The Strongest Sorcerer Broke His Rules For Me

The gravel of the path crunched under Yuji’s worn-out sneakers, each step a conscious effort. Fucking hell, he was tired. It wasn't just the satisfying ache of a good workout; it was a deep, cellular exhaustion that made his bones feel like lead and his thoughts move through sludge. His entire body throbbed in a dull, rhythmic protest, but the pain in his left forearm was a sharp counterpoint. He glanced down at the ugly, puckered flesh just below his elbow. The curse had gotten a lucky shot in, a parting gift of its foul energy that now sat under his skin like a shard of ice, a cold, dark burn that refused to heal properly. It was a nasty, blackish-purple stain that felt alien against his own skin.

He’d expected the campus to be dead. It was well past midnight, the moon obscured by a thick blanket of clouds that promised rain. But as he cut across the edge of the training grounds, a familiar silhouette detached itself from the shadows. Tall, impossibly lean, and radiating an energy that buzzed against Yuji’s frayed nerves like a high-voltage wire.

Gojo. Of course.

He was leaning against one of the wooden posts used for target practice, a black blindfold covering his eyes, though Yuji knew it did nothing to hide what he could see. A lazy, infuriating smile was already playing on his lips.

“You’re late, Yuji-kun,” Gojo said, his voice carrying easily through the quiet night, laced with that usual brand of cheerful mockery. “And messy. Very messy. I read the preliminary report. You took out half a city block to kill a grade two. Are you trying to get into the demolition business?”

“It’s dead, isn’t it?” Yuji grunted, stopping a few feet away. He didn’t have the energy for this shit. He just wanted to fall into his bed and not wake up for a week.

“Technically,” Gojo conceded, pushing himself off the post with a fluid grace that grated on Yuji’s exhausted frame. “But you let it touch you.” He gestured with his chin toward Yuji’s injured arm. The playful tone was still there, but beneath it, his Six Eyes were doing a full diagnostic sweep. He saw far more than the ugly burn. He saw the minute, uncontrollable tremor in Yuji’s hands, the faint sheen of cold sweat on his brow, the ragged, uneven flow of cursed energy struggling to circulate through a body pushed past its breaking point. He saw the dark circles under Yuji’s eyes that weren’t just from a single sleepless night, but from a whole string of them. For a fraction of a second, the corner of Gojo’s mouth tightened, the smile faltering into a hard line of something that looked dangerously like concern. It was gone as quickly as it appeared.

“Let’s have a little cool-down spar,” Gojo announced, cracking his knuckles. “Just to work out the kinks.”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Yuji said, the words coming out as a weary sigh. “Sensei, I can barely stand.”

“All the more reason. You get sloppy when you’re tired. Your cursed energy control is all over the place. Think of it as… remedial training.” Gojo took a step back, beckoning with one long finger. “Come on. Don’t make me beg.”

Yuji’s jaw tightened. It was an order disguised as a suggestion, and they both knew it. Fine. If the bastard wanted a fight, he’d get one. Gritting his teeth against the throbbing in his arm, Yuji dropped into a low stance. Whatever reserves of energy he had left, he dredged them up, channeling them into his fists.

He lunged.

It was like punching at smoke. Gojo flowed around him, a whisper of movement in the dark. Yuji’s attacks were raw and powerful, driven by sheer frustration, but Gojo met each one with an infuriating ease. He didn’t even seem to be trying, just redirecting Yuji’s momentum, using his own force against him. A palm strike to his shoulder sent Yuji staggering. A quick sweep of Gojo’s leg almost took him off his feet.

The fight was a blur of close-contact violence. Gojo stayed inside Yuji’s guard, forcing him to react on pure instinct. There was no room for elaborate techniques, no space for thought—only the immediate, visceral reality of combat. The air grew thick with the coppery smell of Yuji’s sweat and the sharp, clean scent of ozone that always clung to Gojo’s technique. Yuji’s lungs burned. His muscles screamed. He could feel his control fraying, his cursed energy spiking erratically with each desperate swing. He was fighting on fumes and spite alone.

Gojo saw it all. He saw the moment Yuji’s exhaustion tipped over into something else. For a split second, as Yuji threw a wild hook, a faint black marking flickered into existence below his eye, a fleeting echo of Sukuna’s presence drawn out by the stress.

