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The skies were ashen, heavy with the weight of an unspoken farewell. Yuuta stood among the gathered, the chill of the autumn breeze biting through his coat. He barely noticed it, though, his mind drowned in the surreal reality of Gojo Satoru's funeral. A part of him still refused to believe that someone like Gojo could ever be gone.
The crowd was subdued, voices hushed out of respect or perhaps out of fear of disturbing the fragile peace that settled over them. Familiar faces blurred in his periphery—Inumaki with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, Panda standing unusually still, Kugisaki biting her lip as if the force of her grief might spill out if she didn’t keep it contained. And Maki.
Yuuta’s eyes found her without effort. She stood apart, her back straight, her expression unreadable but her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Maki had always been like that—solid, unyielding, and strong enough to carry her own burdens without complaint. But today, there was something about her that felt unbearably fragile.
He wanted to go to her, to offer something—anything—but what could he possibly say that wouldn’t feel hollow? Words felt useless here, in the presence of a loss so immense it threatened to swallow them all.
Yuuta shifted his weight, his gaze dropping to the ground. The polished casket gleamed under the dim light, the finality of it hitting him square in the chest. Memories flashed unbidden—Gojo’s teasing smirk, his maddening nonchalance, the way he always seemed invincible. And now… this.
A voice broke through the fog of his thoughts, low and steady. “You okay?”
Maki had moved closer, her eyes searching his face. There was no softness in her tone, but the concern was there, wrapped in the way only Maki could manage—direct and unspoken. Yuuta swallowed hard, nodding before he found his voice.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “It doesn’t feel real.”
Her gaze didn’t waver, and for a moment, the world seemed to shrink to just the two of them. There was something grounding about her presence, like standing in the eye of a storm.
“It won’t. Not for a while.” Her voice was quieter now, almost like she was speaking to herself.
Yuuta opened his mouth to respond, but the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he did what felt natural—he reached for her hand. It was a tentative gesture, his fingers brushing against hers before he wrapped them around her tightly. Maki stiffened for a split second before her hand settled in his grip, warm and solid.
They didn’t say anything else. They didn’t need to. Together, they stood in the shadow of Gojo’s absence, letting their shared grief say what words never could.
-
The dorms were eerily quiet, as if the grief that had settled over them had silenced even the usual creaks and hums of the old building. Yuuta sat on the floor of his room, his back against the bed frame and his knees pulled up to his chest. The faint scent of incense from yesterday still clung to his clothes, mingling with the sharp tang of the cold morning air.
His eyes drifted to the photo frame on his desk, one Gojo had insisted on taking during one of their rare light-hearted moments. Yuuta didn’t even remember the joke, but the memory of Gojo's ridiculous grin burned behind his eyelids. He looked away, unable to hold the sight of it for long.
The clock ticked loudly in the silence. 6:43 AM. The day had barely started, and already Yuuta felt the weight of it pressing down on him. He hadn’t slept—not really. He had closed his eyes at some point, but the restless churn of his mind wouldn’t let him rest. Every time he drifted off, images of Gojo—smiling, fighting, dying—pulled him back into wakefulness.
A soft knock at the window startled him. He turned his head to see a small bird perched on the ledge, its feathers ruffled against the wind. It hopped once, then twice, peering in as if expecting something. Yuuta stared at it for a moment before it flew off, leaving behind a faint smudge on the glass.
He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face. The bird’s fleeting presence felt absurdly symbolic, though he wasn’t sure of what. The dorm still smelled like Gojo’s cologne from the last time he’d visited, as if some part of him had refused to leave completely.
Yuuta reached for his phone, scrolling aimlessly through old messages. Gojo’s were still there, a mix of half-serious advice and obnoxiously cryptic comments that now felt like riddles he’d never solve. His thumb hovered over the screen, the urge to type something—to someone—almost overwhelming. But what was there to say?
The teapot in the corner of the room was still full, the water long gone cold. Yuuta stood, deciding to do something—anything—to distract himself. The kitchen was empty when he stepped out, the fluorescent lights flickering faintly. He filled the kettle, watching as the water pooled, then stared out the window as it boiled.
