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Welcome to the future: Kashimo Hajime's guide to survive the modern era
Act I: Bubble Tea
Kashimo Hajime had always prided himself on many things: his unmatched battle prowess, his disciplined mind, and, perhaps most importantly, his stoic ability to conceal confusion under an immaculate mask of indifference. Yet, in this precise instant, even he could admit, with no small degree of internal annoyance, that he was completely and hopelessly lost.
He stood quietly beneath the stark neon glare of streetlights lining the busy Tokyo avenue, arms crossed sternly over his chest, hair crackling faintly with suppressed static. Only ten minutes prior, he had finished sparring against Kinji, a moderately useful ally who had enthusiastically volunteered to serve as his guide in navigating what Kinji frequently termed "the wonders of modernity." Hajime had accepted this dubious assistance merely because Kinji possessed a rare talent: somehow irritating him less than others did. A remarkable accomplishment, considering Hajime had been irritated by humanity’s very existence for the past four centuries.
He now deeply regretted this decision.
Kinji, with careless ease, leaned against a lamppost, loudly speaking into a sleek, glowing rectangle he called a “smartphone.” Hajime scowled at it suspiciously. The concept itself was nonsensical. Phones, he had gathered, had been originally invented so people could speak over great distances. Not ideal, certainly inferior to face-to-face confrontation, but admittedly practical. Yet, if they were already speaking, why was Kinji shouting his order for something called “bubble tea” into the device, complete with meticulous instructions about “extra tapioca pearls” and “less sugar, but more ice,” directly to a bemused-sounding young man named Yuta Okkotsu?
Modernity, Hajime decided with a grimace, had become utterly ridiculous.
“… and the mango one, obviously. No ice, please. Kirara doesn't like it diluted. I’ll take matcha. What about you, Grandpa Thunder?”
Kinji glanced sideways at him expectantly. Hajime's brow furrowed even deeper, faint sparks snapping irritably around him.
"Grandpa what?"
"Thunder," Kinji said innocently, covering the smartphone briefly. "Because of the whole lightning thing you do? It's cool, right?"
Hajime narrowed his eyes slightly, unimpressed. "I am not your grandfather."
"No," Kinji agreed brightly, "you're older."
Kirara made a small noise suspiciously like laughter, gazing serenely into the distance.
Hajime’s voice dropped an octave, vibrating with barely contained annoyance. "You are aware I'm capable of vaporizing you instantly?"
"Sure, grandpa," Kinji grinned cheerfully, then continued babbling into the phone, "And maybe grab a lychee green tea for grandpa over here, he looks pretty tense."
Before Hajime could unleash a scathing retort, a cheerful voice cut across their conversation, obnoxiously upbeat and accompanied by the tangible sensation of a jarring presence: "Careful, Kinji, you'll short-circuit our friend Pikachu here."
Hajime bristled instinctively, whirling around in a fluid motion. His glare sharpened, crackling teal energy flaring threateningly, as Satoru Gojo sauntered into view, hands in pockets, smile irritatingly casual, eyes hidden behind dark glasses despite the gathering dusk. He wore his perpetual smirk, the kind that suggested he knew precisely how irritating he was and reveled in it.
Hajime stared blankly, confusion edging into irritation. "My name is not Pikachu."
Satoru's grin widened, delighted. "But it's such a fitting nickname, Pikachu. Both of you zap things, both short-tempered, and you constantly look like that meme, y'know, confused Pikachu face?"
Hajime blinked slowly, deliberately hiding his utter bewilderment. Confusion wasn't something he enjoyed admitting, least of all around Satoru Gojo. The man was unbearably arrogant, proudly youthful at twenty-eight, and apparently held the title of "strongest sorcerer alive." Hajime found this intensely troubling, since strength usually correlated with dignity and seriousness, not whatever infuriating nonsense this silver-haired gremlin radiated. And anyway, he’d already found the strongest opponent in Sukuna. Why was everyone so obsessed with this loud, irritating brat?