That was the opening Gojo was waiting for.

In one fluid motion, he stepped inside the punch. His hand shot out, not to block, but to grip Yuji’s wrist, twisting it sharply. Yuji cried out as his fingers went numb, his fist unclenched by the jolt of pain. In the same instant, Gojo’s other arm snaked around his waist, yanking him forward and spinning him around. Yuji’s back slammed hard against Gojo’s chest, the air driven from his lungs. Gojo’s hand clamped down over the one Yuji had used to punch, pinning it to his own stomach, while his other arm locked tight across Yuji’s chest, holding him immobile.

The fight was over.

Sudden, absolute stillness descended. The only sounds were their ragged breaths, ghosting in the cool night air. Yuji was trapped, his body flush against Gojo’s. He could feel the solid wall of his teacher’s torso, the hard planes of muscle beneath the thin fabric of his shirt. The heat radiating from Gojo’s body soaked through his own damp uniform, an overwhelming, grounding presence. His head was tilted back, the line of his throat exposed, his cheek just inches from Gojo’s. The faint, clean scent of Gojo’s cologne mixed with the sweat and grime of their fight, filling Yuji’s senses. He was completely at his teacher’s mercy, and the raw, undeniable physicality of it sent a tremor through him that had nothing to do with exhaustion.

Gojo’s hold lingered for a few heartbeats longer than necessary, his breath warm against Yuji’s ear. Then, just as suddenly as it began, it was over. He released his grip, stepping back and creating a pocket of cool air between them. The sudden loss of contact was jarring. Yuji stumbled forward, catching his balance, his chest heaving as he tried to pull in enough oxygen. He turned, ready for the scathing critique, the "I told you so," but it never came.

Gojo stood there, his blindfold perfectly in place, but the set of his shoulders was different. Less arrogant, more settled. “Your control slips when you’re pushed to your absolute limit,” he said, his voice stripped of its usual mocking cadence. It was flat, observational. “The boundary between your energy and Sukuna’s thins out. We need to work on that.”

He didn't wait for a reply. He just turned and started walking. “Come on.”

Confused and still buzzing with adrenaline, Yuji had no choice but to follow. Gojo led him away from the main campus buildings, up a narrow, overgrown stone path Yuji had never noticed before. It ended at a small, railed clearing on a bluff overlooking the city. The lights of Tokyo sprawled below them, a vast, glittering carpet under the dark, heavy sky. The noise of the city was a distant, muted hum.

Gojo leaned against the railing, his back to the view. He reached into his jacket and pulled out two cans of coffee, tossing one to Yuji. Yuji caught it out of reflex. It was a brand known for being tooth-achingly sweet, loaded with milk and sugar. Gojo popped the tab on his own can.

“The stronger you get, the more you see,” Gojo began, his voice quiet, almost blending with the night. “Not just curses. You see the fragility of everything. The rot in the systems meant to protect people. The compromises, the ugliness. And you see how alone you are at the top of that mountain.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Everyone looks to you. They expect you to have the answers, to be the solution. But no one looks at you. They can’t. The glare is too bright.”

Yuji stared at him, the cold can of coffee forgotten in his hand. This wasn't Gojo-sensei, the clownish, infuriatingly powerful sorcerer. This was someone else. Someone older, and infinitely more tired than Yuji had ever imagined.

“That power you have, the thing inside you… it’s going to push you higher and higher,” Gojo continued, his gaze fixed on some point in the darkness over Yuji’s shoulder. “And the air gets thin up there, Yuji. It’s a lonely fucking place. You have to be strong enough to breathe it on your own, because no one else can follow you all the way.”

He wasn’t talking about being the strongest jujutsu sorcerer. Not really. He was talking about a fundamental, crushing isolation that came with seeing the world through a lens no one else could share. He was handing Yuji a piece of his own truth, disguised as a warning.

For the first time, Yuji felt like he wasn’t just looking at a teacher, or a weapon, or a god. He was looking at a man. A man who understood the specific weight pressing down on Yuji’s soul in a way no one else could. The burn on his arm still throbbed, a cold reminder of the curse. But here, in the quiet dark with the city lights spread out below, a different kind of warmth began to settle in his chest. It wasn’t a lecture. It was a confession. And in that shared silence, Yuji felt, with startling clarity, that he wasn’t entirely alone.