The world outside seemed indifferent to their loss. Cars passed in the distance, and the faint hum of the city filtered through the glass. Yuuta’s grip tightened around the kettle as he poured the water into his mug, steam curling up in lazy tendrils.
Back in his room, he sat by the window with his tea, cradling the mug in his hands. The heat seeped into his palms, grounding him, if only for a moment. He didn’t know how to move forward from here. None of them did.
But as he sat there, watching the day unfold in shades of gray, he realized he didn’t have to figure it out yet. For now, it was enough to just sit, to feel the grief without running from it. Tomorrow—or maybe the day after—he’d think about what came next.
-
The day after, he discovered what came next.
Yuuta stood in the sterile, dimly lit hall outside the higher-ups’ chamber, his fists clenched at his sides. The summons had come early, a curt message delivered without explanation. He hadn’t asked for one. He’d known it was only a matter of time before they wanted to discuss Gojo’s death.
His breath was shallow as the heavy doors creaked open, revealing the imposing room beyond. The council sat at the far end, their faces shadowed by the faint glow of the overhead light. They looked the same as always—detached, calculating, unaffected.
“Yuuta Okkotsu,” one of them began, their voice smooth but hollow. “Thank you for coming on such short notice.”
Yuuta stepped inside, his jaw tight. “I didn’t have much of a choice, did I?”
The council exchanged brief glances, the faintest flicker of disapproval crossing their faces. “We summoned you to discuss the current state of affairs,” the speaker continued, ignoring his tone. “In light of recent events, your cooperation will be crucial in ensuring—”
“Ensuring what?” Yuuta interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. “That everything stays exactly the same? That you keep sitting here, safe and comfortable, while the rest of us clean up your mess?”
The room fell silent. The council’s faces betrayed no emotion, but Yuuta could feel the weight of their stares. He could feel something else too—something building inside him, threatening to spill over.
“You did nothing,” he said, his voice rising. “You knew what was coming. You knew what Sukuna and Kenjaku were capable of, and you sat here, doing nothing. And now Gojo’s dead. Nanami’s dead. So many others are dead because of your inaction. Because of your cowardice.”
One of the council members leaned forward, their tone icy. “Watch your words, Okkotsu. You forget your place.”
Yuuta’s laugh was bitter, hollow. “My place? My place is out there, fighting for people who don’t have the luxury of sitting behind closed doors. My place is with my friends, risking our lives because you couldn’t be bothered to lift a finger. You want me to cooperate? Tell me why I should.”
The air in the room grew heavier, tension crackling like a live wire. Another member spoke, their voice clipped. “You overstep, Okkotsu. We made decisions based on—”
“Based on what?” Yuuta snapped, cutting them off. “On fear? On selfishness? Don’t stand there and pretend you made the right calls. Gojo Sensei stood alone because you abandoned him. You don’t get to lecture me about overstepping when the only reason we’re still standing is because he did.”
The council shifted uncomfortably, their calm veneer beginning to crack. Yuuta took a step forward, his hands trembling with barely contained anger.
“And let me make something clear,” he said, his voice low but laced with venom. “If you think I’m going to sit back and follow your orders while you keep pretending to be in control, you’re wrong. I’ll do what’s necessary to protect the people who are still here—not because you asked me to, but because I care about them. And if you ever put them at risk again, I swear, I’ll make you regret it.”
For a moment, the only sound was the faint hum of the overhead lights. Yuuta’s chest heaved as he stared them down, his resolve unshaken.
“You’re dangerously close to insubordination,” one of them said, though their voice wavered. “You would do well to remember that.”
Yuuta straightened, his eyes cold. “And you’d do well to remember what happens when you push people too far. Gojo Sensei gave his life for this world. Don’t make me wonder if it was worth it.”
Without waiting for a response, Yuuta turned on his heel and walked out, the door slamming shut behind him. His heart pounded in his chest, his anger still simmering beneath the surface.
As he stepped into the corridor, the weight of his words settled on him. For the first time in a long time, Yuuta felt like he’d done something that Gojo would have been proud of.
What came next was uncertain, but one thing was clear—he wouldn’t let the higher-ups drag them down any further. Not now, not ever.
