Where it was left off.
The wind held its breath. The rustling leaves seemed to pause. The brilliant, cheerful blue of Teio's eyes held a flicker of surprise, then a soft, curious gleam at the stranger's question.
"Nope! Not yet!" she declared, her voice bouncing back to its usual, energetic pitch. She put her hands on her hips, her head tilting. "Why d'ya ask? Usually, the only ones who grill me about my debut schedule are other uma musume trying to scope out the competition, or super serious scouts with clipboards who smell like old coffee and disappointment." Her gaze turned appraising, scanning him from head to toe the dark, slightly rumpled casual clothes, the tired eyes, the lack of any trainer's badge or team insignia. "And you… definitely don't look like a scout."
Then, a thought visibly struck her. Her eyes widened in theatrical horror. She took a dramatic step back, clutching herself protectively and pointing a trembling finger at him.
"Gasp! You're not… you're not one of those creeps, are you?! The ones the older girls warn us about online! The ones who try to take weird pictures or ask for 'special training sessions'! I'll have you know I have a very powerful kick and I'm not afraid to—!"
"NO! Gods, no!" Michael's hands shot up in a universal gesture of surrender, panic breaking through his awe. His mind, ever the scrappy survivor, scrambled for purchase. An image flashed: the poster of the elegant, regal Symboli Rudolf beaming down from the Shinjuku billboard. Bingo.
"I'm a fan!" he blurted out, the words tumbling over each other. "A huge fan! Of, uh, of Symboli Rudolf! She's… she's incredible! And when I saw you, another uma musume, I just… I hoped I could maybe learn a bit more about, you know… the scene? From someone who's actually in it?"
It was a flimsy shield, held together by duct tape and desperation.
But it was the right shield.
The effect was instantaneous. Teio's defensive pose melted away. The suspicion evaporated, replaced by a solar flare of pure, unadulterated enthusiasm. Her pointed finger transformed into a fist that punched the air.
"THE PREZ!? YOU'RE A FAN OF THE PREZ!?" she shrieked, her voice scaling octaves of joy. She closed the distance between them in a single, bouncing hop, her blue eyes now shining with the fervor of a missionary who's just found a new convert. "Ohmygoshohmygosh! Of course she's incredible! She's the most amazing, graceful, powerful, coolest, most elegant uma musume to ever exist! She's not just the Student Council President, she's like… the President of Coolness! The Emperor! Did you see her last Arima Kinen? The way she took the final turn, it was like she was dancing on the wind! And her Satsuki Sho victory! The sheer dominance! The poise! Waah! Just thinking about it makes my heart go dokidoki!"
And she was off.
For twelve uninterrupted minutes, Michael stood rooted to the spot, a willing prisoner to a torrent of pure, uncut adoration. Teio talked with her whole body gesticulating, mimicking racing strides, striking poses she'd seen Rudolf make. She recounted races with the breathless detail of a historian describing a sacred battle. She listed victories, records, the specific shade of purple in Rudolf's uniform, the way the light caught her earring, the respectful hush that fell over a crowd when she entered a room.
"...and one day," Teio concluded, planting her feet firmly and puffing out her chest with supreme confidence, a dreamy look in her eyes, "I'm gonna be just like her! No– I'm gonna beat her! I'll see the Prez, I'll challenge the Prez, I'll win against the Prez, and then I'll get the Triple Crown, just like the Prez! Simple, right?"
Michael, whose head was spinning from the high-speed biographical download, could only manage a weak nod. Internally, his analysis was more succinct: Target Acquired. Path Defined. Execute. Yeah, that's the entire operating system right there. I'm pretty sure the three fundamental laws of her universe are: 1. Run Fast. 2. Admire Rudolf. 3. See Rule 2.
It was a magnificent pure display of single-minded devotion. He wondered, not for the first time, if there was any cognitive space left in that energetic skull for anything that wasn't related to Symboli Rudolf or running.
Finally, biology intervened. The relentless verbal marathon met the immutable law of hydration. Teio's words began to slow, her energetic gestures becoming weaker. She licked her lips, which had gone noticeably dry. A faint, raspy quality entered her voice. "…and then in the Tenno Sho… she… ahem…"
A bead of sweat traced a path down Michael's temple. The crisis had been averted, only to be replaced by a new one: a potentially desiccated horse-girl.
"Whoa, okay, easy there," he said, holding up a placating hand. "That was… incredibly comprehensive. A masterclass. But, uh, you sound like you just ran a marathon with your mouth. You alright? Do you… I could buy you a drink?"