"What,” Hajime said, voice deadly quiet, “is a meme?"
"Inside jokes," Kinji offered helpfully.
"Digital curses," Kirara said serenely.
"Peak humanity," Satoru proclaimed proudly.
Kirara finally laughed openly, soft and melodic, casting Satoru a glance filled with approval. Kinji snorted, seemingly in solidarity. Traitors, Hajime thought irritably.
Satoru threw his head back dramatically, sighing in theatrical despair. "This," he gestured grandly toward Hajime’s face. "This is a meme. Right here. Kinji, quick, snap a picture."
Kinji enthusiastically aimed his smartphone at Hajime, who instantly recoiled, sparks flying from his fingertips. "Do not dare," he hissed.
He shrugged apologetically and lowered the device, still grinning.
Hajime exhaled deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. He needed patience. And possibly murder.
Satoru, utterly unconcerned by Hajime’s mounting annoyance, leaned in conspiratorially. “Listen, Pikachu, no shame being a meme. Memes are humanity’s greatest modern achievement. Right up there with Wi-Fi and convenience store onigiri.”
Wi-Fi? Hajime didn’t dare to ask or bother hiding his disdain. “Humanity’s greatest achievement was at least four hundred years ago, clearly.”
"Oh man," Satoru murmured delightedly, turning to Kinji. "Did Grandpa Thunder just give the most boomer answer ever?"
Kinji smirked, leaning in, amused. “Boomer?”
Satoru nodded solemnly. “Yup. Confirmed boomer energy. Look it up, Grandpa.”
Hajime narrowed his eyes critically, skeptical. "You speak like a spoiled child."
Satoru pressed a dramatic hand to his chest, scandalized. “I’m wounded. Spoiled child? I'm a dignified adult—"
Kinji choked back laughter.
They all exchanged glances. Hajime decided that modern sorcerers, clearly, had too much free time.
Satoru crossed his arms, leaning back languidly against the fence beside Hajime, eyes gleaming mischievously. "Alright, Kinji. How about we make this interesting? I bet you two weeks' worth of bubble tea deliveries that Pikachu here willingly opens Instagram before the month ends."
Kinji grinned sharply. "Deal."
Hajime scowled, unsettled by their certainty. "I refuse."
Kirara's voice was calm and devastatingly pleasant. "They didn’t ask your opinion, Kashi-chan."
He stared skyward, despairing internally at humanity’s obvious decline. Four hundred years of waiting, and his reward was dealing with bubble tea, glowing rectangles, and being compared repeatedly to an electrified yellow rodent.
Perhaps, he mused cynically, challenging Sukuna would prove simpler.
Act II: Arcade
If someone had asked him four centuries ago to describe what he envisioned as the peak of human civilization, the answer certainly wouldn’t have included flashing neon lights, cacophonous arcade music, and buildings packed to the brim with senseless human beings staring blankly at small, glowing rectangles in their palms.
And yet, here he was, navigating through exactly that infernal chaos. Or more accurate being dragged unwillingly through it.
It took exactly three days and fourteen separate incidents involving automatic doors and cursed contraptions Kinji referred to as "toilets with sensors" before Hajime seriously questioned the collective intelligence of modern humanity. If mankind had truly improved in the four centuries since his prime, then why did every doorway in Tokyo either refuse him entry or aggressively attempt to crush him?
And why, for the love of heaven, did they need a toilet seat that was smarter than the average sorcerer?
Hajime growled, sidestepping a human projectile, a small child screaming at an ungodly decibel level and decided: humanity had taken several grievous missteps in the four centuries he’d been absent.
At least half of these missteps, Hajime concluded sourly, were embodied by a single man: Gojo Satoru.
The white-haired sorcerer appeared at unpredictable intervals, announcing himself in loud, theatrical ways. Hajime quickly learned to dread the sudden feeling of air shifting, the whisper of energy that meant Satoru was about to spontaneously materialize behind him.