-
The arena was eerily quiet, its walls echoing with the memories of past battles and camaraderie now replaced by silence. Dust gathered in the corners where swords and spears once rested, and the air carried a somber weight, as if mourning the absence of the warriors who had once brought it to life. Yuuta stood at the entrance, his chest tightening as he stepped inside. This place, where they had honed their skills and laughed through the exhaustion, was now a hollow shell.
It didn’t surprise him to see Maki there. Her figure was unmistakable, her stance as sharp and steadfast as ever, yet something about her seemed fractured. She stood in the middle of the arena, her posture rigid, her focus fixed on the weapon in her hands. It was almost as if she was waiting for something—or someone—to break the silence.
Yuuta approached her slowly, his footsteps light but purposeful. He didn’t call out right away; instead, he took in the sight of her, the set of her shoulders, the slight tremble in her hand. She wasn’t just grieving Gojo. She had lost a part of herself—Mai. Her sister. A piece of her soul had been torn away, leaving behind wounds that time hadn’t even begun to heal. Yuuta’s heart ached at the thought, a deep, relentless ache that made him want to do something, anything, to ease her pain.
Finally, he spoke, his voice gentle but steady. “Maki.”
She turned toward him, her face as impassive as stone, her eyes hollow and unflinching. She didn’t look surprised to see him, nor did she offer any acknowledgment beyond that glance. Her silence spoke louder than words ever could, and her tone, when she finally did speak, was devoid of the fire he had come to associate with her.
“How long have you been here?” he asked softly, trying to fill the empty air between them.
She didn’t respond. Instead, she turned back to what she was doing, her hands tightening around the weapon she held. Yuuta lingered, watching her, his heart sinking further with every moment of her silence. She hadn’t used her voice in weeks, he realized, and it was as if she didn’t want to start now.
He waited a moment longer before stepping forward again. “Do you need a sparring partner?” he asked, keeping his tone light, as though they were back in the days when everything felt a little less broken.
Maki didn’t answer. She didn’t even flinch. But Yuuta wasn’t one to give up easily, especially not on her. He grabbed a nearby spear, the weight familiar and grounding in his hands, and moved to stand in front of her.
She glanced at him briefly, her expression unreadable, before taking a ready stance. Yuuta mirrored her, and in that silent understanding, the spar began.
The clash of their weapons shattered the stillness, each strike deliberate and powerful. Maki moved with precision and force, her every attack a testament to her unmatched skill. Yuuta met her blow for blow, his muscles straining as he pushed himself to keep up.
Their movements were raw and intense, almost brutal in their execution. This wasn’t the playful sparring of old; it was something far more primal, more necessary. Maki’s strikes carried the weight of her anger and sorrow, and Yuuta took it all without hesitation, as if by doing so he could somehow lighten her burden.
There were pauses between the bouts, moments when Yuuta tried to catch her eyes, but she never met his gaze. Instead, she pressed forward, her attacks relentless, as if stopping would mean confronting everything she was trying to bury.
The spar continued until Maki’s body betrayed her. Her knees buckled, and she fell to the ground, her weapon slipping from her grasp. Yuuta moved instinctively, standing over her with his spear poised as though to deliver a final blow. But he didn’t. Instead, he froze, his eyes fixed on her trembling form.
“Maki?” he whispered, his voice breaking.
He dropped the spear and knelt beside her, reaching out hesitantly. Her body was trembling, her shoulders shaking violently. It wasn’t until he saw her face that he realized what was happening. Tears streamed down her cheeks, her expression crumpled with a grief so profound it left Yuuta momentarily stunned.
He had never seen her cry before. The sight terrified him, but he pushed his fear aside, his focus entirely on her.
“Maki,” he said again, his voice as soft as the touch of his hand on her shoulder.
She didn’t resist as he slid beside her, wrapping his arms around her trembling frame. Her head fell against his chest, and the sobs came, wrenching and uncontrollable. Yuuta held her tightly, his hand gently stroking her back, his chin resting lightly on her head.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, his voice steady even as his heart broke for her. “I’ve got you, Maki. I’m here. Everything’s going to be okay. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
She cried and cried, years of pain and loss pouring out in waves. And Yuuta stayed with her, unwavering, his arms a shield against the world. He didn’t try to stop her tears; he knew she needed this, needed to let it all out. So he held her and whispered his assurances, a quiet vow that, no matter what came next, she wouldn’t have to face it alone.
