The next day.
Warm sunlight spilled over the streets of Kyoto, bathing the ancient capital in a hazy, golden luster. Following the stone steps lined with fallen maple leaves, one would find a high school. Though designated a state-run technical college, its exterior resembled a sprawling temple—a fact often used in the school's public relations as a "private religious institution."
The morning light shimmered on the central Golden Pavilion, its reflection dancing in the pond. Stones and greenery were scattered with a deliberate, rustic charm.
It was a quintessential Japanese garden.
"Has Kira-senpai not arrived yet?"
Miwa Kasumi brushed her chin-length blue hair behind her ear, peering toward the entrance with ill-concealed anticipation.
"Miwa, sit down."
Utahime Iori chided her sharply. A classic Japanese beauty, Utahime wore a traditional miko outfit with meticulous precision. Despite the elegance of her floral-patterned hakama and her refined, Yamato Nadeshiko grace, the deep scar across her face lent her an air of hidden grit—an aura immediately shattered the moment she spoke.
"If you keep fidgeting, I'm throwing you in to feed Mechamaru."
"Utahime-sensei, I may be a Cursed Corpse," the mechanical puppet nearby interjected, "but I don't eat people."
"Ah! Sorry! My apologies, Mechamaru-kun! Please don't eat me! I haven't bathed yet!" Miwa bowed frantically, her hands pressed together in prayer.
"I told you, I don't eat people..." Mechamaru muttered, sounding defeated.
"Never mind Mechamaru's diet," Mai Zenin said, crossing her slender legs with a playful smirk. "Why? Are you that eager for Kira-kun to get here?"
Miwa's face turned a shade of crimson that reached her ears. She looked up, eyes sparkling. "Kira-kun is my idol! Don't you think he's incredibly handsome?" She added a soft mumble to herself: "Darn it, why was Todo-senpai the one sent to greet him? I wanted to go so badly..."
"Handsome..." Mai Zenin let the word hang, a face surfacing in her mind. Blonde hair, always perfectly parted. Thin lips. Pale blue eyes. He was a man who wore black trousers without a single wrinkle and a crisp blue blazer buttoned to the very top. "His face is fine, I suppose... but don't you think he's a bit stifling? Always so serious. He seems boring."
"That is exactly why he's cool!" Miwa stood straighter, her eyes shining with the fervor of a true believer. "Don't you think it's wonderful? To work diligently, live a stable life, and support oneself through honest effort? It's so reliable!"
Not in the slightest... Mai massaged the bridge of her nose. She suddenly remembered that Miwa's dream was to earn enough money to support her younger brothers. To Miwa, Kira Nanami wasn't just a sorcerer; he was the ultimate career role model.
A girl with no grand ambitions... maybe I should feed her to Mechamaru after all, Mai thought wearily.
"Seriously! Don't you think it's attractive? Working in silence, enduring the solitude... Kira-kun must have a very gentle heart. He's a kind, persevering man. Reliable older men are the best!"
"What ill intent could a man like Kira possibly have?"
"Miwa, actually, Kira-kun isn't quite the person you're imagining..." Noritoshi Kamo flipped through a newly arrived report, his brow furrowing as he looked up at her.
"What about him?" Miwa cupped her cheeks, her eyes wide with expectation. "What could a simple salaryman possibly do wrong?"
"...Nothing," Kamo sighed, closing the folder and looking away. "He's perfectly 'normal.'"
Seeing Miwa in the throes of fangirl delusion, Kamo wisely chose to abandon the argument. He stared back at the report in his lap:
Last night, 8:30 PM. A blonde male engaged in combat with a Grade 2 and a Grade 1 Curse User at the World Trade Center... Despite the Curse Users kneeling and pleading for mercy, the man detonated them into ash. Identity confirmed: Grade 1 Sorcerer from Tokyo, Kira Nanami.
"Perfectly normal," Kamo whispered to himself.
"By the way, Kira-senpai doesn't have an innate technique, right?" Momo Nishimiya asked, floating on her broom. "And his martial arts are average. How did he reach Grade 1?"