“So, Pikachu,” Satoru drawled, sprawling lazily across the bench. “What’s today’s existential crisis?”
Hajime resisted the urge to electrocute him. Barely.
“He’s trying to figure out vending machines,” Kinji explained cheerfully from behind Hajime, already slotting coins with practiced ease. He pressed brightly colored buttons with exaggerated flair. “A marvel of our modern world, huh?”
Hajime folded his arms, stubbornly unimpressed. “In my time, you didn’t need a machine to dispense tea. Humans did that quite adequately.”
“Humans still do,” Satoru quipped, twirling a coin between nimble fingers. “But the machines are much less annoying about it. Less complaining, fewer labor revolts, fewer inconvenient emotions.”
“Are you talking about yourself, Gojo?”
Kinji waved him off, undeterred. “Give it a chance, Grandpa. Kirara loves it here.”
Hajime glanced dubiously at Kirara, who stood serenely beside them, scrolling leisurely through the same rectangular device every human now carried. Kirara wore a slight smile, utterly unbothered by their surroundings. Once again, Hajime marveled inwardly at the seemingly effortless ease.
“Your woman looks far too refined for such madness.”
Kirara’s eyes flickered up from the screen, meeting Hajime’s gaze briefly, amusement dancing behind that aloof expression, one that suggested they enjoyed this confusion immensely. Kirara parted lips as if to speak, but then simply shrugged delicately and returned to the scrolling.
Satoru coughed conspicuously, clearly holding back laughter.
“Yeah the coolest I know,” Kinji declared enthusiastically, slipping a casual arm around Kirara’s shoulder. “Not the type to complain.”
Kirara shot Hajime another mildly entertained glance. Hajime decided that whatever strange dynamic these two shared was, frankly, beyond his comprehension and definitely none of his business. Modern romance must have grown incomprehensibly complicated, or possibly just insane. He had more pressing concerns. Like vending machines and arcades.
Grumbling something inaudible, Hajime followed reluctantly toward the next bizarre attraction, a claw machine filled with plush toys. Kinji fumbled helplessly, unable to grasp anything with the claw despite his intense concentration. After several disastrous attempts, Hajime impatiently nudged Kinji aside, eyes narrowed at the machine with strategic precision.
"Observe," Hajime intoned solemnly. He maneuvered the claw smoothly, watching closely as the metal fingers descended, then growled softly in frustration as the claw weakly slipped around the toy, losing grip immediately. "Pathetic," he muttered darkly, glaring at the machine. "A rigged battle, built to humiliate."
Kirara, disturbingly good at claw machines, calmly stepped forward, pressing buttons in a fluid, graceful motion. Hajime watched, grudgingly impressed, as Kirara’s hands expertly maneuvered a mechanical claw to snatch an absurd plush doll shaped like an overweight yellow rodent.
Satoru cackled loudly from behind. "Even Grandpa Thunder is powerless against Kirara's magic touch! Relax," he smiled teasingly, slipping beside Hajime to whisper conspiratorially, "We'll teach you about Tinder next. Maybe you'll find someone who appreciates your sparks."
“What is that supposed to be?” Hajime glared daggers at the plush, feeling irrationally betrayed by its soft, mocking eyes.
“A Pikachu,” Kirara explained calmly, handing the stuffed toy to Kinji, who hugged it enthusiastically.
Hajime’s mood soured instantly, recalling Satoru’s smug grin and the name he'd called him repeatedly for the past days. The modern world seemed specifically designed to torment and bewilder him.
With a long-suffering sigh, Hajime glanced wearily toward Kinji's eager grin, Kirara’s amused eyes, and Satoru’s insufferably smug expression. Four hundred years, Hajime thought miserably. He waited four hundred years for this?
Humanity had peaked centuries ago, he was certain of it now.
Act III: Crush
Training was straightforward enough. Destroying targets, refining cursed energy control, preparing for Sukuna’s inevitable demise, all comfortably familiar, at least in theory.
