Gojo Satoru had thought Kurosawa Jin would be unable to resist striking him, but he had truly underestimated the organization's future top assassin… He was genuinely loyal to that gentleman.
If you asked him why he was so arrogant, it was because, after inheriting Gojo Satoru's memories, he could naturally sense an incredibly powerful force hidden within his body.
Since he hadn't really fought before, he felt a thrill in his heart—a strong desire to test himself and have a showdown with Kurosawa Jin. However, he noticed the other simply ignored him, sitting on the desk, rolling up his sleeves, and grabbing a roll of bandages to wrap his still-bleeding hand.
Gojo Satoru watched him for a while. Not wanting to make a fool of himself, he yawned, slipped his hands into his pockets, and strolled out the door, wandering around.
This place was exactly as he had imagined: a small island, almost completely isolated from the world. Rows of small, cell-like rooms were neatly arranged, as if cast from the same mold. Some teenagers his age were devouring dry bread with water; others stared blankly into space like robots, while a few walked in groups silently, lifelessly.
Gojo Satoru could easily tell that none of them were to be underestimated—and most had blood on their hands.
His presence drew attention immediately. They had never seen someone with such a distinctive appearance. Being a newcomer, he was scrutinized. The boy radiated a strong aura, warning others to keep their distance, clearly no pushover. Most glanced away after sizing him up, but… there were always exceptions.
A tall, muscular teenager, a head above Gojo Satoru, chuckled as he swaggered over, followed by a few lackeys. Tattoos covered his arms, and his muscles were unusually developed for his age, making others instinctively keep their distance.
"Yo, you new here? You look so delicate—you're gonna get beaten to death in tomorrow's combat drill," he sneered, eyeing Gojo Satoru's seemingly frail body. "Heh… If you're smart, hand over your future food rations, maybe you'll live a few more months."
Gojo Satoru lifted his gaze, his eyes piercing like ice, and spoke calmly:
"Trash talk, huh?"
Suddenly, the surroundings fell silent. Everyone watched intently, not moving.
"You…"
The tall teenager's face twisted in rage. "You don't know what's good for you! Since you're so eager to die, I'll grant your wish!" He struck out, aiming to twist Gojo Satoru's neck.
Unbeknownst to him, his movements were completely visible under Gojo Satoru's Six Eyes. Using his power for the first time felt natural, like an extension of his own body. He casually dodged left, and the teenager missed, nearly falling. Startled, he assumed it was luck and immediately swung again.
It was clear that, had this punch landed, it would have shattered the bones of an ordinary adult.
Gojo Satoru moved sideways, sweeping his right leg with terrifying precision into the teenager's face, instantly paralyzing him. Blood spurted from his mouth and nose, and he collapsed to the ground, unable to rise.
The lackeys hesitated, then quickly helped him up. He touched his bleeding nose and stared at the newcomer—initially an easy target—with sheer terror.
"M-Mon… monster…"
Such speed and strength could not exist in such a fragile body. This guy… was terrifying.
Gojo Satoru's small test of his abilities had yielded very satisfying results.
He looked down at the kneeling teenager, then scanned the onlookers, and said proudly:
"What are you looking at, scum? Scram!"
The teenager dared not provoke him again and slowly retreated. The others watched with entirely different eyes, full of apprehension.
"Clap, clap, clap."
A round of applause echoed.
Gojo Satoru turned to see a tall, middle-aged man with a hawk-like face.
He regarded the white-haired boy with admiration. "As expected of someone valued by that person… truly extraordinary." Then, he glared at everyone else. "Those who fight outside combat drills—you know the consequences, right?"
He waved his hand, and several black-clothed, armed security personnel lifted the teenager who had attacked Gojo Satoru. He screamed and struggled.
"Ah! Instructor, I was wrong! Don't… I don't want to die! Didn't you always ignore when I beat up new recruits before? Why now, for this kid…"
A gunshot rang out. The teenager had a bullet in his head and was no longer moving.
Gojo Satoru had wanted to teach him a lesson… not to kill him. Watching this, he felt uneasy and reminded himself these were just manga characters. There was no need to care.
To maintain his persona, he couldn't show any abnormality. Taking a few deep breaths, he calmed himself, the composure of the Gojo Family Head coming online. His clear blue eyes fixed on the man who had given the order:
"Your name?"
The man ignored his tone and replied, "I'm Tequila. You can also call me Instructor."
Tequila? That expendable figure who had appeared once and been blown up? Gojo Satoru never imagined he could be an instructor. He reasoned that this person must understand his relationship with the boss, which explained his friendliness.
"Since you're new here, there are a few things you need to know."
Tequila led Gojo Satoru while explaining everything in detail. Gojo finally understood his situation.
This small island was a remote Black Organization base in Italy, uninhabited, dedicated to cultivating real killers. The organization selects orphans from various countries, training them militarily from a young age. Training includes weapon mastery, physical conditioning, unarmed combat, defensive techniques, and more.
Regular combat drills occur, along with team exercises, and an annual killing duel where everyone fights to the death, no matter the casualties. After three years, the most outstanding emerge as official, code-named members. The rest may become peripheral members—or die on the island.
It was, without a doubt, a pure method of raising killers. In the original work, who but the workaholic could obtain a code name under such circumstances?
After explaining most of it, Tequila showed Gojo the usual training grounds, encouraged him to practice with weapons freely, and sent him back to the dormitory.
He had been a law-abiding, model young man not long ago, and now he had to survive among hardened kids. Life was full of surprises.
Despite his complaints, Gojo Satoru planned to take the next three years seriously. In a world where magic existed, strange enemies could appear at any time.
Still… everyone else seemed so weak…
He wondered about Kurosawa Jin's level.
At night, the golden-haired teen felt an inexplicable chill. He saw the blue eyes shining in the darkness, grew uneasy, and closed his own eyes to avoid looking.
"Heh, little workaholic… so shy…"
Gojo Satoru enjoyed himself, but then heard a mechanical voice from the system:
"Ding-dong! Today's impression value settlement: 250 points. Already stored. Please accept."
Gojo glanced at the panel: "Where did the 250 points come from?"
"Vermouth contributed 100 points, Kurosawa Jin 100 points, and Tequila 50 points. Total: 250 points."
"I didn't even say much to the workaholic… and it's that high? What kind of impressions are these?"
"Mostly murderous intent and disgust, by estimation."
"…!"
Being roommates with someone full of murderous intent… would he be killed in the middle of the night?
But on second thought… if he kept angering the workaholic, would the impression points keep flowing in?
The target to fleece… had been found.