The effect was even more instantaneous than the Rudolf invocation. The dreamy, exhausted look vanished, replaced by laser-focused glee.
"Really!? You'd do that!? Yay!" She bounced once, then struck a decisive pose, one finger pointed skyward. "In that case! I want the Honey Special Drink!"
"Honey… Special Drink?" The term triggered a memory a flash of bright promo art, a catchy, infuriatingly sweet jingle.
"Yes! The one with the honey and lemon! It's the best! It's sweet and tangy and gives you energy! Sometimes it even has vanilla ice cream and little biscuits and shiny sprinkles on top! It's the official drink of future champions!" she declared, as if reciting holy scripture. Her eyes were sparkling with anticipation. "Hachimi~ hachimi~ hachimiii~!"
The little sing-song tune sealed it. The infamous catchphrase. The anthem of her unshakeable, sugary optimism. A genuine, unfiltered smile spread across Michael's face for the first time since she'd landed in front of him. It wasn't awe or panic anymore. It was simple, undeniable fondness.
He nodded, the motion feeling more solid, more real than anything he'd done since arriving in this world. "Alright then. One Honey Special Drink, coming up. Lead the way, invincible Teio."
He had navigated the first conversation. He had survived the Rudolf Vortex. And now, he was going for a drink with Tokai Teio.
Minutes later, Teio was perched on a park bench, legs swinging, as Michael handed her the drink. It was as advertised: a bright yellow concoction in a tall glass, topped with a swirl of vanilla ice cream, a sprinkle of biscuit crumbs, and edible gold glitter that caught the afternoon sun.
"Thanks!" she chirped, immediately taking a long, grateful slurp through the straw. Her eyes closed in bliss. "Ahhh! The taste of victory!"
Michael settled next to her, taking a sip of his own far less exciting Sprite. The silence was comfortable, filled with the sounds of the park and Teio's happy humming. After a moment, he glanced over.
"So, what's Tracen actually like?"
Teio swallowed another mouthful, a dreamy look on her face. "It's the best! Super big, and there's tracks and pools and gyms everywhere. And so many people! But the best part," she said, leaning in conspiratorially, "is that's where the Prez is. That's where she trains, and leads the student council, and just... exists! That's exactly where I'm gonna start my own legend, right there next to hers!" She struck a little pose on the bench, nearly sloshing her drink.
Then the pose faltered. She scratched her cheek, her expression turning uncharacteristically sheepish. "Well... for that to happen, I kinda, sorta... still need to find a trainer. Haven't had any luck yet. Everyone's either already got a full stable, or they take one look at me and my times and go, 'Hmm, very energetic, we'll keep you in mind!' which is adult-speak for 'no thanks.'"
Michael paused, his Sprite halfway to his mouth. He lowered the can slowly. "Wait. You don't have a trainer? At all?"
"Nope! Totally trainer-less! A free agent!" Teio said, trying to sound proud of it, but the disappointment leaked through.
Something in Michael's brain switched tracks. The geeky, analytical part that loved stats and optimization, the part that had spent hours on forum deep-dives about build viability, kicked in without his permission. He turned fully to look at her, his eyes scanning with a new, focused intensity.
"Okay, hold on," he started, his voice dropping into a low, rapid mutter. "That... that makes no tactical sense. Your raw stats from the exhibition time trials last season, even adjusted for your age and build, show a clear aptitude for middle-distance, maybe even leaning long if your stamina development curve follows the standard model. Your acceleration out of the gate is above average, but your real weapon is your sustained speed on the final stretch—that's pure power-to-weight ratio efficiency. Your leg musculature suggests you'd perform best on firm turf, dry conditions, where you can get proper traction for your push-off. A trainer should be looking at your flexibility metrics—your forward bend record is practically a cheat code for injury prevention—and building a whole periodization plan around that. To leave you unsigned is just... it's poor asset management. It's ignoring a high-potency, high-flexibility framework because they're too busy looking at finished products."
The words spilled out in a quiet, technical torrent. He wasn't even really talking to her anymore; he was thinking aloud, processing data, cross-referencing everything he'd absorbed from the game mechanics and anime lore with the living, breathing subject in front of him.
When he finally stopped and took a breath, he found Teio staring at him. Her mouth was slightly open, her honey drink forgotten. The cheerful sparkle in her eyes had been replaced by wide-eyed, stunned confusion.
She blinked slowly. Once. Twice.
"Uh," she said, her voice small. "Who... who are you again? You're not really just some random nice guy who buys drinks for uma musume he meets in parks, are you?"