But apparently, nothing was simple anymore. Hajime stood in the middle of the training grounds, glaring at the sparking remains of what used to be an industrial-grade punching bag. It now smoldered like an offering to some modern, foolish god. Hajime’s fists still crackled faintly with leftover electricity as he watched the bag collapse into itself, defeated.
“I’m starting to think I can’t spar with anything made in this century,” Hajime muttered, shaking out his hands as smoke curled from his fingertips.
"You're just too powerful for modern gym equipment, Grandpa Thunder." Satoru's voice chimed in from behind, light and infuriatingly amused. "But don't worry, we'll find you something more durable. Maybe a tank. Or Kinji’s ego."
Kinji, sitting cross-legged nearby with a can of soda in hand, didn't even look up. "My ego regenerates. Like my Jackpot, it's built different."
Kirara, lounging beside Kinji with a bored expression and a phone in hand, simply snapped a picture of the smoldering wreckage. “Aesthetic,” they said vaguely, not bothering to explain what exactly was aesthetic about Hajime destroying everything he touched.
Hajime flexed his fingers, glaring down at the remains. He wasn’t sure whether it was the equipment's fault or modernity's in general, but either way, he considered it another point against the current era. Four centuries ago, things were sturdier. Battles were fought with blood and steel, not rubber and foam.
“What even is this thing supposed to do?” Hajime gestured at the ruins.
Kinji shrugged. "Take a punch and cry about it later."
"Then it failed miserably." Hajime crossed his arms. "This whole world is built too soft."
"Yeah, well, welcome to the 21st century," Satoru said, rocking on his heels. "Where your enemies are bubble tea, bad Wi-Fi, and the fact that you can't punch feelings into Instagram posts."
"Bubble tea," Hajime repeated, the words dripping with disdain. "Another curse of modernity."
Kinji looked up, his grin sharp. "But you liked it yesterday."
"I did not." Hajime scowled. "It was tolerable. In a cursed way." He hesitated, thinking back to the texture, the odd sweetness, and the peculiar satisfaction of stabbing the straw into the cup. He hadn't hated it. He hadn't hated it at all.
Kirara’s phone clicked again. "You got tapioca on your lip. It was cute."
He turned sharply, suspicious. "You—why are you taking photos of me?"
Kirara just shrugged, scrolling lazily through their phone. "For the memories."
Satoru clapped a hand on Hajime's shoulder, nearly getting electrocuted for his trouble. "Come on, admit it, you're adapting. You're just a modern man trapped in an ancient body. Or, was it the other way around?"
"Modernity is weakness." Hajime threw off the hand like it burned.
Satoru didn’t seem offended. If anything, he looked delighted. "So, you're saying you don’t want to be tagged in my next Instagram post about your bubble tea addiction?"
Hajime glared. "What is this 'Instagram'? A cursed technique?"
Kinji nearly choked on his soda, and Satoru beamed like a child at Christmas. "God, I love you, Grandpa Thunder. You're my new favorite."
“I don’t like you.” Hajime said flatly.
"You’ll learn," Satoru said, winking.
Kinji, recovering, waved his phone in the air. “Instagram’s just this thing where you post pictures of yourself doing cool shit. Or embarrassing shit. Or both. Usually both.”
He frowned deeply, trying to process this. "Why?"
Kinji blinked. "Clout."
"Validation," Kirara added without looking up.
"Blackmail," Satoru said cheerfully.
Hajime stared at them as if they’d just confessed to worshipping curses. "And what purpose does this serve?"
Satoru leaned in, grin sharp. "Entertainment. And crushing your enemies with the sheer force of humiliation."
"Ah." Hajime considered this for a long moment. "So, it is a cursed technique."
Kinji sighed. "Not exactly. But honestly? You'd probably master it by accident."
Satoru clapped his hands together. "I give it a week before Hajime’s thirst-trapping for Sukuna."
He froze. "What?"
Kinji choked again, and even Kirara looked mildly intrigued.
