Chapter Text
Iori Utahime sifted through the many files on her desk, fresh tears threatening to spill, whether out of frustration or sadness, she couldn’t quite tell. Each passing year seemed to deliver the same bitter verdict from the Higher-Ups, leaving her feeling quite diminutive among her peers. Nearly five years had slipped by, yet she lingered on the precarious edge between grade two and grade one—a frustrating limbo labelled as ‘semi-grade one’. A begrudging acknowledgment, a condescending pat on the back implying, “Here you go, are you satisfied now? Will you quiet down if we place you in this made-up category?” Her friends had never been ‘semi’ anything; they were unequivocally grade one or not. Despite her mastery of a highly coveted technique and the finesse with which she wielded it, she couldn’t shake off the gnawing reality that she lacked strength. And that, perhaps, was the most agonising truth of all.
Her gaze drifted down to on of her student’s files clasped in her hand, the recent mission details promoting her to update his records. As she glanced at the ‘Grade One’ sticker boldly stamped at the top of the file, a faint sigh escaped her lips. The sight served as a stark reminder of the chasm between their rankings. Yet, Utahime understood that surpassing her student wasn’t a prerequisite to being his teacher. It was like baseball, where coaches often weren’t superior players but possessed the expertise to guide and refine skills. She knew that he might not have gained through firsthand experience, yet his stellar performance across all facets was undeniable. His use of Black Flash, spoke of an understanding of cursed energy leagues beyond her own. He could defeat a grade 1 curse alone—an achievement that, when she attempted, left her bearing a prominent scar on her face, a reminder of her inadequacy.
“Did someone die?” Utahime jumped slightly unaware that her solitude had been intruded upon, she turned slightly to glance at the culprit, a mixture of surprise and annoyance flickering across her features. There was Gojo Satoru leaning casually against the frame, an insufferable smirk gracing his face. She supressed a sigh, wondering why he was there, contaminating her sanctuary with his germs. Ever since they were teenagers they had always clashed, or Utahime clashed with him; Gojo didn’t seem to hold the same sentiments though because any excuse to be around Utahime he was there. It was part of the reason why she had accepted the job posting in Kyoto two years ago, she had a persistent desire to avoid ‘The Honoured One’ whenever possible and Kyoto and Tokyo were far apart. It was perfect.
“What are you doing here, Gojo?” she asked, she couldn’t help the thinly veiled irritation or her disbelief at his presence in Kyoto. “Don’t you have a job to be doing?”
That was another thing she couldn’t stand. Like her, Gojo had pursued the vocation of teaching, and she couldn’t say he had any talent or passion for it. Gojo was the most abysmal teacher she had ever encountered. She doubted that he’d even held some chalk to a blackboard to teach essential theory. Gojo had a preference for frivolity and ‘fun’ with his students, he’d do anything other than fulfil his actual teaching duties. And yet, his own students far surpassed hers in combat capabilities. Something that gnawed at her pride. While her students excelled academically—a facet she deemed crucial for understanding the mechanisms of their abilities—she couldn’t dismiss the glaring reality that theory paled in comparison to the practicalities of the battlefield, you know their actual job as jujutsu sorcerers.
Gojo flashed his trademark grin, unfazed by her cold reception. “Ah, you wound me, Utahime. I was on a last-minute mission near Kyoto and thought I’d drop by to say hello to my favourite girl,” he replied, the sarcasm evident in his voice.
Utahime scoffed inwardly at his comment, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. The idea of being Gojo’s favourite anything was as far-fetched as it was infuriating. She folded her arms across her chest, her gaze fixed on him as she struggled to maintain her composure.
“They should ban you from the premises. You might scare the students with those bandages over your eyes and your freaky hair. Anyway, I don’t recall inviting you here, so see you again never,” she retorted, her voice tinged with a hint of exasperation. Her feelings towards Gojo had always been a complex blend of disdain and begrudging respect for his abilities, yet she couldn’t deny the irritation that simmered beneath the surface whenever he was around.
She’d been having a shitty day already and he’d just gone and made it worse.
“Come on, Utahime, don’t act so cold. I’m hurt, I made a detour to visit you!” he teased, unaffected by her curt responses.
Utahime fought the urge to snap back, reminding herself to maintain her professionalism, despite the overwhelming urge to send him packing. Instead, she settled for a forced smile, masking her true feelings. “Thanks for the visit, I have work to attend to,” she stated briskly, gesturing toward the door as a not-so-subtle hint for him to leave.”
Despite her clear dismissal, Gojo was socially challenged and couldn’t read cues; he continued leaning against the doorframe as if he had no intention of leaving. His nonchalant demeanour irked her further, but she knew arguing with him was futile. With a resigned sigh, she turned back to her desk, hoping he would take the hint and finally depart.
“Say, how old are you Utahime?” Utahime paused in her work, her fingers hovering over the files on her desk as she shot Gojo a guarded glance. She winced slightly; it had struck a nerve, and she couldn’t help but scowl inwardly. Surely, he knew her age; they had attended school together.
