Your Life As A Tokyo Jujutsu High Background Student

Chapter 1 - The day everything went wrong

It all started on that late evening.

You were chilling in your dorm room, flipping through the heavy Encyclopedia of Water-Based Curses balanced on your knee. The leather binding creaked faintly as you turned each crinkled page, scanning the elaborate illustrations of snarling curses and lengthy descriptions of their vicious powers. Your third bottle of mint chocolate milk sat sweating on the desk, the sugary scent mingling with old paper and worn wood polish.

Yes. That's your definition of chill. After all, you were a jujutsu sorcerer – any evening NOT spent fighting actual curses or running for your dear life absolutely qualified as chill.

You enjoyed learning new things. You adored a quiet room. It was shaping up to be an excellent evening. Just as you were starting to relax, sinking into that delightful solitude...

Gojo Satoru abruptly popped into your room. Literally. No knocking, as usual. Screw that man, his teleporting, and his blatant disregard for common courtesy, not to mention basic human decency.

A subtle displacement of air was your only warning. One moment, peaceful stillness; the next, a towering figure in a crisp black outfit and gravity-defying white hair was beaming down at you, his sudden presence nearly causing your heart to perform an unscheduled ejection from your ribcage.

"Spices!" he declared, with that signature bubbly enthusiasm that never failed to make you cringe. "I'm going to Sendai. I'll swing by Kikusuian while I'm there. Want anything?"

How typical that he'd invite himself in via interdimensional travel and then offer to buy you treats as if that somehow made up for the near-death experience he'd just inflicted.

You grimaced at the snarling water curse in the encyclopedia, its gruesome illustration doing little to improve your mood.

Spices.

That stupid nickname had haunted you since your first month at the school, after Gojo overheard a particularly colorful outburst—a masterpiece of creative cursing, if you did say so yourself.

It wasn't your fault. Learning about this entire jujutsu world that you hadn't even known existed until Gojo decided to grace you with his presence. The stress of training, of being in a new place with so many new people, the sheer weirdness of it all. You'd been running on fumes—a frayed, glittering wire of raw nerves.

But did the revered Gojo Satoru cut you any slack? Of course not. He latched onto your "spicy" language with delight, bestowing the nickname with the self-satisfied air of a monarch knighting a valiant hamster.

Seriously? You might be a little bit impulsive with your choice of language on occasion. But most of the time, you were the picture of decency and good manners. Gojo had started it. Hakari and Kirara had adopted it with glee. And the rest, as they say, was history. Your real name faded into obscurity, replaced by that infernal title. Even your underclassmen called you Spices.

Spices-senpai. The indignity of it all. Now only Principal Yaga used your actual given name. And it was all Gojo's fault.

Oblivious as always to your sour reaction, Gojo leaned casually against your desk, cheerfully babbling on about his upcoming pilgrimage to the promised land of sugary delights. "How about I grab us your favorite—those Kikufuku mochi? The edamame ones, right? With the sweet cream filling?"

You leveled an unimpressed look in his direction. "You mean your favorite," you corrected flatly.

Gojo laughed, waving a dismissive hand. The motion sent a waft of his expensive cologne your way – spicy oud mingling with bright bergamot. Not unpleasant, but still... Gojo.