Michael froze, the torrent of analysis cutting off abruptly. He'd been caught in the data stream and had completely forgotten to maintain the cover story. Teio's confused, slightly wary stare was a bucket of cold reality.
"Uh," he said, intelligently. He scrambled, his mind flipping through a rolodex of half-truths. "Right. That. I'm just… really observant? And I've… studied! Yeah. Studied a lot. Human and, uh, equine-adjacent physiology. Med school dropout, basically. Also did some engineering. Numbers and systems, you know?" He gave what he hoped was a convincing, sheepish shrug. "And I'm a huge fan of racing. Like, a huge fan. So when you put all that together… I guess I just kinda… see the math behind the motion? Please believe that."
He tried a smile. It felt wobbly.
Teio's stare didn't waver. She took a slow sip of her Honey Special Drink, the straw making a thoughtful slurp-slurp sound. The gold sprinkles on the ice cream were starting to melt. She squinted at him, her head tilting. It was a look of pure, unvarnished assessment.
"Med school… and engineering… and racing superfan," she repeated, ticking the points off on her fingers. "That's… a weird combo. Most superfans just know who won the last big race and think my 'Teio Step' is cute. They don't talk about… what was it? 'Power-to-weight ratio efficiency' and 'periodization plans'."
She leaned forward, her blue eyes narrowing. "You sure you're not a scout? A really, really weird, undercover scout who's bad at lying?"
"I'm a terrible liar," Michael said with complete, genuine sincerity. "If I were a scout, I'd have a clipboard and a fake mustache. And I'd be offering you a contract right now, not a fizzy drink."
That, finally, seemed to land. The suspicion in her eyes softened, replaced by a glimmer of amusement. She leaned back, a slow grin spreading across her face. "A fake mustache, huh? That'd be pretty funny. Okay, okay. I'll believe you. For now. You're just a super-nerdy fan who knows way too much. That's way less creepy than the other options."
She took another, happier slurp of her drink. "So, Mr. Super-Nerd Fan. If you know so much, and you think I've got all this… what did you call it? 'High-potency framework'… why do you think nobody's scooped me up yet?"
The question was casual, but there was a real curiosity underneath it. A hint of the insecurity she'd shown earlier.
Michael relaxed, the immediate danger past. He thought for a second, choosing his words more carefully this time. "Honestly? My guess? You're not a safe bet. Trainers, especially the ones who get first pick, they want a sure thing. A polished gem. You're… a raw diamond. All the potential is there, but it takes a specific kind of vision to see the final shape. And it takes a trainer who isn't afraid of a project with… a lot of personality." He gave her a pointed look.
Teio puffed out her cheeks. "Hey! My personality is my best feature!"
"It's a powerful feature," Michael corrected, a real smile touching his lips. "But it's not a low-maintenance one. You need someone who gets that your engine runs on admiration and honey drinks, not just training regimens. Someone who can channel all that… Teio-ness… into a winning strategy. That's a rare find."
She was quiet for a moment, swinging her legs and staring into her glass. "Huh. Maybe you're right." Then she brightened, that relentless optimism surging back. "Well, they'll see! Once I start winning, they'll all be sorry they didn't grab me first! I'll be so amazing, the Prez will have to personally come and ask me to join her team!"
"That's the spirit," Michael said, and he found he meant it.
They sat in a more comfortable silence after that, just two people on a bench in the fading afternoon sun one a ball of boundless dreams, the other a lost soul who'd just found a point of light to steer by. The thought he'd been pushing away all day finally surfaced, clear and undeniable.
This is it. This is the chance. Not to pat her head, but to actually help. To use this stupid second life for something that matters to someone.
He finished his Sprite, the decision crystallizing with the final fizz. Michael saw the opening and nudged the conversation forward, trying to sound casual. "Look, if you ever want... you know, a second opinion on stuff. Training ideas, whatever. I'm not an expert, but I know the theory. Could maybe give you some pointers. Help you get scouted like you want."
He was winging it, building a bridge made of good intentions and half-baked plans. "And hey, who knows? Maybe if I ever get my act together and actually become a trainer at Tracen one day, we'll run into each other again."
It was a flimsy, future-tense lie, a pleasant thought to end the afternoon on.
Teio was not having it.
Her head snapped towards him. The playful suspicion from earlier came roaring back, ten times stronger. She pointed a finger at him, her eyes blazing with triumphant accusation.
"AHA!" she declared, her voice ringing through the park. "I knew it! So you are a trainer! You were just playing hard to get! 'Oh, I'm just a nerdy fan, oh, I know a lot about physiology'—it was all a clever ruse to scope me out, wasn't it?!"
