Riko Amanai p7

Blood dripped from Naoya's ruined fist.

His body screamed in protest, his vision blurred at the edges.

Chains coiled tightly around his broken frame, but he wasn't struggling.

He was laughing.

Not from madness.

Not from despair.

But because, for the first time in both of his lives—

he felt alive.

In his first life, he was nobody special.

Born into wealth, groomed for power, but always smothered by expectation.

His name carried weight, but he didn't.

Elite schools, tailored suits, fake smiles, cold boardrooms—it was all a performance.

A script written for him before he could even speak.

He had watched Jujutsu Kaisen like any other fan.

From the safety of a glowing screen.

Toji Fushiguro was a force of nature—

a man who carved his own path, no matter how many bodies it took.

Naoya had admired that kind of freedom. Envied it.

And now, here he was.

Broken. Bleeding.

Because of him.

How absurd.

How exhilarating.

Waking up in this world wearing the face of Naoya Zenin had felt like a cosmic joke.

The Zenin Clan. The cursed techniques. The suffocating politics.

At first, he played along.

Mocked the traditions. Dismissed the weak.

Played the part of the arrogant prodigy—because it was easy.

Because it was expected.

But then—

He met Toji.

Not as a character on a screen.

But as a wall.

A ghost with a heartbeat.

A man who walked through the Zenin estate like the rules didn't apply.

The clan whispered his name in fear.

Naoya?

He stared with something like worship.

Because Toji was everything he wasn't.

Untouched by rules.

Unafraid.

Free.

And he—

He was still pretending.

But when his Black Flash connected—when Toji staggered under the weight of his blow—

something shifted.

Not his bones.

Not his pride.

But the boundary between who he had been—

and who he was becoming.

For the first time, he wasn't just acting like Naoya Zenin.

He was Naoya Zenin.

And this world?

It wasn't fiction anymore.

The pain wasn't scripted.

The blood wasn't CGI.

The rush—

was real.

He could feel the chain at his throat.

grinding against his flesh.

Toji smirked down at him.

A predator savoring the kill.

Naoya should've been afraid.

He wasn't.

He grinned.

Blood staining his teeth.

"This is really bad."

No fear.

No regret.

Only amusement.

Because even now, as death loomed—

he felt it.

The high.

The thrill.

The truth.

He had lived two lives:

One as a spectator.

One as a player.

And in this moment—

as Toji's sword descended—

He wouldn't trade either.

As the darkness closed in, a final thought echoed in his mind:

"I wonder… what happens next?"

Because in this world of curses and chaos—

he was just getting started.

…

The battlefield was silent.

Blood pooled beneath Geto Suguru's unconscious form, his once-pristine uniform torn and stained. His fingers twitched—a feeble, involuntary response to the pain—but his mind was lost in the void of forced slumber.

Toji Fushiguro stood over him, his shadow stretching long in the dim light.

He didn't gloat.

Didn't smirk.

Didn't even care.

To him, this was just another job.

Toji's voice was flat, disinterested, as if commenting on the weather.

He tilted his head slightly, examining Geto's wounds with the detached precision of a butcher assessing a cut of meat.

"Would've killed you if you were a shikigami user."

A pause.

"But with Cursed Spirit Manipulation…"

He shrugged.

"I'd rather avoid extra trouble."

Translation: Killing you means your curses go wild. And I don't feel like dealing with that mess.

Toji wasn't merciful.

He was efficient.

Toji didn't look back as he spoke, already stepping away.

"You've got the blessing of parentage."

A bitter, mocking compliment.

"But even with all that blood and pride—"

His voice dropped, colder than steel.

"—all of you still lost to a monkey with no cursed techniques."

The words hung in the air like a curse.

A reminder.

A truth that the Jujutsu world refused to accept.

Then—

Silence.

Long. Heavy.

Finally, Toji turned his head just slightly, his voice a low, warning growl.

"If you want to live long... never forget that."

And with that—

CRACK.

A brutal, casual kick to Geto's face.

Not out of rage.

Not out of hatred.

Out of principle.

Because in Toji's world, weakness deserved punishment.

And Geto?

He was lucky Toji didn't feel like finishing the job.

Toji didn't waste time examining the corpse.

The fake Riko's body vanished into the swirling darkness of his Inventory Curse, stored away like just another piece of equipment. 

Toji cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as he surveyed the destruction around him—cratered earth, splintered trees, the unconscious form of Geto Suguru left bleeding in the dirt.

"Waste of time."

He wasn't talking about the fight.

He was talking about the principle of it all.

These sorcerers, with their bloodlines and their inherited techniques, their self-important moralizing—they were all the same. They thought their power made them untouchable.

And yet here they were.

Cooked!

Toji spat to the side, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

He had no interest in sticking around.

The Star Religious Group was waiting.

They'd promised him a fortune for Riko Amanai's death—enough to gamble it for few months to live the rest of his days in luxury, far from the Jujutsu world's petty squabbles.

Toji didn't care about their motives.

Didn't care about Tengen's assimilation.

Didn't care about the fake he'd just killed.

So he turned, boots crunching over debris, and began walking.

No hurry.

No fear.

Just the steady, relentless stride of a man who had already won.