"His Shikigami is... unique. You'll see soon enough."
"My, he's getting more interesting by the second," Mai teased, licking her lips. "Why isn't he here yet?"
"He's probably helping someone in need!" Miwa insisted, nodding to herself. "He is a kind, dependable adult!"
Kira Nanami stared at the sun-drenched window and frowned again.
The taxi driver was a talker. His large, irritating hand gestured wildly in Kira's peripheral vision. "First time in Kyoto, brother?"
Tch.
Kira checked his watch. 7:10 AM. He had fifteen minutes until his scheduled arrival. He was going to be late.
Whether his hosts were kept waiting was irrelevant to him. To Kira, anything other than a hand—be it breasts or legs—was a secondary concern. But he loathed deviations from his plan. Since childhood, Kira had cared deeply about how others perceived his conduct, even if he didn't care for their feelings.
He lived by a strict timetable. Being early was an error; being late was a sin. He carved his life into precise blocks, running with the clockwork accuracy of a second hand. It was why he hated overtime—it added a grotesque, unplanned limb to his day.
And he hated being late. He had a pathological obsession with punctuality.
"Relax, brother. The roads are packed this time of day. Heading to work? Take it easy... want some music?"
Kira reflected on his error. He had failed to account for the risk of traffic in his itinerary. He was a man of constant self-improvement; today's lesson was to remain even more vigilant and calm.
The words of the Curse User from last night still chafed. Being recognized instantly was a failure. In school, he had worked hard to be a high achiever—but always third place. High enough to be respected, but low enough to avoid being remembered. People only ever remember the first and second.
But in the Jujutsu world, that strategy had backfired. When the "Number Ones" and "Number Twos"—including the four Special Grades—were all eccentric, unreliable lunatics, a "normal" man like Kira Nanami became a commodity. Everyone dumped their work on him.
Kira's realization was bitter: he had spent years trying to be ordinary, but in a world of madmen, the ordinary man is the greatest freak of all.
This was precisely why he loathed Satoru Gojo. If that man were even slightly reliable, Kira would have half the workload.
Work is shit, Kira thought, watching the green mountains of Kyoto roll past.
7:20 AM.
"Morning~ Morning~ Kyoto Video!" the radio chirped. "Good morning, neighbors! Let's start the day with a tune..."
The upbeat chatter made his skin crawl. Kira bit his fingernail—a nervous habit he couldn't quite break when agitated.
"Stuck again! Damn it!" the driver shouted. "So, brother, what do you do for a living?"
"Please hurry. I'm going to be late."
"Don't rush me! Can't you see the traffic?"
"You missed the last ramp. It was a shorter route," Kira said flatly. "You're taking the long way to run up the meter."
"What's that?" The driver's neck went stiff. "Listen, pal, don't go accusing people of being dishonest."
"The matter of the fare is beneath my concern—I loathe making enemies. However, because of your choice, we are on a congested road. And because of that, I may be late."
"Are you crazy? Traffic got you losing your mind?"
Kira ignored him. He looked at his ragged, bitten nails and reached into his inner coat pocket for a pair of clippers.
Snap.Snap.Snap.
The rhythmic, clean sound of the clippers began to soothe him. He trimmed each finger with surgical precision, letting the clippings fall onto a handkerchief spread across his knees. Once every nail was perfectly squared, Kira allowed a small, satisfied smile to surface.
The music from the radio shifted into something slow and tranquil.
White clouds drifted lazily through a washed-out summer sky. If not for the occasional breeze, the world would have looked like a still life painting.
Kira pulled a glass jar from his briefcase. He unscrewed the lid and poured the clippings inside. He tightened the cap and held it up to the morning sun. The glass caught the golden light, making the contents shimmer as if he were holding a jar of bottled sunshine.
He shook it once to ensure it was sealed, then placed it back in his bag.
Then, he leaned forward and placed his right hand on the driver's shoulder. To a sorcerer, a pale pink, translucent arm would have been visible, manifesting from the air.
Kira whispered softly, "What traffic? The sidewalk looks perfectly wide enough, doesn't it?"