What was a day like for Gojo Satoru on the island?
At six in the morning, when the bell for morning rise rang, he would lie in bed for at least ten minutes. Then, his cold and ruthless roommate would drag him up like a radish. Slowly, he would wash, get dressed, ignore the instructor's brainwashing morning lessons, maintain the demeanor of someone from a prestigious family, and elegantly finish breakfast.
Next came the daily, perfunctory physical and endurance training, followed by courses on various cold and hot weapons, and comprehensive assassination techniques. During these lessons, he would demonstrate what it meant to never forget anything, becoming the object of envy, jealousy, and lament for life's unfairness.
Lunch break was his happiest moment. Thanks to his relentless demands, both overt and subtle, he had successfully persuaded Tequila to open a "green channel" for him—no, a grand channel—for desserts.
Since the island was in Italy, a world away from Japan, specialties like edamame cream kikufuku were out of the question. Yet desperate times called for desperate measures, and he could settle for second best. As everyone knew, Italy was a paradise for dessert lovers: tiramisu in every flavor, rich almond biscuits, cannoli, springy panna cotta, crispy sfogliatelle, fluffy panettone, Sicilian cassata, and melt-in-your-mouth truffle chocolates… Just hearing about them was enough to make one drool.
They were painstakingly air-freighted in and then lined up to enter Gojo Satoru's stomach. Oh, and Kurosawa Jin's too. This act, which could only be described as "favoritism," made Gojo Satoru a little curious about his relationship with the boss.
Under the influence of a certain super high school-level sweet tooth, even Kurosawa Jin—who usually didn't like sweets—gradually became accustomed to the sugary taste that lingered on his tongue every noon.
Then came the afternoon. Sometimes there were culture classes. During these dull moments, Gojo Satoru often found ways to amuse himself: he would force Kurosawa Jin to play Gomoku with him or draw turtle heads on paper. If he felt like it, he might listen to the lesson, only to ask tricky, difficult questions, delighting in the teacher's suppressed frustration.
More often, though, the afternoons were spent on combat, practical exercises, and team confrontations. Sounds interesting, doesn't it? But for Gojo Satoru, whom no one dared to challenge, even if someone was picked to fight him, they usually surrendered immediately, leaving him with no choice but to spar with Kurosawa Jin. Everyone knew that drawing anyone else might give them a chance to fight, but encountering that outrageous freak Gojo meant certain defeat. So why waste energy?
Over time, it became routine.
"Ah~ So boring."
Gojo Satoru let out his eighty-eighth sigh of the day at the training grounds.
"Hey, you—the redhead over there—can you twist your head 360 degrees so I can see?"
The freckles on the redheaded teenager's face almost fell off in fright. He trembled and stammered, "Gojo-kun… this… this… no, no… I'll die, won't I?"
"Is there any need to be so scared?" Gojo Satoru rested his hand on his cheek, speechless. "I'm not going to eat you."
The redheaded teenager scurried away.
Gojo Satoru seriously wondered why they were so afraid. It didn't seem like he had done much. He had just knocked out teeth, dislocated arms, broken legs, and sent anyone who provoked him to the medical ward for a month or two. Hmm… Had he been mistaken for a bully? That would be a huge misunderstanding.
Though he had looked down on weaker individuals from childhood through high school, Gojo Satoru essentially had a kind and pure heart, didn't he? Extreme self-confidence and extreme self-centeredness could also be a form of purity, right?
Forget it. What others say or do has nothing to do with him. He wouldn't pay them any mind.
However… that didn't mean he would ignore certain situations.
He had originally intended to sneak out for some fresh air, but certain information from his Rikugan (Six Eyes) made him frown.
…
Shimizu Xia hadn't eaten enough today.
So hungry. So hungry. She wanted something to eat. She had long been accustomed to the gnawing hunger in her stomach. Even if she always performed well in practical exercises and cultural classes, receiving some rewards from instructors—whether food or daily necessities—they would eventually be snatched away by groups of boys.
She couldn't remember when it had started. Perhaps it was because there were too few girls in the training camp, or maybe because Japanese students were easily ostracized by Europeans and mixed-bloods, or perhaps her constant inferiority and timidity were irritating… Slowly, it escalated from taking a small portion of her food to most of it, then to outright physical bullying. Because she was timid and weak, she became a punching bag for the group.
Today was no exception. In fact, it was worse than she imagined.
"Hey, fight back, idiot woman!""So stupid, it's hilarious.""How dare you rank higher than me in the previous exercise?"
There were four or five of them. Even if she resisted, it was useless. Better to accept it obediently than risk being beaten worse.
Rain-like punches and kicks rained down on her small body. It hurt, but she didn't cry out. Her vision blurred slightly.
Memories she thought she had buried surged back. When she was three, her parents had sold her to human traffickers. After several years of training, she ended up with an outer member of the organization and finally entered this assassin's preparatory camp. Most people forget much of their lives at three, but she remembered vividly, even the panicked expressions of her parents as they tried to discard what they saw as a nuisance.
Her buyer had told her that her exceptional talent with cold weapons was her only value.
Though grateful to the organization that let her live, she often wondered: if her parents treated her like disposable trash, what reason did she have to live? Why was she born?
Unlike most on the island, her eyes were not solely focused on goals like defeating others or obtaining a codename. She was trapped in endless confusion. Life was exhausting. Perhaps death would be better? Closing her eyes would stop her from overthinking.
"Alright, stop hitting her. She'll die if you keep going. We won't be able to explain it to the instructor."
"Tch…""By the way, you said… isn't her figure…?""She's been beaten like this, and you're still interested?""What does that matter?"
Some overly precocious teenagers with nowhere to vent their energy often preyed on female peers. Usually, instructors forbade private fights, and dormitory locations varied. So when they finally caught a girl who didn't resist and didn't seem like a qualified assassin, their thoughts turned wicked.
Shimizu Xia finally reacted to the hand coming for her chest. She cried.
"No… don't… do this…"
She clearly had no goal in life. She felt that dying like this was acceptable. But… why did her heart ache so much?
"Someone… someone… save me…"
"Hey, you trash, worse than ants."
A cold voice rang out. A white-haired teenager, hands in his pockets, stood like a ghost, expressionless.
"What are you doing?"