Michael's attempt at a smooth recovery died in his throat. "What? No, I'm not—"
"Don't try to deny it!" She hopped off the bench, striking a dramatic pose. "It all makes sense now! The weirdly specific analysis! The 'maybe I'll be a trainer someday' line! That's classic scout behavior! You're probably from some secret, elite training institute that doesn't use clipboards because they're too cool for them!"
She was circling him now, looking him up and down with new, appraising eyes. "Hmm... the clothes are kinda shabby for a top-tier scout, though. More 'disgraced scholar' than 'elite talent hunter.' Unless... that's part of the disguise! To seem less threatening! So clever!"
Michael could only stare, utterly defeated by the sheer force of her logic. Trying to correct her felt like trying to stop a cheerful landslide with a teaspoon.
"Teio, I swear, I'm not—"
"It's okay!" she interrupted, her expression shifting to one of magnanimous understanding. She patted his arm. "Your secret is safe with me! I won't tell the other uma musume that a mysterious undercover scout thinks I have a 'high-potency framework.'" She said the last part in a terrible, deep imitation of his voice, complete with a serious frown.
She finished her Honey Special Drink with one final, victorious slurp and handed him the empty glass. "Thanks for the drink, Mr. Secret Scout! And the advice! I'll think about it! Gotta run now literally! Need to put in some evening miles before curfew! See you at Tracen someday, right?!"
And with a final, brilliant, gremlin grin and a wave, she was off, sprinting down the park path with effortless, bounding energy, leaving Michael standing alone by the bench, holding two empty cups and a completely demolished cover story.
He watched the red-and-white speck disappear into the green. A slow, helpless laugh escaped him. He'd tried to tell a simple, white lie about the future, and she'd instantly constructed an entire secret-agent backstory for him.
"Unbelievable," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. But the laugh wouldn't stop. It was the first real, full laugh he'd had since waking up in this world. It was absurd, frustrating, and somehow perfect.
She believed he was a trainer. A secret, undercover, slightly shabby trainer.
As he tossed the cups in a bin and started the long walk back to the train station, the thought that had been a vague wish solidified into a concrete, terrifying, and electrifying goal.
Well, he thought, the ghost of her grin still hanging in his mind. I guess I'd better actually become one, then.
Michael's smile lingered as he watched the red-and-white figure of Teio grow smaller, a vibrant speck of pure motion against the green of the park. The laugh still warmed his chest.
Then, his smile froze.
His vision… shifted. It wasn't a conscious choice. It was like a lens inside his perception, one he hadn't known existed, finally clicked into focus.
He saw it.
Around Teio, clinging to the brilliant, sunny aura of her spirit like a greasy stain on glass, was a dark, lingering smear. It wasn't a full-bodied curse like the mountain god. It was insubstantial, parasitic a grotesque, fleshy-looking shadow that pulsed faintly in time with her running steps. It had no distinct form, just a sense of clinging weight, of vague, hungry anxiety. It was attached to her, a passenger on her boundless energy.
His breath caught. The warmth of the moment evaporated, replaced by a chill that had nothing to do with the evening air.
A curse.
Of course. Why was he surprised? This was that kind of world. All living things had cursed energy, felt negative emotions. Teio was brilliant, but she was also a teenager with a huge dream and no trainer. She had to have doubts, pressures, fears she'd never voice. It was only natural that some of that would manifest, even in a small, pathetic form like this. A little spiritual burden.
That must be it, he reasoned, the analytical part of his mind trying to clamp down on the sudden unease. She's carrying a bit of her own worry. Everyone does.
He blinked, and the faint, parasitic outline faded from his direct sight, though the sense of it remained, a bad taste at the back of his perception. He wondered why he hadn't noticed it before. The answer came quickly, bitterly. Because you weren't really looking. You were too busy being awestruck, then panicked, then analyzing her stats. The body might be trained to see these things, but the guy driving it is still a tourist.
The curse hadn't seemed actively harmful. Just… there. A leech on happiness. Probably harmless.
He shook his head, a hard, final motion, as if to dislodge the image from his mind. The cheerful sound of Teio's distant footsteps had faded completely. The park was just a park again.
Turning on his heel, he stuffed his hands in his pockets and began the long walk back to the train station, the sky deepening to twilight at his back.
The resolve from moments before the clear, simple goal of becoming a trainer was still there. But now it was wrapped in a new, cold layer of understanding.
This world wasn't just divided into the grim horror of jujutsu and the bright dream of Uma Musume. They were the same world. The dreams cast shadows. And the shadows fed on the dreamers.
He had a new variable in his equation. A parasitic constant attached to the brightest sun he knew.
