CHAPTER SIX

Gojo stood with one hand tucked lazily in his pocket, the other idly adjusting his blindfold, looking down the length of a cracked, weed-choked street.

A dozen gang members were scattered across the block like spilled garbage, all ABB judging by the red-and-green color scheme and the almost desperate frenzy with which they moved. Opposite them, a haphazard convoy of metal-plated monstrosities clanked and hissed.

At the head of the convoy: a vehicle that looked like a city bus had swallowed a monster truck, then gotten halfway through digesting a battleship. It rumbled and spat oily smoke from a vertical exhaust pipe stitched into the back like a rusted metal spine.

The thing looked like it hated physics.

And its driver was worse.

“Let’s gooo, boys!” squeaked a high-pitched voice, amplified through a makeshift megaphone duct-taped to the roof of the vehicle. “ABB don’t got shit on horsepower!”

Gojo’s head tilted. “Oh boy.”

Even from a block away, he could see her: legs swinging out the side of her mobile war crime, dressed in a tank top that had lost the war against gravity and jean shorts reduced to a denim suggestion. Her makeup looked like it had been applied in the dark—by someone firing a paintball gun—and her hair was tied in a half-burnt ponytail, streaked with something too pink to be natural.

Definitely a cape. And not the subtle kind.

Gojo didn’t recognize her, but that wasn’t surprising. This city had way too many capes, and half of them looked and acted like background NPCs in a discount video game.

Still, she had tech. Which meant she might be one of the Tinkers. Or maybe that was a different category entirely. Gojo hadn’t figured it out yet. Earth Bet’s classifications were a confusing mess.

The ABB opened fire first. Gunfire rattled off like firecrackers, pinging off the armor plating. Squealer’s ride didn’t slow down—it surged forward, absorbing the damage with mechanical delight.

Turrets unfolded from the sides. A sound cannon pulsed, releasing a low-frequency screech. One ABB goon dropped, blood leaking from his ears.

Gojo sighed. “Okay. Big angry car. Discount Mad Max. Tech-fetish goblin girl. Gang fight.” He stretched his neck until it popped. “Guess that counts as morning entertainment around here.”

The vehicle turned. He was spotted.

The cape leaned halfway out of the window and pointed. “HEY, WHITE-HAIR!”

Gojo blinked beneath his blindfold. “Me?”

“YEAH YOU! You’re that freak who smoked Bakuda, right? Let’s see what my baby thinks of you!”

The monstrosity roared as it accelerated. 

Gojo didn’t move.

The ground shook. Spikes extended from the grill. A faint glow built up around the front of the vehicle—something experimental, maybe unstable. Definitely stupid.

The ABB ducked and scattered, not willing to stick around for the aftermath.

Gojo stayed where he was.

The effect was immediate. One moment, the vehicle was charging forward—all momentum, smoke, and murderous intent—and the next, it met Infinity.

There was no impact. No crash. Just a quiet, absolute denial of motion. The space between Gojo and the machine fractured into impossibility—divided again and again, sliced into infinite fractions too small to exist. 

Its front end crumpled inward, tires tore themselves apart trying to push forward through math that didn’t care. The vehicle convulsed, twisted mid-air in a screech of grinding steel, and finally hurled itself sideways in a desperate bid to obey some law of physics.

It crashed thirty feet away in a heap of ruined ambition and burning oil, groaning.

Gojo exhaled through his nose. 

The hatch blew open. Squealer staggered out, dazed and spitting fury.

“You—! You’re cheating!”

“I just stood still,” Gojo said, strolling toward her. “You’re the one who rammed into me.”

“You’re some kinda forcefield cape, right?” she snapped, jabbing an oil-smeared finger at him. “Bet I can tweak my machine so that next time I will punch right through it next time!”

He crouched beside her smoking wreck, rapping a knuckle against the crumpled hood. “This thing’s held together with spite and duct tap.”

Then, with a bright, dangerous smile, all pearly whites:

“And you? You’re just loud enough to mistake noise for power.”

“Screw you! You think you’re scary? I built that in three days with scraps and a hangover!”

Gojo laughed, genuinely amused. “So I was right.”

The cape growled and reached for something inside the vehicle—probably a gun, or a weapon with too many buttons and not enough safety features.

Gojo raised his hand. Instantly, her arm locked mid-motion. Not frozen in time. Just… unable to move, despite her straining heavily, infinity pressing down on the vicinity.

“You’re not worth killing,” he said, tone still light, “but next time you point your toy at me, I will erase both it and you from existence.”

Her eyes widened. “You can’t—”

“I’m Gojo Satoru,” he said, standing tall again. “Strongest in my world. Strongest in this one. They don't just know it yet.”

She whimpered.

And this time, Gojo didn’t smile.

He turned and walked away, footsteps unhurried as sirens wailed somewhere in the distance. Her gang scrambled, trying to regroup, but half were unconscious and the rest looked one bad decision away from running. None of them were a threat. Not worth his attention—barely worth the air they were breathing.

Gojo didn’t look back. Just muttered, “This city keeps handing me trash that thinks it’s treasure.”

Then, a low chuckle:

“Still more fun than the higher-ups back home.”