Upon reaching the age of eighteen, Gojo Satoru was officially named the new head of the Gojo clan. The announcement was made with solemn faces, ancient scrolls, and voices heavy with tradition. It was meant to be a moment of reverence, the kind that marked history. And yet, the one at the center of it all looked like he could not care less.

Frankly, who would take it seriously? Being handed the weight of an entire clan at such a young age felt more like a poorly timed joke than an honor. Gojo leaned back in his seat during meetings, legs stretched out, fingers drumming lazily against polished wood while the elders spoke as if their words were law itself. To him, it all blurred together into meaningless noise.

Gojo was the type of person who lived exactly how he wanted. He disregarded rules, ignored expectations, and followed no path but his own. The elders would lecture him endlessly about responsibility, legacy, and the dignity of the Gojo name, and he would nod along with a careless smile, already tuning them out. Clan matters, rituals, alliances, politics. To Gojo, it was all the same repetitive nonsense.

But then came the worst part.

Marriage.

As if becoming clan head was not enough, the elders declared that he was required to marry and produce an heir before the age of thirty. No exceptions. No excuses. The bloodline had to continue, they insisted, their voices firm and unyielding.

Gojo nearly lost his mind.

“Are you serious?” he complained more times than anyone could count. “I’m eighteen. Thirty is ages away. Why are you already planning my life like that?”

The elders did not budge. Their expressions remained stone cold, as though his protests were nothing more than the whining of a child. Tradition was tradition, and the Gojo clan did not bend.

One afternoon, they placed a thick dossier in front of him. It landed on the desk with a dull thud, heavy enough to make his irritation spike instantly. Inside were profiles of every eligible woman deemed suitable to marry the head of the Gojo clan.

Gojo flipped through the pages with growing boredom.

Each profile blurred into the next. Elegant upbringing. Excellent etiquette. Skilled in cooking and household duties. Beautiful. Gentle. Fertile. Perfectly raised to become a proper wife.

It made him scoff.

They were all the same.

“So boring,” he muttered, flipping pages faster now. “Elegant, beautiful, wife material, blah blah blah. Yada yada yaaah.”

He clicked his tongue in irritation, blue eyes dull with disinterest. Every woman listed felt lifeless, molded into the same polite shape. Someone quiet. Someone agreeable. Someone who would smile and nod and never challenge him.

He hated the thought.

Gojo was loud, chaotic, and unapologetically himself. Pairing him with someone dull felt like cruelty. What were they expecting him to do, have polite conversations over tea every day? He would lose his sanity. It would be like talking to a wall.

With a dramatic sigh, he prepared to toss the entire file into the trash.

But then he stopped.

On the very last page, a photo caught his eye.

You.

A commoner. No prestigious lineage. No list of refined accomplishments carefully curated by the clan. Yet something about you immediately stood out. Your expression was different. There was sharpness there. Confidence. Fire. The kind of presence that did not feel manufactured.

Gojo stared at the page longer than he intended to.

This one is interesting, he thought.

A grin slowly spread across his face, mischievous and decisive all at once. Without hesitation, he jabbed a finger toward your photo and looked up at the nearest elder.

“Hey, old man,” he said casually, as if he were choosing a snack instead of a future spouse. “I want to pick her.”