“Are you asking just to rub it in?” Utahime retorted, her voice laced with a hint of bitterness. The underlying implication of her age being a sore spot wasn’t lost on her. Mei Mei and Shoko might have shared such details with Gojo. The weight of societal expectations and the pressure to conform to traditional roles weighted heavily on her shoulders.
Utahime knew that at 28, her prospects were dwindling with each passing year. The societal stigma surrounding unmarried women her age lingered like a heavy cloud, and she couldn’t shake off the feeling of being judged or pitied by those around her, a feeling that intensified with Gojo’s seemingly innocuous question.
“Or are you just genuinely curious?” she added, a trace of defensiveness tainting her tone as she sought to mask her vulnerability behind a shield of sarcasm.
“Just making conversation, Utahime. No need to get so defensive,” he replied with a shrug, though there was something in his stance. She sensed an underlying subtlety, an emotion her might reveal if his eyes weren’t covered by those bandages.
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Gojo Satoru loathed clan politics more than anything and still it entangled him in its disgusting web, reminding him of responsibilities beyond merely being recognised as the strongest jujutsu sorcerer. Though his father was alive and well, the burden of leading the Gojo clan fell solely upon him due to the unique combination of his Six Eyes and Limitless abilities. In essence, it made sense for him to helm the Gojo clan, but the weight of being the sole decision-maker often left him feeling like a one-man show in a supposedly collective entity.
The dynamics amongst the big three—Zen’in, Kamo, and his own Gojo clan—held a critical place in the political landscape of Japanese jujutsu society, a truth Gojo begrudgingly acknowledged. His clashes with the Zen’in clan were particularly pronounced, exacerbated by his decision to take in Fushiguro Megumi, a Zen’in by blood, whose possession of the renowned Ten Shadows cursed technique made him a strategic asset in his own right.
The Zen’in’s conservative influence irked Gojo, their lack of progressiveness a source of disdain. One the other hand, the Kamo clan’s astuteness and their inclination to resort to unsavoury tactics added another layer of complexity.
“Satoru, listen carefully,” his mother Akemi began. Gojo fought the urge to roll his eyes, he rarely ever visited his family home unless it was a public holiday or something. But unfortunately, he’d found himself at the Gojo Mansion more times this month than he had been in the past five years. “The threads of power in the jujutsu world are fragile and tangled. Our family’s lineage, our abilities—these aren’t just about personal strength. They’re a beacon of power within a society that values strategic alliances above all else.”
Blah, blah, blah. He’d heard it all before.
“The Zen’in and Kamo clans wield considerable influence,” she continued, her tone edged with a hint of urgency. “Their hold over the jujutsu society influences decisions, alliances, and the very future of our clans. Your strength as an individual…as a clan, is undeniable. But politics, Satoru, politics is a different game. It’s about manoeuvring, about alliances, about securing advantages in ways that transcend sheer strength,” Akemi emphasised.
“The Iori girl’s technique, her Solo Forbidden Area, is a coveted asset, it will shift the balance of power. It offers a strategic edge in a world where every move counts,” his father piped up mixing his tea delicately.
“It’s imperative to act swiftly, Satoru,” Gojo’s grandmother Akiko urged. “I hear we aren’t the only ones taking an interest in Iori Utahime. Zen’in Naoya, the next clan heir of the Zen’in has been making enquiries about Iori-san. I learnt this through my amicable relationship with her grandmother, clearly her technique holds immense value for any clan seeking advantage.”
“We cannot afford to let the Zen’in claim it first. Zen’in Naoya’s interest in Iori Utahime hints at a deeper strategy. Their desire for her technique means they recognise its potential. You need to act decisively, Satoru.”
Gojo reclined in his chair and kicked his feet up onto the table, something his mother tutted at in disapproval. For weeks, Gojo had been grappling with an internal struggle, torn between his clan’s relentless urging to propose to Utahime and his own vehement resistance to the idea. To families as ancient as they were, marriages were often devoid of love; they were business deals, and Gojo had long become accustomed to the idea that he would most likely enter a loveless marriage when the time came. However, he hadn’t anticipated being faced with such a decision at the age of 25, with Utahime as a potential candidate. The concept of marriage for him, bore heavy implications. He couldn’t fathom the idea of splitting his attention between the world’s fate and the demands of a wife, knowing that he would struggle to prioritise the latter.
Loveless or not he at least wanted to be a decent husband. The mere thought of failing in that role, and eventually as a father, unable to put his family first, clawed at him. Failure, to Gojo, was an unconquerable beast; it was a notion he vowed never to succumb to, yet the idea of failing in something as intimate as marriage was an unbearable prospect.
Still, despite his own reservations and apprehensions, Gojo couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling churning in his gut upon hearing of Naoya’s interest in Utahime. Naoya was nothing short of a fucking bozo; Gojo couldn’t stand him. Throughout his life, Gojo had rarely invested enough thought in someone to genuinely hate them, apart from perhaps the Higher-Ups. However, Zen’in Naoya repulsed Gojo. A sense of disdain brewed up within Gojo at the thought of someone like Naoya getting close to Utahime. He clung to the belief that Utahime would never entertain the likes of Naoya, convinced that she was far above such misogynistic individuals.
