Chapter 3

That day, Takizawa naturally didn’t receive any straightforward answers. Jinpei Matsuda’s reaction was as if he’d been struck at the heart—there was a slight evasiveness and fluster. Takizawa didn’t mind much; he explained that he had simply lost physical strength and couldn’t maintain his balance, accidentally leaning out the window.

Jinpei didn’t say whether he believed him or not, but judging by his expression, he probably didn’t.

At least Takizawa had found an excuse to brush him off, which sounded much better than just giving up and withdrawing.

“I’ll come see you when I have time.”

With that, the young man left, a hint of gloom lingering on his face.

When Takizawa later went to sneak around searching for that cursed spirit’s figure, the view was impeccably clean.

Is this Satoru’s world?

It should be Satoru’s world.

Having broken free from the system’s control over his trans-dimensional crossing, Takizawa wasn’t entirely confident. From what he knew, there were countless worlds, and the lounge was both a coordinate and a stable connection point. He shouldn’t have ended up in a strange place.

He lingered for a long time by the hospital’s phone booth, pushing his walker, yet never dialed Satoru Gojo’s number. There was no special reason; he had simply forgotten Gojo’s contact information.

He wasn’t sure if it was because too much time had passed or if it was a side effect of the accident. After more than ten failed attempts and being scolded by a grumpy middle-aged man, the courage he had built up to call quickly dissipated.

He didn’t dare try again, at least not for now.

“Am I really such a coward?”

He muttered to himself in disbelief. “Could it be nervousness about returning home? No, that can’t be it. I just…”

Pausing, Takizawa resignedly faced his own feelings.

He was afraid Satoru Gojo had forgotten him—forgetting being a vague concept that included the fading of deep bonds, the passage of time making past connections less significant, even indifferent.

More terrifyingly, that Satoru Gojo might no longer exist in this world.

Having risked everything to escape the system’s grasp, his only contact with this world was Gojo.

But the other party was not waiting for him.

“He can’t have turned into some old man, right?”

His sense of time hazy, Takizawa muttered this as he pushed his walker and turned back.

He thought to himself, “I should wait until I’m better.”

In his current severely injured state, it wasn’t suitable to see Satoru Gojo. Even if the boy didn’t show it on his face, he must be troubled inside.

For two consecutive weeks, Takizawa stayed in the inpatient ward.

But he was far from bored, for his gift of gab allowed him to chat with nearly every patient and staff member wandering the corridors. The elderly treated him with special affection, so even without family or friends by his side, Takizawa’s life was not difficult.

Jinpei Matsuda did not break his promise; whenever he had time, he came to see Takizawa, cautiously monitoring his mental state.

“I turned down an interview request from a media outlet. They’re very curious about your survival story that night,” Jinpei said, sitting in a chair as he watched Takizawa grimace through the removal of his stitches.

“Can that even make the news?” Takizawa knew Jinpei was trying to divert his attention. “What kind of story is there? You running a few kilometers behind me in some touching chase scene?”

“...” Jinpei clicked his tongue in silent disagreement. “You’re really heavy.”

“Well, I’m over 1.8 meters tall,” Takizawa retorted.

His fingerprints were matched, but no record existed in the database for him.

An undocumented person? An illegal immigrant? Or something else?

Perhaps the database was flawed, and fingerprint matching was never an infallible means of identification.

Jinpei looked seriously at the doctor as he asked when Takizawa’s head injury would heal, his expression calm but hopeful.

No one could guess that this was the same young man who would run up to the rooftop at night to blow off steam, always ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

“I think he’s lonely,” Miss Kobayashi, who had been observing him, quietly told Jinpei half an hour ago. “He can’t name a single person he knows, and despite such severe injuries, no one is caring for him… It seems only you are different.”

Jinpei knew why he was different.

Because he saved Takizawa’s life. When Takizawa lay unconscious on his back, the strength with which he gripped Jinpei’s neck felt like he was trying to strangle him.

“Save me…”

“Please save me.”

“Help me…”

“So I really am just a substitute.”

Takizawa arched an eyebrow and pointed at himself, meeting Jinpei’s complicated gaze. “What exactly are you looking at?”

Jinpei turned his head aside.

After a moment, he suddenly asked, “When are you going to pay me back?”

“Ah, here comes the annoying debt collector,” Takizawa said dramatically, covering his ears but wisely answering quickly. “I’ll find a job once I’m healed, and I’ll treat the honorable Mr. Matsuda to a lavish street food feast.”

Miss Kobayashi laughed again.

Takizawa recovered remarkably fast.

From near death, he healed about sixty to seventy percent within less than a month.

Only his leg bones were severely fractured; he still needed crutches to get around, but without the walker, he felt freer and even had the energy to play frisbee with a stray dog outside the hospital.

It was a shiny-coated golden retriever, probably abandoned by someone. Young and lively, it was overly excited and didn’t realize Takizawa’s unsteady stance. Clutching the frisbee it had retrieved, it leapt toward him with full force.

The young man’s expression shifted slightly. Instinctively bending his body and spreading his arms, he felt a strong impact crash into his chest, the momentum knocking him off balance.

“Watch out!” patients and staff strolling downstairs gasped, but the next moment, a chorus of hushing sounds followed.

The tall, unsteady youth, about to fall backward, was caught in the arms of a slender girl.

Takizawa blinked in confusion.

The support around his waist was even and steady; if not for the glimpse of a youthful, delicate face, he might have thought a two-meter-tall man was holding him.

Slightly surprised, Takizawa locked eyes silently with her for two seconds. The girl pretended to be serious as she pushed up her glasses, a faint blush quickly spreading across her face.

“Salmon Roe.”

A voice with amusement drifted from beside them.

Takizawa was immediately straightened by the sudden force, moving so quickly it seemed he was trying to hide his embarrassment.

“Hey, Inumaki! Don’t think I don’t know you’re laughing!”

“Dried Bonito Flakes.”

The girl with dark green hair turned and went off bickering with her companion. Their uniforms briefly caught Takizawa’s attention.

He stared straight at their backs. They treated their timely assistance as an inconsequential incident, never uttering a word to Takizawa, casually teasing each other about the unexpected contact with the opposite sex. They carried a subtle sense of dissonance, as if they didn’t belong in this world.

Only when a wet nose pressed into his palm did Takizawa snap back to reality, stroking the dog’s head as it wiggled in his arms.

Why did their uniforms seem so familiar?

Takizawa pondered gloomily for a while but couldn’t figure it out. He then followed his patients and friends, who called him back to his room to rest.

At sunset, as usual, he went to the rooftop to catch some breeze. Suddenly, as if a connection had finally sparked, a brilliant idea flared, and he practically jumped up.

“Isn’t that the uniform of the Jujutsu High School?! Those two are sorcerers!”

Takizawa clutched his head, wailing, “Ah, my brain! How could I have forgotten something so important—!”

He had even worn the Jujutsu High School uniform for a while, also to protect Satoru Gojo.

His first mission target, the Six-Eyed Divine Child—both those around him and he himself held one belief: Takizawa lived solely for Satoru Gojo.

Only Satoru Gojo hated that notion the most.