As he merged with the evening crowds heading out of the park, the image wouldn't leave him: the effortless, joyful sprint, and the dark, clinging thing that ran right along with it, keeping perfect, terrible pace.
[JUJUTSU HIGH]
Back at Jujutsu High
The familiar, oppressive silence of Jujutsu High's halls felt different after the roaring energy of Tokyo and the sun-drenched park. Michael's footsteps echoed, a lonely sound as he walked, lost in a scrambled post-game analysis of his own life.
The interaction with Teio replayed on a loop. The sheer, impossible joy of it was tinged with a new, metallic anxiety the image of that dark, clinging aura. But pushing that aside for now, his nerd-brain latched onto a different problem: continuity.
Okay, so she hasn't debuted. That tracks with the anime timeline, sort of. Her first shown race is her debut. But the game has all those earlier events... is this the game universe or the anime? Are we following the 'Twinkle Series' as a sporting event, or the more character-driven anime plot? He groaned, rubbing his temples. Does it even matter? The Satsuki Sho, the Derby... those real-world races happened in the late 90s for the horses they're based on, but here they're happening now, in 2018, with horse-girls. The timeline is a pretzel. A cute, sparkly pretzel.
Trying to map real-world horse racing history onto this anime-idol-sports hybrid universe was giving him a headache worse than his earlier tree-induced concussion. He decided to file it under 'Universe Rules: Don't Think Too Hard.'
The thought that emerged from the chaos was simpler, cleaner, and terrifying: his agenda.
Get powers. Pat Teio's head. The original, dying wish of Nicholas Bond. He had the powers now, sort of. And he'd technically interacted with her. But it wasn't enough. Seeing her, talking to her, even making her laugh… it had crystallized the vague wish into a sharp, specific desire.
I want to be her trainer.
The thought was absurd. He was a dimensional interloper in a sorcerer's body, currently employed part-time fighting monsters, with seven months left on the clock before the world tried to end itself in Shibuya. Becoming a licensed horse-girl trainer required, he assumed, things like 'credentials,' 'a clean criminal record,' and 'not being an active participant in a hidden occult war.'
He leaned against a cool wall, sliding down to sit on the floor, ignoring the propriety of the polished hallway. He pulled out his phone, the cheap burner, and started searching.
Tracen Academy. The name came up in sleek, official web pages. It wasn't just a school; it was the epicenter. A combined middle school, high school, and specialized college-level institution for both Uma Musume and their human trainers. The curriculum made his engineering textbooks look like light reading: advanced equine and human biomechanics, nutrition science on a metabolic level he couldn't fathom, race strategy that was probably closer to military tactics, sports psychology…
Great, he thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. So I need the equivalent of a dual degree in veterinary sports medicine and tactical coaching, from a magical girl academy. While also maintaining my day job as a curse exterminator. No problem.
The practical barriers rose like castle walls. Money. He had no idea if the original Michael had savings, but given the whole 'disowned foreigner' vibe, it probably wasn't much. Applications. He'd need paperwork, a history, references he couldn't fake. Time. This wasn't a weekend course.
And then there was the clock ticking in the back of his skull, louder than any hallway echo.
Seven months.
Seven months until October 31st. Until Shibuya. Until the world he was slowly, painfully learning would be torn apart. Whatever plan he tried to make trainer school, helping Teio, even just surviving was bracketed by that date. It was a deadline on normalcy.
"What are you doing on the floor? Meditating on your failures? I hear that's a popular pastime here."
The voice, flat and smoke-roughened, came from above. Shoko Ieiri stood over him, a new cigarette already between her fingers, her lab coat trailing. She looked like she'd been up for three days.
"Just doing some life planning," Michael muttered, not moving. "Career change. Very stressful."
"Mm. Let me guess. Professional tree-wrestler didn't pan out?" She didn't wait for an answer, stepping around him. "If you're having an existential crisis, do it in your room. You're blocking the scenic view of the wall."
"Shoko," he said, before she could walk away. He looked up, his expression uncharacteristically serious. "Hypothetically. If someone wanted to… get into a very specialized, very competitive school. But they had no money, questionable paperwork, and a… prior commitment that might involve the potential end of the world in roughly seven months. How would you even start?"
Shoko took a long drag, her tired eyes studying him through the haze. She exhaled slowly. "Hypothetically," she echoed, her tone implying she knew it wasn't hypothetical at all. "I'd say that person is an idiot. Their priorities are a fascinating disaster. And they should probably focus on not dying in the immediate 'end of the world' scenario first."
