The dressing room reeked of hairspray and heat. White light blazed down from the mirrors, sharp enough to sting the eyes. Taisai Tensei slouched on the sofa, long legs stretched out carelessly, a crumpled document dangling from his hand. Its edges were frayed, the corners smudged by fingerprints.
Two figures stood before him.
Kento Nanami, immaculate in a suit and tie, blond hair neatly combed, wore the usual mask of professionalism—a calm, stern expression with a crease between his brows that spoke of chronic irritation. A man perpetually ready to handle "troublesome matters."
Beside him, Zen'in Maki was the opposite image. Her cool, distant air was gone. She stood rigid, holding her breath, her eyes behind her glasses locked onto Taisai Tensei with blazing intensity. Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her uniform jacket; her face was suspiciously red. She looked less like a sorcerer and more like a die-hard fan short-circuiting before her idol.
Taisai Tensei glanced lazily at the document—a gesture of "goodwill" from the Jujutsu higher-ups. A humorless smile ghosted across his lips. He didn't even bother to lift his eyelids.
"The higher-ups sent you two to recruit me?" he asked the air.
"Yes," Nanami's voice was flat, utterly devoid of enthusiasm. "They hope to unite against Suguru Geto."
His tone suggested he was reciting a grocery list. Clearly, he was eager to be done with this farce. Taisai Tensei scoffed. The mockery was naked in his eyes. With a flick of his wrist, the document spun through the air and landed on the dressing table with a sharp thwack, scattering its papers.
"Not interested." Two syllables—cold, final, absolute.
Nanami didn't even flinch. He gave a subtle nod. One less problem to report—good enough. Taisai rose, stretching with feline laziness, vertebrae cracking audibly.
He turned to Maki, his demeanor shifting instantly to that of the approachable celebrity—smile dazzling, warmth effortless, the kind that melted defenses.
"Since you're here," he said lightly, "you might as well stay for the concert."
Before his words faded, he had already crossed to the wall, grabbed a sleek electric guitar, and slung the strap over his shoulder in one fluid motion. Then he pushed open the door and stepped out, leaving the sterile white glare behind.
The hallway beyond was dim, lined with shadows and distant vibrations.
From the direction of the stage came a low, growing roar—like an ocean tide about to break.
Taisai Tensei walked without hesitation, his pace steady, predatory—like a cheetah closing in on the flash of prey. Ahead, light flared beneath the curtains—the boundary between darkness and brilliance.
Then, with a sweep of motion—
The curtain flew open! A tsunami of sound crashed over him:
"Ne—ro—!!!"
Blinding spotlights cut down like swords, spearing the center of the stage.
Taisai Tensei stood there, electric guitar in hand, wearing his trademark grin—wild, confident, utterly in control.
No words. No greetings. His fingers slashed the strings.
Zheng—!!!
The first note was a thunderclap, shattering all other noise.
Then came the drums—heavy, relentless, shaking the air itself. Bass roared beneath, vibrating through bone and floor alike. Lights erupted—white, red, blue—colliding in wild pulses that painted the faces of tens of thousands in the crowd.
The speakers screamed, unleashing waves of sound that struck like invisible fists. And in the storm's heart stood Taisai Tensei.
He whipped his head back, silver hair scattering droplets of sweat beneath the lights. His hands blurred on the fretboard, pulling forth savage metal riffs that poured down like a torrential downpour.
On the massive projection screen, his profile gleamed—jawline carved by light, sweat tracing sharp edges, eyes like knives, a grin of dark confidence splitting his face.
Then he leaned toward the microphone, and his voice tore through the air—high, cutting, almost inhumanly clear.
It was Kaikai Kitan, the opening theme of Jujutsu Kaisen from his past life. (Bro, you can listen and find the lyric yourself)
The chorus detonated.
Taisai Tensei's voice soared, cleaving through the sky like lightning.
The guitar howled, the drums hammered, and the entire venue boiled with resonance.
The audience erupted into chaos. Thousands headbanged, leapt, and screamed as if possessed arms raised like a forest of reaching shadows. A chant shook the stadium walls:
"Nero! Nero! Nero!"
On stage, Taisai Tensei's music hit its peak, each note charged with raw, blazing will. It wasn't mere performance—it was invocation. Kento Nanami's brows knit tighter.
He stood amidst the frenzy, his gaze locked on the man bathed in light. The lyrics echoed within his mind, striking deeper than they should.