-
The benches outside the arena hadn’t changed much over the years. The wood was still weathered and splintering in places, the paint faded from countless sunrises and sunsets. Yuuta and Maki sat side by side, the silence between them heavy but no longer suffocating. The sun dipped lower on the horizon, casting the sky in hues of orange and pink, the kind of beauty that felt almost out of place against the backdrop of their pain.
Maki had pulled her knees up to her chest, leaning back slightly. Her face was still red and puffy from crying, but she’d stopped. Now, her expression was unreadable as she stared out at the horizon. Yuuta sat beside her, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped tightly together as if holding onto an invisible anchor.
The quiet reminded him of their first year, when they used to come here after training. Back then, the sunset marked the end of another day where Maki had thoroughly thrashed him in a sparring match. She’d torment him about it afterward, pointing out every mistake he made with her characteristic bluntness, her smirk sharp but undeniably playful. Yuuta had always been happy to go along with it, letting her have her fun, just so he could see her smile.
This time, though, it was different.
He glanced at her briefly, his gaze softening when she caught him looking. Her lips curved into a small, sad smile—forced, like she was trying to reassure him even when she had no energy to. “Sorry,” she murmured, the word barely audible as she gave a hollow, awkward laugh.
Yuuta didn’t look back at her. Instead, he shook his head, his voice low but firm. “Shut up.”
Maki blinked, startled by his bluntness, and for a second, her mask of composure cracked. But before she could respond, she heard him exhale deeply.
“Thank you, though,” she said quietly, her voice steadier now, though still tinged with a rawness she couldn’t quite hide.
Yuuta didn’t reply right away. He tilted his head forward, staring at the ground beneath his feet, his brows furrowed as if trying to untangle his thoughts. Finally, he spoke, his tone soft and reflective.
“When I was in Gojo-sensei’s body,” he began, his words slow, as though he was piecing them together as he went, “everything felt... blurry. My memory of it isn’t clear. I can’t recall the details—what I saw, what I heard—but I remember the feelings.”
Maki turned her head slightly, her gaze shifting to him.
“I felt helplessness,” he admitted. “Disappointment. Fear. Like I was carrying the weight of everything, and it was crushing me. And yet… toward the end, right before I woke up in my own body again, I felt something else.” He paused, his voice dipping lower. “Rest.”
Yuuta finally turned to her, his movements deliberate. His hand reached up, cupping her cheek gently, his thumb brushing against her skin. Maki’s eyes widened slightly at the gesture, but she didn’t pull away.
“He’s resting now, Maki,” Yuuta said, his voice steady but filled with quiet emotion. “He went through so much, bore so many burdens. And now… now he gets to let go of all of that. He doesn’t have to protect everyone anymore. He doesn’t have to fight or suffer. He’s free.”
Maki’s breath hitched, and Yuuta noticed the tear that slipped down her cheek. Without hesitation, he wiped it away with his thumb, his touch careful, as if she might shatter under too much pressure.
“He wouldn’t want you to carry all of this alone,” Yuuta added, his voice barely above a whisper. “And you don’t have to.”
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Maki’s gaze searched his, her expression softening as the weight of his words sank in. She exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little.
Yuuta smiled at her, a gentle, reassuring smile that held none of the grief they both carried but all of the hope they needed. “Come on,” he said, his tone lighter now. “Let’s go eat. It’s been way too long since we’ve done that.”
Maki blinked, then let out a laugh—a real one this time, full and unrestrained. It was small, but it was genuine, and it felt like a tiny crack in the armor she’d built around herself.
“Okay,” she said, her voice still a little hoarse but warmer than before.
Yuuta’s smile widened as he stood and offered her a hand. She took it, and as they walked away from the arena together, the sunset at their backs, the air felt just a little lighter. For the first time in a long while, it felt like the beginning of something new.