She paused. "But if they were dead-set on it… they'd need an in. A patron. Someone with enough influence to overlook the paperwork and the money. Someone who finds their specific flavor of chaotic potential amusing or useful."
She gave him a look that spoke volumes. It wasn't a suggestion. It was a diagnosis.
"And where would one find such a whimsical, all-powerful patron?" Michael asked, already knowing the answer.
Shoko's lips twitched in something that wasn't a smile. "Oh, I don't know. Probably wandering around here somewhere, being a nuisance. Try the roof. Or the ruins of the last building he accidentally destroyed."
She flicked ash into a nearby potted plant. "Now move. I have to go declare three liters of confiscated student alcohol as 'medical supplies.' Don't follow me."
She walked off, leaving Michael alone on the floor with his pretzel-timeline, his parasitic-cursed horse-girl, his world-ending deadline, and one very clear, very dangerous next step.
He needed to talk to Gojo. Not just about cursed techniques or cosmic secrets. He needed to make a deal.
[FIVE DAYS LATER]
Michael didn't knock. He'd spent five days in a state of manic preparation running his body through controlled power exercises until he could move a pebble with a pinpoint burst of energy, reading every publicly available scrap on Tracen Academy, and stewing in his own desperate resolve. Now, he marched straight into the room Gojo used as an office (which was mostly empty save for a single, ludicrously expensive modern desk and a beanbag chair).
Gojo was balanced precariously on the back two legs of the desk chair, tossing a stress ball at the ceiling and catching it with Infinity so it hovered mid-air before falling again. He didn't look over.
"You're letting in a draft. And killing my artistic vibe."
"Don't care." Michael strode forward, a folded sheaf of printed papers in his hand. He slammed it down on the pristine surface of the desk with a definitive thwack.
Gojo's head slowly turned. The blindfold faced the papers, then Michael. "A love letter? A manifesto? Your resignation from the exciting world of jujutsu?"
"A business proposal," Michael stated, his voice tight with rehearsed intensity. "I want to become a trainer at Tracen Academy. I need funding, forged academic records, and a fast-track application processed in under two months. You're going to make it happen."
There was a beat of silence. The stress ball hung in the air, forgotten.
"…Why?" Gojo asked, his tone one of pure, unadulterated curiosity. "And, more importantly, why should I? Do you have any idea how much a good forger costs? The bribes? The administrative hellfire I'd have to unleash? For what? So you can play pony-girl handler?"
"Because I'm your 'top pupil,' am I not?" Michael shot back, leaning on the desk.
"Correction," Gojo said, swinging his legs down and planting his feet on the floor. He leaned forward, the blindfold somehow conveying a piercing stare. "The last person in that body was. You're the noisy, pop-culture-obsessed stowaway. My investment in him was based on disciplined potential. My investment in you is currently based on 'this is weird and funny.' This request is not funny. It's expensive and complicated."
Michael's prepared bravado faltered. He saw the wall. So he switched tactics. The stern expression melted into one of pure, undiluted need. He clasped his hands together under his chin, his eyes widening.
"Pleaaase, Gojooo," he whined, his voice taking on a familiar, frantic, internet-beggar cadence. "I neeeeed thiiiiis! You don't understand! It's for the plot! For the narrative! For the vibes! My mama kinda– well, I don't have a mama here, but my situation is kinda homeless! I have a dream! A dying-geek's dream! And you're the only all-powerful sugar daddy in a hundred-mile radius who can make it happen! PLEEEASE!"
He ended the performance on his knees beside the desk, hands still clasped, looking up at the spot where Gojo's face would be.
The silence that followed was profound. The stress ball finally fell and rolled under the beanbag.
Then, Gojo started to laugh. It wasn't a chuckle. It was a full-bodied, shoulder-shaking roar of laughter. He slapped the desk. "HAhahahaha! O-oh ho! Oh my god! What was that? That voice! You sound like a dying seagull who just discovered online gambling! 'My mama kinda homeless!' That's going in the highlight reel!"
He laughed until he had to wipe a tear from under his blindfold. Finally, he calmed down, a wide, wicked grin plastered on his face. "Okay. Okay. You've convinced me. Not with logic. With sheer, unmitigated cringe. That deserves a reward."
He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a sleek, matte black credit card. He flicked it across the desk like a throwing star. It spun to a perfect stop in front of Michael.
"Condition one," Gojo said, his voice shifting to a light, deadly serious tone. "Unlimited funding for your little school project. Clothes, bribes, gadgets, whatever. Don't buy a yacht. I will know."
Michael's hand hovered over the card, his heart hammering. "And… the forgeries? The application?"