Exorcise the darkness, dispel the gloom...
Nanami understood all too well—the darkness of the Jujutsu world couldn't be so easily dispelled. Curses thrived on humanity's despair. And sorcerers, shackled by endless rules, trudged through that darkness as both hunters and prey.
He sighed. Cynical or not, Taisai Tensei had captured it perfectly—the sorrow and fury of their world, transmuted into sound. How many in this delirious audience would understand?
Beside him, Maki was beyond reason. Her cool facade had shattered completely. She was waving, screaming, eyes gleaming with adoration. The iron-blooded Zen'in heiress was gone—what remained was just a fan, hopelessly captivated.
Nanami's phone glowed in his hand. The screen lit his face cold blue.
For a moment, he hovered on the "Report" button—ready to log the anomaly, to alert the higher-ups about this impossible song, this impossible power.
But then he imagined the tedium that would follow—meetings, investigations, paperwork. Worse, more "urgent missions." More unpaid overtime.
A wave of exhaustion swept over him.
He muttered, "Forget it," pocketing his phone. For now, he allowed himself the smallest luxury—to be nothing more than a man enjoying a concert in a mad world.
Meguro Ward. A neighboring district of Shibuya—now eerily silent.
Storefronts shuttered. Windows sealed. The streets deserted under the pretext of a "natural gas pipeline inspection." Only the wind moved, rustling stray flyers down the empty avenue.
By the riverbank stood a lone figure with pink hair. Yuji Itadori clapped his hands sharply—once, twice, thrice.
Clap! Clap! Clap!
The sound cracked through the still air. The murky river frothed and boiled.
Dozens of twisted Cursed Spirits erupted from the water, shrieking and writhing, their distorted forms lunging toward him.
Yuji's eyes hardened. He kicked off the ground, twisting midair to evade the first wave.
Landing lightly, he turned and sprinted toward the mouth of an abandoned tunnel.
Behind him, the Cursed Spirits gave chase—snarling, ravenous.
At the tunnel entrance stood a tall, silent figure—Choso.
Yuji darted past him, then halted, pivoting to face the oncoming swarm.
"Piercing Blood," Choso intoned. Cursed Energy surged—thick, crimson, lethal.
A streak of blood flashed forward like a bullet. The first few Cursed Spirits were impaled before they could even scream; those behind them were shredded by the piercing waves that followed.
Yuji charged straight into the chaos.
"Bang! Bang! Bang!"
Each punch landed like an explosion, bodies of Cursed Spirits bursting into black mist under his strikes. He and Choso moved in perfect rhythm—Choso clearing the field, Yuji breaking the remnants. Efficient. Ruthless. Silent.
In under a minute, the battlefield was still again—only a lingering stench of blood and dissipating Cursed Energy remained.
"Done." Yuji exhaled, unclenching his fist. His expression, however, remained grim.
Choso nodded. "Next location?"
Yuji opened his mouth. "Uh, let's go to—"
A voice interrupted from above. "Ah. Megumi isn't here."
Both men looked up sharply. On the highway railing above, a blond man leaned lazily, eyes half-lidded as if bored. He surveyed the area with detached curiosity.
"Tch. Am I the first to arrive?" he muttered.
Yuji and Choso immediately tensed. Their bodies reacted before thought—stances lowered, energy flaring.
The man looked down at them at last. His tone was calm, almost disdainful. "What are you two doing? Making this much noise on purpose when fleeing? Afraid no one will notice?"
Yuji frowned. "Flee?"
The blond man snorted, as if laughing at a child. "You don't even know?"
Choso took a half step forward, subtly shielding Yuji. His voice was low, steady.
"Itadori—the higher-ups issued your death sentence. They said it's because you've lost Gojo Satoru's protection."
Yuji froze, eyes wide. "What—?!"
The absurdity hit him like a physical blow. But before he could process it—
A voice came from behind. Deep, hoarse, and cold as iron scraping glass.
"Oh? Not just one person, I see."
Buzz—! A massive wave of Cursed Energy crashed outward. Every nerve in Yuji and Choso's bodies screamed in alarm. Their hair stood on end. Their limbs locked.
They turned. Ten steps behind, a man stood in silence.
Sunken eyes, heavy shadows beneath them. A deathly aura clung to his body like smoke.
Over one shoulder, a long, narrow cloth bag—its outline unmistakably blade-like. His gaze locked on Yuji Itadori, cold and unblinking.