations and almost imperceptible smoke.
The surrounding technology was not absent… but it was different. More limited. More primitive.
A silent shudder ran down his back.
It was not a simple change of location or an accidental transfer. It was something much deeper. Everything around him seemed to have regressed decades—decades that he himself had lived through.
—Is it perhaps a side effect due to a massive elimination of cursed energy? No, Maruru never mentioned something like this… Then, a Domain Expan—? That doesn't seem to be the case either.
He lightly scratched the back of his neck as he moved through the bustling streets, trying to organize his thoughts. His gaze, attentive despite the confusion, stopped at a specific spot across the avenue: a convenience store illuminated by white lights and simple advertisements. Without hesitating much, he set that place as his next destination.
"I feel like I'm ignoring something important… And what if I traveled back in… of course not, that would be unrealistic. Although with the appearance of the aliens, nothing seems to be."
The characteristic sound announcing his entry into the store snapped him out of his thoughts. The bell rang with a clean chime, too sharp for his scattered mind. He was immediately enveloped by the store's neat scent—that mixture of newly stocked products and air conditioning that kept the atmosphere cool and artificially perfect.
Even the clerk looked up at him, observing him with a slight sense of strangeness. It was for good reason: the man had remained motionless at the entrance, as if crossing that threshold had been more difficult than expected.
—Oh, right.
He walked through the aisles with a slow and steady pace. His imposing countenance did not falter as he performed a meticulous diagnosis of every product on the shelves. He recognized them all: every name, every brand, every slightly outdated design. Some had disappeared over the years; others managed to survive until his cruel present.
But this "now" was different.
Walking through those aisles was like walking through an intact fragment of his youth, as if the past had been laid out before him in the form of colorful packaging and printed promotions. It wasn't just a store; it was a corridor of memories, a showcase of years he thought were buried. And for an almost imperceptible instant, nostalgia seeped into his gaze.
In that instant, he swore that if all of this was the product of some sorcery, he would not hesitate to give the person responsible a beating… or perhaps thank them for having granted him a moment like this.
The contradiction wrung an almost imperceptible grimace from him.
But the conflict did not last long. He shook his head and erased both thoughts immediately. Now was not the time for fantasies or absurd assumptions; he needed answers, not distractions.
Though it proved difficult to maintain his composure when those ramen noodles seemed to stare at him from the shelf. He would recognize that packaging in any era: a brand that, in his present, had been replaced by another that never managed to live up to its predecessor.
Nostalgia finally took over.
Without saying a word, he reached out and took the package firmly, almost with reverential care. Then he turned on his heels and headed toward the register, moving through the aisles with the same imposing serenity he had maintained from the start, though now accompanied by a slight, almost imperceptible hint of melancholy.
—I'll take this.
That man stood before the cashier, erect and silent. His imposing figure, accentuated by the hood that still cast a shadow over his face, caused a slight discomfort in the young woman. She looked at him just a second longer than necessary, as if trying to decipher him, before forcing a small, professional smile.
Without saying anything, she took the ramen package and ran it through the scanner. The brief, mechanical beep broke the tense silence between them, while she avoided holding his gaze for too long.
—Excuse me… could you tell me what the date is today?
The question, as sudden as it was unusual, took the young woman off guard. Her fingers paused over the cash register and she blinked a couple of times, tilting her head slightly, as if she believed she had misheard.
—The date…? —she repeated, confused, before glancing at the small digital calendar next to the screen—. It's the fifteenth… September fifteenth.
The silence that followed barely lasted a few seconds, but for the young woman, it stretched out like an eternity. The steady gaze of that man, motionless in front of the counter, made her swallow hard without understanding why someone would need to confirm something so obvious.
—And the year? —he added, with the same imperturbable calm.
She blinked a few times, bewildered by the insistence. This time she did not hesitate to answer:
—Two thousand eighteen.
—Two thousand eighteen? —he repeated in a low voice, as if he needed to hear the number once more to make sure it was real. His hand rose slowly to his jaw, resting his fingers there in a pensive gesture, though the tension in his gaze betrayed something deeper than simple curiosity.
—Tell me… —he continued, in a serene but hauntingly firm tone—, do any of these words sound familiar to you? Curses… Sukuna… the Shibuya Incident… sorcerers.
Each term fell with its own weight, pronounced clearly, without hesitation.
The young woman observed him in silence for a second that felt far too long. Her expression shifted from confusion to a slight discomfort, as if she were trying to decide if this was a joke in poor taste.
—No… —she finally replied, shaking her head—. I'm sorry, I don't quite understand what you mean, sir.
—How interesting… —the hooded man murmured.
He took the ramen package naturally and headed toward the exit. Before crossing the door, his attention drifted for a moment to the left. A newspaper rested on a metal display rack, its front page exhibiting headlines that still didn't quite fit in his mind. Without hesitation, he picked it up with the same calmness with which he had chosen the ramen.
—Excuse me, you must pay for the ramen and the newspape—
—Keep the change. —He interrupted her without abruptness, raising his hand in a nonchalant gesture of farewell as he pushed the door.
The bell rang again.
The young woman took a few seconds to process his words. She blinked, confused, and looked down at the counter. There, next to the cash register, lay a pristine five-thousand-yen bill.
Her eyes widened in surprise.
The exact amount for the newspaper and ramen was 520 yen.
. . .
The man continued walking alone through the crowd. Around him, for the most part, young students were returning to their homes or strolling lightheartedly, laughing, absorbed in their phones or chatting about trivial matters. It was an everyday scene—common, almost mundane. Nothing out of the ordinary for anyone… and, apparently, not for him either.
However, his attention was not on the bustle or the lights of the avenue. His eyes remained fixed on the newspaper he held in one hand, moving forward with a steady pace while reading every headline with meticulous concentration. Politics, economy, local events… every word confirmed the inevitable.
Until it happened.
Without realizing it, his steps slowed for just a second. His gaze stopped on a specific column, on a headline he recognized immediately, as if the paper were burning between his fingers.
It was a piece of news he had buried decades ago.
"Three male high school students were found lifeless at the Kinema Cinema in Kawasaki City."
He narrowed his eyes for an instant, remembering the current date in which he found himself.
When he opened them again, he looked up at the shimmering sunset. The golden luminescence was beginning to fade slowly, giving way to an evening that advanced silently, inevitably. To anyone else, it would have been a beautiful transition; to him, it was not just a bitter memory but the turning point for a young man.
Because that night, an event had begun that he could never prevent.
A chain of actions that ended up cursing an innocent woman… and sealing the fate of a young man whom, despite all his efforts, he could never save.
—Gojo-sensei… —he barely murmured, his gaze fixed on the darkening horizon—. Is this, perhaps, the punishment I must carry for having helped alter the souls and the cursed energy of the world?
The name left his lips with a mixture of respect and contained bitterness. There was no one there to answer him, only the distant murmur of the city and the whisper of the wind as night fell.
His fingers slowly closed into a fist inside his coat pocket.
He had made decisions. He had intervened alongside that young man where no one else could. He had manipulated forces that should never have been touched. And although he knew perfectly well it wasn't the right thing to do… he had decided to move forward.
He lowered his gaze.
If this was a punishment, it was a cruelly precise one: returning him to a point in his life where he first bore witness to the fact that he could not save them all.