However, the sight of Utahime’s father attending the clan meetings, the subtle discussions veiled under the pretext of clan negotiations, gnawed at Gojo’s conscience. The realisation that they had been deliberating over Utahime’s future without her knowledge for over a month left a bitter taste in his mouth. It troubled him deeply, knowing that her fate was being decided by others, including her own father, behind closed doors.
How had the clans come to even know about Utahime’s technique? The fact that such information was known to only a select few people lingered as a perplexing mystery.
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Utahime sat at the family dinner table, her father’s stern gaze fixed upon her as they began their customary weekend gathering. It was a ritual she kept, returning home each weekend to visit her parents, but lately, the conversations had grown increasingly one-dimensional.
“So Utahime-chan, any potential suitors, anyone that’s piqued your interest?” her father asked, wasting no time diving into the topic that seemed to be the singular focus of their discussions since she turned 20—marriage.
“No,” Utahime answered plainly, her current priority was not men or babies or anything of the sort. She was squarely aiming for a promotion to grade one, she wanted to prove herself through her sorcery not how many babies she could pop out.
“Hm,” her father grunted his discontent at her response palpable.
Instead of dropping the subject, he redirected the conversation towards the Big Three. “What do you think about the three major clans?”
“Not much,” Utahime sighed setting her chopsticks down, her appetite diminishing by the second. Her answer was the truth thought, her knowledge of them was superficial at best, and her interest in politics was minimal. After all, the Iori clan, her family, held little sway within the jujutsu world.
“Well, I’d suggest you start showing more interest in who runs our society. A Zen’in Naoya asked after you some few days ago.” Utahime’s eyes widened, a sudden chill consuming her. Mentioning Zen’in Naoya, a name she recognised from jujutsu circles but knew little about personally, felt like a veiled warning.
“Why?” Utahime questioned feeling at a loss for words. Her father’s not-so-subtle insinuation leaving her uneasy. It hinted at an arranged match—a prospect that made Utahime’s insides twist uncomfortably.
The notion of being considered as a potential bride in an arranged marriage was something she’d always loathed, yet the sombre atmosphere at the table indicated that her father was quite serious about the matter.
“However, if the Zen’in clan’s future head isn’t to your liking, I won’t be disappointed. The Gojo clan has also shown an interest. I’d prefer if you considered Gojo Satoru. Aligning with the Gojo clan would elevate our family’s status to an unprecedented level. While the Zen’ins hold respectability, Zen’in Naoya’s stature diminishes in comparison to someone of Gojo Satoru’s calibre. Besides, you might find the transition from friendship to marriage easier with Gojo, given your longstanding friendship since you two were young.”
Utahime was far from amused at multiple levels. Firstly, the fact that her life and potential marriage were being discussed behind her back without her knowledge irked her to no end. Secondly, the thought that Gojo has been in the same room with those discussing her future, possibly even partaking in the conversation, fuelled her unease. And thirdly, the mere suggestion that her father would even consider a man like Zen’in Naoya, a known misogynist, as a potential partner for her, left her deeply unsettled.
Was he that eager to get rid of her?
“Father,” Utahime began, “I appreciate your concern for my future, but this decision—this choice—it’s mine to make. My life is not a commodity to be traded for political alliances or familial status. I refuse to be a pawn in a game I didn’t sign up to play. Whether it’s the Kamo, the Zen’ins or the Gojo clan. I will not be coerced into a union that I haven’t chosen for myself. I should also let you know that I would never marry Gojo, and I’m certain he’s too immature to commit to anyone, let alone me,” she retorted firmly. She couldn’t fathom the idea of being tied to someone who made her feel insignificant with just their mere presence.
With that declaration, she abruptly excused herself from the dinner table, retreating to the solace of her bedroom.
How could she even entertain the thought of marrying Gojo? She hated the brat. From the moment Shoko had talked about him, she had harboured a fervent dislike for him. Yet, meeting him in person shattered her preconceptions. He was flawless—an immaculate exterior concealing the notorious ‘Balance Shifter.’ It was challenging to reconcile his appearance with his reputation as the strongest sorcerer. He seemed so ordinary, so human, so soft, especially when he shared a laugh with Geto. His laughter, genuine and carefree, crinkled his otherworldly eyes, cheeks flushed and adorned with dimples.
He was the most beautiful person Utahime had ever seen.
And she wished she’d never seen it.
Utahime was spellbound and resentful in equal measure. She despised the fact that she found him beautiful, that ever since then his image lived in her thoughts when she probably never crossed his mind. To him, she was just another weak sorcerer, someone he could easily rile up and dismiss.
She wanted to scream, she wanted to banish any thought of him from her mind. She resented being reminded of Gojo, loathed the mere thought of entertaining any idea related to him. Her genuine feelings towards Gojo were something that she had hid well, because whilst it was true that she ‘hated’ his persona, she couldn’t deny that she was undeniably captivated by his allure. She abhorred the fact that beneath her façade of hatred lay an inexplicable fascination. A fascination she fiercely tried to deny.