Satoru, grinning like the gremlin he was, just shrugged. "Come on, you’ve got that whole stormy, brooding thing going. Got a thing for dangerous men with too many arms?"
Hajime’s jaw clenched tightly, resisting the urge to electrocute the cocky twenty-eight-year-old. “What nonsense are you spouting now?”
“Your crush,” Satoru drawled knowingly, lowering his sunglasses enough to waggle his eyebrows suggestively. “Sukuna.”
Hajime’s eyes narrowed dangerously. "I don’t have a crush on Sukuna."
Satoru gasped dramatically. "Oh my god, you so do."
"I don't."
"You definitely simp."
Kirara hummed thoughtfully, voice mild. “Sounds like a massive crush, actually.”
Kinji nodded solemnly, barely hiding his grin. “Classic enemies-to-lovers trope.”
"I will kill you," Hajime said with conviction.
Satoru just grinned wider. "You're in denial."
Kirara made a vague noise, not committing to either side but clearly entertained. Kinji looked between the two of them, eyes sparkling with mischief. "I mean, he's not wrong, Grandpa. You’ve got some unresolved tension there. You could cut it with a cursed blade."
His glare could have scorched the earth. "I do not."
Satoru, as always, remained unfazed. "It's okay, Grandpa Thunder. Crushes are normal. Even ancient boomers like you can catch feelings."
Hajime looked ready to hurl lightning. Yet he held back. Sukuna first, annoying twenty-eight-year-old man-child later. He turned sharply, scowling as if sheer force of will could erase the thought. "I’m going to destroy another punching bag." He just walked, each step punctuated by sparks of defiance and deep, ancient confusion.
“Oh no,” Kinji groaned quietly. “He’s short-circuiting it again.”
“Not his fault,” Satoru said cheerfully. “He’s still processing how we don't sacrifice goats to appease gods anymore.”
Hajime didn't answer. Perhaps, he mused bitterly, he’d miscalculated. Maybe Sukuna wasn’t the final boss here. Maybe the real challenge, all along, was surviving a month with these idiots without losing his sanity.
Before Hajime could react, the flash went off. A horrifying clicking noise echoed in his ears, and he blinked, momentarily blinded.
“There. Your first selfie!” Satoru declared victoriously. He lounged back, positively radiant with smugness. “That picture is perfect. Really captures your ‘just resurrected from death and angry about it’ aesthetic.”
He sputtered indignantly. “No.”
Kinji ignored him entirely, already typing something. “I know just the caption! ‘Back from the dead and ready to rumble! #GrandpaThunder #BoomerLife #AncientAndAngry.’”
Satoru called cheerily, holding up his phone. “This one's going straight to my story!”
Hajime groaned inwardly, praying silently that Sukuna would hurry up and kill him before that happened.
Act IV: Smartphone
It began innocently enough, as all catastrophes usually do: with Satoru’s grin glittering obnoxiously behind a sleek, reflective rectangle he called a "smartphone." Hajime had grown accustomed, much to his irritation, to the mysterious artifacts of this degenerate era, but the small glowing slab had eluded him thus far. He eyed it warily as if it were an especially troublesome curse.
“Instagram, Grandpa Thunder,” Satoru declared with dramatic seriousness. “Your next greatest battle.”
Hajime narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms defensively. “Explain yourself clearly. What’s this nonsense now?”
Satoru smirked, pushing the device directly into Hajime's hands. “Consider it a digital battlefield, old man. Instead of lightning and fists, you fight with aesthetics and captions.”
He stared blankly at him, then turned with a silent plea toward Kinji, who lounged lazily on a nearby bench sipping yet another cursed concoction of that bubble tea.
Kinji waved cheerfully, completely unhelpful. “He means you post pictures, grandpa. Show people stuff you do, places you visit, what you’re eating—”
“Why would anyone care?” Hajime interrupted, affronted by the very notion. “Have people truly grown so bored and vain?”
Kinji merely shrugged, nodding sagely. “Yes, exactly. Welcome to modernity.”
