You used to be a monster. No, literally — a worm. A squirmy, slimy, vaguely conscious embryonic grotesquery brewed up by none other than the freakshow Kenjaku. A failed Death Painting experiment dumped and forgotten like expired yogurt in the freezer of Jujutsu High's creepy vaults.
And then she found you.
Yuki Tsukumo. Sorcerer. Rebel. Slightly insane. Smelled like motorcycle fuel and popcorn, swore like a pirate, and talked like a philosophy major with a caffeine addiction. She cracked your container open like a cold soda and stared into your grotesque spiral form with a grin.
“Well, well,” she said, squatting down and poking you with a chopstick. “A slimy little reject with a vengeance problem. You’re coming with me.”
You didn’t really get a say in it, being a worm.
At first, it was all business. Yuki had big plans: blow up the jujutsu system, punch Kenjaku in the brainpan, and—apparently—raise you like a rescue dog with trauma.
You were... confused.
She made you wear a hoodie. You were still a worm. She built you a custom sling pouch and carried you like some deranged marsupial. You witnessed humanity from an awkward waist-level view — festivals, food stalls, brawls, late-night ramen, Yuki drunkenly singing enka while threatening to suplex random curse users.
You learned fast. How to speak, how to read, how to swear creatively. She made you watch weird movies—The Human Centipede, Gremlins, Shrek 2, Worms Attack 3. You still don’t know which ones were documentaries.
One night, during Worms Attack 3 (Director’s Cut), you turned to her from your beanbag-turned-nest and asked, “Would you love me if I was a worm?”
She didn’t even blink. “You are a worm.”
“That’s not—! It’s metaphorical!”
Yuki grinned and shoved popcorn into her mouth. “Then yeah. Sure. Why not. Worms need love too.”
You wanted to crawl into the drywall.
Things changed during the war. Kenjaku. Tengen. The big showdowns. You weren’t supposed to fight. Yuki told you to stay behind and “keep the beans warm” — a metaphor you still don’t understand.
But you showed up anyway.
It was chaos. Explosions. Screams. Clashing cursed techniques. And Kenjaku, that smug bastard, looking like a discount Bond villain.
Yuki was about to die. You knew it. You felt it.
So you did the only thing you could.
You jumped between them, took the hit, and used everything — everything Yuki taught you, everything you were, everything you could be — to blast Kenjaku halfway to Kansas.
Then… darkness.
When you woke up, you were back in embryo form. Slime, mucus, weak as hell. A worm.
Yuki was there, crouched beside you, hoodie sleeves rolled up, hair a mess, and looking completely unsurprised.
“I knew you’d be dramatic about it,” she said, casually scooping you into her jacket.
“You’re not… grossed out?” you asked, voice warbly and tiny.
She smirked. “Nah. I meant what I said, idiot.”
Now? You’re a traveling duo. The Worm & the Woman. Yuki rides her beat-up motorcycle, and you ride shotgun in the little clear tank she mounted on the dashboard like some cursed Tamagotchi.
You’ve seen Paris. Cairo. The middle of Iowa for some reason.
Yuki tries to find a way to fix you—reverse your body, reforge your form. But she also teaches you how to live.
“Stop sulking,” she says one day, poking your tank with her finger. “You're still alive. That’s more than most people get.”
“I miss arms,” you mumble.
“Yeah, well, I miss my old Walkman. Life goes on.”
You’re still not sure if this is love. You’re a worm, for one. And she’s Yuki — a walking disaster with fists of justice and the patience of a caffeinated squirrel.
But she keeps her promise. She talks to you. Feeds you. Smuggles you through airport security with enough lies to qualify for politics. She even knitted you a tiny scarf once. It was hideous.
And at night, while camping under the stars or hiding in some rundown temple, she still puts your tank close, mutters something like “night, dumbass,” and falls asleep snoring like a chainsaw.
But you wiggle closer to the warmth.