Chapter One

Towering buildings stood side by side, their glass facades reflecting dazzling rays of light.
The streets teemed with endless streams of cars and an unceasing flow of pedestrians.
Sunlight poured through the sparse clouds, bathing the bustling city below. Shops of every kind lined the avenues, each vying for attention with their brilliant displays.

Yet, amid this beauty and peace, there was something jarring—a host of grotesquely shaped creatures clung to people or drifted aimlessly through certain areas… But the people seemed oblivious, ignoring them entirely.

Taking in the scene before him, and glancing down at his own attire, the cosplayer quickly reached a conclusion: he had transmigrated.

Cosplay transmigration—such a trope was common enough that he wasn't overly surprised; if anything, he was a little stunned by how unscientific it all was.

And yet, he’d been cosplaying Fyodor from “Bungo Stray Dogs,” so why had he landed in “Jujutsu Kaisen”? It felt… somewhat inappropriate.

What’s more, it was well known that “Jujutsu Kaisen” was far more dangerous than “Bungo Stray Dogs.” The character he was now playing, afflicted with chronic illness, would only decrease his odds of survival.

“Cough, cough.”

The worry that had just crossed his mind became reality a second later. An uncontrollable itch burned in his throat, accompanied by shortness of breath and a pounding heart… Each cough sent a tremor through his chest, tugging painfully at his frail insides. Every inch of his body ached, black spots danced across his vision, and a fierce dizziness threatened to swallow his consciousness whole.

It was here—the first law of cosplay transmigration: no matter how healthy the cosplayer had been before, after transmigrating their body would resemble the character’s as closely as possible.

Fyodor D—an ageless, enigmatic youth of almost demonic intelligence, coughing up blood every few steps (an exaggeration, but not by much). He styled himself as God’s messenger, despised those with supernatural powers (though he himself possessed one), and longed to eradicate all supernatural beings, believing the world should belong to ordinary people.

He was a twisted peacemaker—willing to employ any means for his ideal peace.

A masterful schemer, few ever saw through his plots.

The cosplayer admired Fyodor’s ability to strategize; in this villainous boss he saw pride and humility, cunning and sincerity—a tangle of contradictions that made Fyodor so compelling.

And now.

He had become Fyodor.

How to describe his feelings in this moment? “Complicated” would suffice.

Had he known he would transmigrate, he should have chosen to cosplay someone strong and healthy—at least then he'd have stood a chance at survival.

He waited for a while, but his condition didn’t improve; if anything, the dizziness grew worse.

A sense of weightlessness seemed to surge from his very soul. The world spun wildly around him, and he instinctively bent forward, bracing his hands on his knees in an attempt to steady himself. It was futile.

His mind went blank, a ringing in his ears drowning out the city’s clamor.

The cosplayer lost consciousness.

...

“Are you… alright?”

“Hey…”

His senses jolted back; hearing returned first, and the cosplayer caught snatches of noise—above all, the fierce thudding of his own heart.

Ba-dum, ba-dum.

It beat so hard it felt as if it might burst from his chest.

One by one, the rest of his senses awakened. He felt a firm hand supporting his limp body from behind.

The scene before him was unchanged: busy traffic, bustling crowds, just as before he’d blacked out. He couldn’t have been unconscious long—thank goodness for the kind soul who’d caught him.

“Thank you.” He wanted to turn and express his gratitude, but he was too weak, even speaking was an effort.

“Are you sure you’re alright? Should I take you to the hospital? Or call a friend or family member to pick you up?” the good Samaritan suggested.

It was a reasonable offer, but the cosplayer had just arrived—he had neither friends nor family here.

“No worries… Could you just help me to those steps over there? I’m sorry to trouble you.”

The stranger helped him to a step, where the cosplayer sat down heavily, covering his face with both hands and taking slow, deep breaths. Gradually, his strength returned. Feeling a bit better, he looked up at his benefactor and sincerely thanked him again: “Thank you.”

…Wait.

Staring at the young yet familiar face, the cosplayer’s breath caught almost imperceptibly.

It was Suguru Geto.

A key character in “Jujutsu Kaisen”—not often on stage, yet always a luminous presence. A hero at first, later a villain, both loved and loathed. Some saw him as cruel and heartless, even capable of killing his own parents. Others believed that, had he not been driven to it, the gentle, kind-hearted youth would never have become an executioner.

The cosplayer’s fingers, resting on his knees, twitched slightly. He gazed at the black-haired youth, a faint smile on his lips. “My name is Fyodor. May I ask yours? And if possible, could we exchange contact information? I truly appreciate your help—if it weren’t for you, I might have suffered a nasty fall. Please, let me return the favor.”

He said this intentionally.

Unconsciously, his thought patterns were already aligning with the character he cosplayed.

At first, he’d had no intention of getting close to any plot characters, but now his mind brimmed with schemes—all leading toward the same goal: remove the aberrant, let the world belong to ordinary people.

Curses were clearly a type of aberration, even more detestable than those with supernatural abilities—a scourge that must be eliminated.

As for why he wanted to forge a connection with Suguru Geto, there were countless reasons, too many to enumerate now.

“Oh, it’s nothing, don’t worry about it. By the way, are you Russian? Visiting Japan?” the black-haired youth asked casually.

Unlike the cosplayer, whose mind was already plotting, the youth seemed entirely unconcerned; his questions were as informal as “Have you eaten yet?”

“Is it that obvious?” the cosplayer asked, feigning curiosity.

“Your name sounds very Russian, and your appearance is quite different from most Asians,” the youth replied.

A low vibration, “Bzz—Bzz—,” emanated from the youth’s pocket. He gestured for a pause and fished out his phone, glanced at the caller ID, and answered.

“Moshi moshi… Composition notebook? Let me check.”

He wedged the phone between his shoulder and ear, unzipped his commuter bag, and rifled through it.

“It’s here, yes… No worries, we don’t have a composition assignment today anyway. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

He ended the call, zipped up his bag, freed his shoulder and head, and turned back to the cosplayer. “Are you sure you don’t need to go to the hospital?”

“No need.”

“Alright, then… I’ll be going.”

“Okay.”

The black-haired youth turned and walked away, his figure dissolving into the haze of the setting sun.

The cosplayer looked down at his hands; beneath the pale skin, blue veins stood out starkly.

His skin had never been this white—so pale, it was almost sickly.

He stared at his hands for a long while, then murmured to himself, “Strange… I can’t seem to remember my real name anymore…”

*

The cosplayer sat for a long time, from dusk until nightfall.

The flow of people dwindled, the night breeze carried a hint of chill across his cheeks.

He was preoccupied by an urgent problem: without money, where would he spend the night?

Oddly enough, he didn’t feel anxious or panicked—in fact, he was even pondering how to eradicate curses.

Time ticked by; the crowds on the street thinned to nothing. The streetlights shone silently as moths battered themselves against the glass, heedless of pain. Soon, a few moths lay motionless on the ground—who could say if they were stunned or dead.

The cosplayer rose to his feet, as if with purpose, and headed toward the corner ahead.

Turning, he found an alleyway squeezed between a large building and an office tower, shadowy and narrow.

He had barely reached the mouth of the alley when a terrified, desperate cry for help rang out.