Kirara sat cross-legged beside Kinji, peeking over his shoulder to glance curiously at the screen Satoru now handed Hajime. “You might even find something interesting,” Kirara mused quietly, an amused twinkle in their eyes. “It's like spying into other people’s lives.”
Hajime scowled, turning the unfamiliar object cautiously in his hands. He poked at it tentatively, eliciting muffled snickers from Satoru.
“Tap gently, Grandpa Thunder. It’s not a relic from your tomb.”
He ignored him, reluctantly pressing icons, accidentally opening images of perfectly arranged food and smiling faces. All seemed alarmingly similar. Then, something horrifying occurred, a short video of a tiny kitten clumsily batting at a sock. It missed, toppled over, and blinked at the camera.
Hajime stared. His mouth opened. Closed. "...What is this?"
Satoru laughed. "That, Grandpa, is the height of joy. Welcome to cat videos. They’ll consume your soul."
Kinji took one look at the scene and sighed. "You're corrupting him, aren't you?"
Satoru gestured dramatically. “I’m introducing him to culture.”
Kirara stepped closer, peering at the screen. “Show him the one with the cat stuck in the box. That one gets me every time.”
Kinji obediently pulled up the next video. This time, a cat panicked as it got trapped in a paper bag, hopping sideways like a confused spirit.
Hajime watched in silence. Something stirred deep within him. Not understanding—no, that was too far—but… recognition. A moment of purity. A creature fighting something invisible, doomed and yet undeterred. "...It is fierce," he said solemnly.
There was a long pause, then Kirara snorted into their sleeve. Satoru almost choked. “Oh my god,” he gasped, laughing. “He respects the cat. Grandpa Thunder is one with the feline struggle.”
Kirara tilted their head, considering. “Honestly? Makes sense.”
Kinji grinned. “We’ll make him a cat meme lord before the month’s over.”
Hajime, oblivious to the mockery, watched the cat scramble again, until he touched the screen wrongly, his finger brushing a bright red heart beneath a photo of a younger, slightly less obnoxious-looking Satoru Gojo. He froze.
Satoru glanced at the screen over his shoulder, lips stretching in a wide, triumphant grin. “Already stalking my old photos, huh? Didn’t peg you as my number-one fan, Pikachu.”
Hajime scowled, angrily trying to undo the damage. “Your delusions grow tiresome. Help me erase this embarrassment.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Satoru said, leaning casually against Hajime’s shoulder with a delighted grin. “Feels like the start of something special, old-timer.”
Shoko arrived precisely then, with impeccable timing, her presence always marked by the scent of cigarettes and coffee and carrying a box labeled with a logo Hajime recognized as yet another modern indulgence: "Pizza". She glanced mildly at the scene unfolding, eyebrow raising in amused skepticism. “You know,” Shoko said dryly, exhaling a soft puff of smoke, “giving Kashimo access to social media is cruelty. Cruelty to Kashimo, that is.”
“Rude,” Satoru pouted.
Hajime sent her a grateful look, desperately hopeful that finally, someone sane had appeared. “Yes,” he said, pointedly glaring at Satoru. “Exactly my thought.”
But Shoko betrayed him swiftly. “I’m pretty sure it violates some ethical code. Not that I particularly care,” she added, glancing impassively at her phone.
His expression crumbled into exasperation. Even Shoko, the one person he suspected might still carry the spark of dignity, had succumbed. The tragedy was complete.
“Instagram,” Satoru explained loudly, reveling in Hajime’s misery, “is an addiction. You start innocently enough with a scroll or two, but suddenly, you're three years deep in someone's wedding pictures.”
Kinji nodded solemnly. “Or vacation albums.”
“Or stalk their exes,” Kirara helpfully supplied, deadpan. "Not that I'd know."
"Seems pointless," Hajime concluded, nose scrunched slightly in disapproval.
"You've just described modern society in two words," Shoko responded dryly, handing back the phone.