"Already in motion the second you started your 'mama homeless' routine. I have people. They'll fabricate a tragic yet brilliant backstory for you. 'Michael Jaeger, prodigal son of a European equine sports dynasty, seeking a fresh start in Japan after a mysterious familial estrangement.' The higher-ups will hate it. It's perfect."
"Condition two," Gojo continued, holding up a second finger. "You get this." From another pocket, he produced a laminated pass on a lanyard. It was a deep, iridescent purple, with the Twinkle Series logo embossed in holographic foil. 'PLATINUM TIER - ALL-ACCESS.' "VIP for everything. Every race, every training exhibition, every backstage area at the Twinkle Series. You want to be a trainer? You need to live and breathe it. Observe the best. This lets you walk right up to the glass. Also me as well."
Michael took the pass, its weight feeling immense.
"Condition three," Gojo said, his grin turning sharp. "You get good. Not just at your 'Kinetic Will' parlor tricks. I mean really good. You want me to bankroll your fantasy? You become an asset. A serious one. I'm not funding a vacation. You will train your technique with a focus I haven't seen from you yet. You will learn, and you will become someone who can actually back up the arrogance of asking me for a favor. Consider it… my tuition fee."
He stood up, looming over Michael, who was still half-kneeling by the desk. The playful air was gone, replaced by the subtle, crushing pressure of the strongest.
"And let's be clear," Gojo's voice dropped to a near whisper. "I'm doing this partly because it's a fantastically petty jab at the old geezers on the higher-up councils. The idea of their 'problem child' sorcerer, the one they tried to get killed, becoming a darling of the public, non-jujutsu sports world? It's delicious. But mostly…"
He leaned down slightly. "…I'm curious. I want to see the results. I want to see where this path leads someone like you. Not-Micheal. My investment in the original was based on his discipline. My investment in you is a bet on your chaos. So don't disappoint me. Not even Megumi gets this kind of treatment. You'd better make it good."
He straightened up, the grin returning. "Now get off the floor, you look pathetic. And go buy yourself a decent suit. You can't show up to fancy horse-girl school looking like you just lost a fight with a lawnmower."
He turned and walked towards the door, pausing at the threshold. "Oh, and Michael?"
"Yeah?"
"The 'mama homeless' thing. Never do that again. My ears may never recover."
And he was gone, leaving Michael alone in the office, clutching a black card and a platinum pass, the weight of a bet placed by a god resting squarely on his shoulders. He had exactly what he asked for.
Now he had to become someone worthy of it. Everything then paused "wait.. how on god's green earth does the strongest even have a platinum pass for the twinkle series..?"
The heavy, polished door to Gojo's office clicked shut behind Michael. In the sudden quiet of the hallway, Michael leaned back against the wall, the sleek, black card held between two trembling fingers. He stared at it, the matte surface drinking in the dim light.
He actually did it. He gave me a blank check. A literal 'no limit' black card. What kind of 'strongest' is this financially reckless? His mind, still wired from years of checking bank balances that hovered near zero, short-circuited at the concept. Then again… if you're literally untouchable and can teleport, do banking regulations even apply? Maybe he just wills ATMs to give him money. 'Throughout Heaven and Earth, I alone am the fiscally irresponsible one.'
He was so lost in the existential economics of sorcererhood that he didn't notice the figure approaching from the other end of the hall until he took a step forward and bumped squarely into her.
"Oof—sorry, my bad—" he started, the apology automatic.
Then he looked up.
The girl took a polite step back, adjusting her glasses. She had long, straight, raven-black hair styled with severe, blunt bangs that framed her face. A single, bright red ribbon was tied neatly on the left side. The stern, practical sorcerer uniform was gone, replaced by a formal, meticulously pressed black sailor-style school uniform, complete with a red necktie. It was a jarring shift—from austere operative to picture-perfect, classic Japanese schoolgirl.
For a glorious, blissful two seconds, Michael's brain registered only: Cute. New person. Not a threat.
Then his eyes, bypassing the new hairstyle and uniform, locked onto the pair of practical wire-rimmed glasses and the sharp, analytical intelligence in the dark eyes behind them. The memory crashed down like a falling piano: the terrifyingly perceptive interrogation in his dorm room, the way she'd dissected his posture and vocabulary, the whiplash switch from shy kohai to human lie detector.
Hana. Hana Suzuki. The partner. Oh, crap.
Every muscle in his body went taut. He instinctively took a half-step back, his previous awe over the black card vaporized, replaced by pure defensive panic.
