Chapter Text
“A dead clan?”
Somewhere on a little island to the east of the world, where the sun shined first, the Grade One Sorcerer but otherwise normal salaryman known as Kento Nanami spoke to the strongest but otherwise normal little shit known as Gojo Satoru in a small cafe somewhere in the shining metropolis filled with Japanese culture that was Tokyo. The evenings gave him enough time to rest from his slightly less idiotic job as a Jujutsu Sorcerer, but sometimes, even things like these were often interrupted by the pompous white-haired annoyance that was the ‘strongest.’
“What? Don’t tell me you haven’t heard of the concept of it, Nanami-kun?” Sitting with both of his legs crossed atop his chair in an annoying display of his sincere and easygoing attitude, Gojo let out a small mock sigh from his mouth. “Tsk tsk, and here I thought you were pretty smart!”
The hand of the blonde-haired man went forwards to grab his coffee, and for a moment, he considered throwing the contents inside towards the face of the other in front of him. But they were both A: In public, and B: Even if Gojo couldn’t logically use his Infinity to stop it for obvious reasons, attracting attention to himself is the last thing he wants to at this moment. It’s meant to be his rest time right now.
Instead, it simply grabbed the small cup and brought it towards his lips. Lukewarm. Bleh.
“You don’t even need to be an expert to know what it implies,” Nanami replied, shaking his head slightly. “A dead clan is a clan that doesn’t exist anymore. Either by being wiped out or simply not having any descendants.” There was a mild pause to his train of thought as he took another sip from his coffee. “But from what I’m guessing, this one you’re talking about isn’t dead at all?”
“Well, no, but at the same time, yes!” Clapping his hands together, Gojo’s jovial voice became an almost lecturing one. Nanami sighed. He’s not your student, dumbass. “You see, a clan doesn’t necessarily need to die because of a lack of physical descendants. They can also die due to a lack of descendants with talent. ”
“Mmm.”
“That was the fate of the Fujimoto clan, you see!” Nanami rolled his eyes behind his goggles. Fujimoto was such a common surname. “See, they were a humble little clan of sorcerers who lived aroooound the Meiji era. Their specialty was enchantments involving one’s dreams, and they were pretty good at Domain Expansions too. Spooky combination, right?” Nanami wanted to say something about how that didn’t say anything, but Gojo’s index finger raising up interrupted him.
“Problem was, with those pesky lil’ rascals from America coming over, and just not being that big of a clan, they started to struggle when it came to members with potential. Problems with the bloodline being clean, among some other little Somethings, and in the end, most moved on to America, and nobody ever heard of them again.”
There was a mild silence that made Nanami unsure of what to do. Gojo treated this like it was some sort of campsite horror story and he wasn’t sure how he wanted him to react- so he didn’t. And so, there was just a long silence between sorcerer to Sorcerer, before Nanami turned his attention back to his coffee, drinking it.
“Na~na~mi. Aren’t you going to ask what came next?”
“Not really,” There wasn’t even anything he could think that could even happen next, but deep in his mind, Nanami had a feeling of what it could be. “I don’t see how this involves me, either.”
“Well I’m glad you asked!” He didn’t. “You see, after three hundred years, the Fujimoto clan finally got a descendant that possesses potential! If they weren’t dead, of course.”
There it was. Nanami sighed, he could see where this was heading towards a mile away. He was already prepared to say no, but, just this once, he decided to humor Gojo. Maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t ask what he thinks he would ask, and maybe, just maybe, this would just be some ‘gossip.’
“That person being?”
Gojo’s grin subsided for a moment, and a small smile soon presented itself to the white-haired man’s face.
“Sunny Millers, sixteen-year-old ex-hikkikomori and inheritor of the Red Hands Cursed Technique.”
In his dreams, Sunny shifted uncomfortably under an invisible weight that was born from his stomach and made its way all up towards his head.
In the darkness of night in the city of Tokyo, an equally uncomfortable visage stood sitting atop the forgettable apartment complex where the boy who once was plagued by his own curses slept.
He had monochrome skin complimented with his dark hair and endlessly empty eyes. In his hands, a knife stood, red in its composition, yet no manner of blood or heat came from it. Its reflection showed his face, belonging to the same one currently dreaming, alongside a single wavering and constantly blinking white eye staring at him.
Crickets reigned as the only source of sound alongside the distant yet awfully close city life before without any sort of ritual or extra action, the inhumane reflection of Sunny Millers disappeared like dispersing mist.
In Sunny’s dreams, OMORI thought that the real moon looked pretty.