Satoru, eyes glinting mischievously, turned the screen toward Hajime again, showing him multiple photos of himself posing dramatically beside assorted desserts. “Go ahead, Grandpa Thunder. Admit it. My selfies are art."
"They're a cry for help," Shoko deadpanned.
Hajime stared between them, utterly perplexed. This era made no sense. They were powerful sorcerers, masters of cursed techniques and feared fighters, yet they wasted precious time and energy on this absurdity. Still, he found his thumb twitching curiously over the glass surface. Satoru’s cocky expression, mirrored over and over, provoked him beyond reason. Why was he compelled to scroll further?
Noticing Hajime’s interest, Kinji smirked knowingly. “Careful, Pikachu. Curiosity killed the cat, or in your case, electrocuted the boomer.”
Hajime looked up, unimpressed. “This world is already killing me slowly.”
“Sure, Grandpa Thunder,” Satoru drawled, suddenly snapping a photo of Hajime’s frustrated face. “Keep telling yourself that. Now hold still, this goes straight on your new profile.”
“Don't you dare!” Hajime lunged forward, accidentally knocking Kinji's bubble tea flying, spilling sticky sweetness everywhere.
Shoko sighed deeply, unfazed. “At least today isn't boring.”
Hajime’s eye twitched. Was this modernity? Was disrespect now celebrated openly?
Amid the chaos, he glared bitterly at the sleek, troublesome screen in his palm. He despised admitting it, but curiosity now gnawed at him relentlessly. Perhaps humanity was hopeless, but if it meant embarrassing Satoru Gojo, maybe—just maybe—this modern nonsense had its uses after all.
With a long-suffering sigh, Hajime silently promised vengeance.
Instagram had no idea what was coming.
Act V: Hashtag
Hajime had learned many things during his month in the modern world. Most of them were stupid. Some of them were terrifying. But one thing stood out among the chaos: the modern age ran on petty humiliation and public spectacle.
He stared at the rectangular device in his hands, scowling at the small glowing screen.
It took him exactly twenty-seven days, thirteen hours, and forty-six humiliating seconds to surrender to modernity. On day twenty-nine, he finally learned how to upload photos, Kinji, endlessly patient, called it a true milestone in Hajime's "personal growth."
He had no idea what that meant, and frankly, he didn't care.
It was Kirara who first gave him the idea. They’d been lounging idly around the dorm after another long, exhausting day of training, when Kirara had nonchalantly pointed to the sofa. "Look at him," Kirara whispered, a mischievous glint in their eyes. "Doesn't he look adorably defenseless when he's sleeping?"
Hajime glanced towards Satoru. The supposed "strongest sorcerer alive" was sprawled ungracefully over the couch, mouth hanging open, sunglasses askew, snoring loudly enough. He squinted in quiet disdain. This idiot—this childish menace—was supposed to be humanity’s strongest weapon?
Kirara handed him the phone silently. “Consider it your revenge for the Pikachu nickname, boomer.”
He frowned, fingers awkward around the thin metal device. He’d learned, painfully, not to underestimate modern contraptions. Smartphones, in particular, seemed especially cursed creations. Still, revenge tasted sweet. Slowly, carefully, Hajime pointed the camera at Satoru’s sleeping face and pressed the button.
"You," Hajime snapped, his brows furrowing deeply. "Explain again. How exactly do I post this ridiculous image?"
"You tap there, grandpa. It’s literally just one button." Kirara peered lazily over Hajime’s shoulder, offering a casual thumbs-up. "Add a filter. Maybe Valencia? Brings out the drool."
His thumb hovered over the 'post' button. “This, is called justice,” Hajime declared solemnly, pressing the button with dignified vengeance. He posted it, not fully grasping what "followers" or "hashtags" were yet. Kirara helpfully suggested a caption: “Strongest Sorcerer? Questionable. #GrandpaThunderRevenge”.
The response was instantaneous. A stream of tiny hearts and laughing emojis filled the screen. Hajime furrowed his brow in mild bewilderment, until Kinji burst out laughing from the kitchen doorway, holding two fresh bubble teas.