"Ah! Suzuki! I didn't the new look! It's, uh, very… scholarly! Gotta go, mission debrief, Gojo-sensei's orders, very urgent–" The words tumbled out in a rushed, nonsensical stream as he tried to sidestep her.
Hana didn't move to block him, but her quiet voice stopped him cold. "Jaeger-senpai. It's good to see you up and about."
There was no suspicion in her tone. No analytical edge. Just a simple, quiet statement. It was so disarming he froze.
She continued, her gaze softer than he remembered. "I just returned from a field assignment in Kyoto. I wanted to check on you. It's been over a week since the… incident." Her eyes flickered to his side, where the horrific wound had been. "Are you… feeling better? More settled?"
Michael's fight-or-flight response sputtered, confused. The scary, perceptive version of Hana was absent. This was the shy, concerned kohai facade. But after their last encounter, he knew it was a facade, or at least one mode of a very complex person. He forced himself to relax his shoulders, offering a weak, hopefully convincing smile.
"Yeah. Yeah, loads better. Shoko's magic fingers work wonders. And, you know, resting. Lots of resting. Trying to… recalibrate." He gestured vaguely at his own head, invoking the 'brain damage' excuse. "The new look is, um, a choice. What's the occasion?"
Hana's hand rose self-consciously to touch the red ribbon in her hair. A faint, almost invisible blush tinted her cheeks. "It's nothing significant. The standard uniform was being cleaned. This is… a spare." She clearly wasn't used to comments on her appearance. She quickly steered the conversation back. "I am glad you are recovering. The reports from the mountain were… concerning. I am relieved the misclassification of the curse didn't lead to a worse outcome."
There was a genuine, professional relief in her voice. She saw him first and foremost as a fellow sorcerer who'd survived a stacked mission, not just as the walking personality glitch she'd discovered.
Michael felt a pang of something like guilt. She was worrying about her assigned partner, and he was a fraud who was planning to use a sorcerer's unlimited credit card to go to horse-girl school.
"Thanks, Suzuki. I… appreciate you checking in." The words felt awkward but sincere. "The mission in Kyoto go okay?"
"It was efficiently resolved. A Grade 1 curse manifestation in Fushimi Inari. Nasty, but predictable." She delivered the report of what was likely a horrific battle with the bland tone of someone discussing a completed spreadsheet. "Your own rehabilitation seems to be taking a new direction," she added, her eyes flicking down for a split second. Not at his wound, but at his hand, where the edges of the black card were still visible between his fingers.
He subtly closed his fist, hiding it. "Uh, yeah. Gojo-san's idea. Part of the 'recalibration.' New stimuli, new challenges. You know how he is."
"I do," Hana said, and for the first time, a hint of dry, shared understanding colored her voice. A tiny crack in her professional armor. "His methods are… unorthodox. But often effective." She adjusted her glasses, the gesture familiar. "If you require assistance with any… logistical aspects… of your new directives, that is part of my role as your partner. Paperwork, scheduling, background coordination."
It was an offer. A lifeline thrown from the deck of the ship he was secretly planning to jump. She was terrifyingly observant, fiercely capable, and despite everything, trying to do her job and look out for him.
"I'll, uh, keep that in mind," he said, meaning it more than she could possibly know. "Thanks. And… welcome back."
She gave a small, formal nod. "Thank you, senpai. Please continue to focus on your recovery." With that, she turned and continued down the hallway, her sailor skirt swaying neatly, the red ribbon a spot of color in the gloom.
Michael watched her go, the black card now feeling heavy in his clenched fist. He had a benefactor with godlike power and a toddler's sense of financial responsibility. And he had a partner who was a human supercomputer disguised as a shy schoolgirl, who was somehow both the biggest threat to his cover and the most competent ally he could ask for.
His new life was a minefield of impossible gifts and terrifyingly perceptive people. Taking a deep breath, he pushed off the wall and headed for his room. He had research to do, a legendary school to infiltrate, and a bank account with the purchasing power of a small nation to figure out how to use.
First step: see if this thing worked at an electronics store. He needed a better laptop. And maybe one of those fancy massage chairs. For recovery.
[SCENE END]
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- seeing that the new year's are up for tomorrow, I don't know how many more chapters I can gobble up given that after tomorrow school will be on again. So yes. Also for the people reading what would you recommend me adding to the cast? The jjk is already suited. And Hana is an OC created by a request from a friend. All there is uma musume. Mihono Bourbon and Tokai teio are already in the roster and I plan to have 2 more. If you give a good and thorough reason comedic, emotional, character development wise then she is added. Also I'm running out of references to add to my story so suggestions would be great!