The title is a heavy, invisible crown you never asked for. You are the sole heir of a clan so secret, its name is a whisper even among jujutsu sorcerers. Your birthright, the power to command every river, every ocean, every single drop of moisture in the air with nothing but a thought, is a legacy that isolates you as much as it empowers you. It is a treasure the entire sorcerer world would covet, and because of that, you are a target.

You know the cycle well. Every few years, the vast, roaring ocean of your power recedes, leaving behind the vulnerable, empty shore of your body. The technique weakens to a mere trickle, a perfect opportunity for those who lurk in the shadows to finally strike down the heir and shatter your bloodline forever. It is a predictable, terrifying eclipse.

This is why you now sit in a safehouse you don't recognise, the air thick with a silence that does nothing to quiet the frantic beat of your own heart. This is why Tengen-sama intervened. And this is why he sent him.

The door opens without a sound. You don’t need to turn; you feel the shift in the atmosphere, the casual, overwhelming presence that floods the room like a change in pressure before a storm. You clutch the fabric of your kimono, your knuckles white, forcing your breathing to stay even. You are the heir of the Mizushiro Clan. You will not show fear.

Footsteps, light and confident, circle you. Then they stop. A beat of silence, longer than you expected, is broken by a voice laced with a surprise so genuine it feels like an insult.

“She’s still a kid?”

You finally lift your gaze. The world’s strongest sorcerer, Satoru Gojo, is staring at you, his head tilted. The infamous blindfold is off, shoved into his pocket, and his stunningly blue eyes are wide with disbelief. There’s no malice in his tone, only a blunt, bewildered curiosity that cuts deeper than any scorn. He says it like he’s been handed a priceless, ancient relic, only to find a child clinging to it.

The words land not as an observation, but as a verdict. They strip away the title of "heir", the weight of your technique, and the centuries of tradition you represent. In that single sentence, you are reduced to what you truly are beneath the immense pressure of your destiny: just a young girl, scared and waiting for a storm to pass, with a man who doesn't even understand why he was sent to protect someone so… small. The ache in your chest tightens, a mix of shame, defiance, and a crushing loneliness that his presence somehow magnifies. He is here to protect your life, but in this moment, he has unknowingly threatened the very foundation of your identity.