"Oh shit! Hajime, you legend!" Kinji exclaimed gleefully, scrolling through comments and likes, most of them consisting of crying-laughing faces and cheers of encouragement from what Hajime assumed were modern sorcerers. "You really did it! Instagram's newest influencer!"
“Does this mean I win?” Hajime asked solemnly, not entirely sure what he'd actually accomplished.
Kirara nodded sympathetically. “It means you're officially a millennial now.”
“That sounds horrendous,” Hajime muttered.
A sudden amused voice interrupted them from the doorway. “Oh, wow. Betrayed by your own teammate. That's rough, Satoru.”
Shoko Ieiri stood in the doorway, cigarette balanced between her fingers, a wry smile on her lips as she took in the scene. Her dark eyes flicked amusedly between Hajime's proud confusion, Kinji's manic joy, and Satoru's oblivious, drooling sleep.
“Nicely done,” Shoko commented casually, examining the photo on Kinji’s phone screen with approval. “The angle really captures Gojo’s stupidity.”
“Thank you.” Hajime wasn't sure why, but praise from Shoko felt strangely rewarding.
Unfortunately, that was precisely when Satoru awoke, blinking in confusion at the small crowd assembled around him.
“What’s going on?” he mumbled groggily. His gaze landed immediately on his phone. “I just got tagged in something.” His voice was dangerously calm.
Hajime shrugged, entirely unbothered. “A tragedy, I’m sure.”
“Oh you didn't-” Satoru lunged dramatically towards Hajime’s phone, but Kinji blocked him swiftly, laughing wildly.
“Oh no, Gojo-sensei, you lost. Admit defeat like a man!”
Satoru feigned deep, personal betrayal, clutching his heart dramatically as if Hajime had driven a cursed blade into his chest. “Come on, Pikachu, I thought we bonded!”
“Your mistake,” Hajime replied mildly, calmly sipping his matcha bubble tea. It tasted repulsive, of course, but he'd committed now. “You trusted a boomer.”
From her spot at the table, Shoko lit another cigarette with practiced boredom, lazily scrolling through her own Instagram feed. “Satoru, you’re trending,” she announced with dry amusement. “#SleepingSorcerer #StrongestSnorerAlive.”
Hajime muttered, scowling at the term as though it offended his ancestral honor. “The downfall of civilization.”
“Civilization peaked centuries ago, right?” Kinji teased, elbowing Hajime playfully. “We know, we know.”
Ignoring the younger sorcerer, Hajime scrolled through the comments beginning to flood in beneath his carefully chosen photo. A satisfying number praised his ‘excellent photography skills’ and humor. Even Yuta Okkotsu, whose kind politeness had quickly won Hajime’s respect, commented a polite thumbs-up emoji.
Hajime felt an uncharacteristically smug satisfaction bubble in his chest. Maybe modernity wasn’t entirely doomed. Petty revenge, at least, remained universal.
Across the room, Satoru dramatically collapsed onto Shoko’s shoulder. “I’m ruined, Shoko. My legacy is forever tarnished.”
Shoko merely shrugged, flicking ash off her cigarette into a porcelain tray. “You literally survived the Prison Realm, Gojo. A drooling selfie won’t destroy your reputation.”
Kirara nodded wisely. “If anything, it humanizes you.”
“I refuse to be humanized.” Satoru protested loudly, wounded dignity radiating from every pore.
Hajime chuckled to himself, savoring his momentary triumph. Kinji handed him another bubble tea, one that suspiciously seemed to have extra tapioca balls.
“Congratulations, Grandpa Thunder,” Kinji grinned. “You officially won the internet today.”
Hajime took the tea, stoically accepting this strange modern victory. Perhaps Instagram wasn't completely intolerable after all, at least, not when used correctly.
Humanity surely peaked four hundred years ago, but cat videos and revenge posts almost redeem your pathetic era. Almost.