Apostle of Paradise Lost / (Jujutsu Kaisen Fiction)

[Sng-KAzVener]

Preface

Greetings, dear readers! This is my first time on this platform, so I'm still navigating my way around, but here we go. I am pleased to present my fanfiction set within the Jujutsu Kaisen universe. Think of this as a "DLC-style" expansion to the canon, exploring Geto's legacy and his character arc through the lens of my Original Character (OC). What you are about to read is only the Prologue and an Interlude; there is much more to come. I hope you enjoy the descent into this story. Happy reading!

P.S. to the Staff/Moderation: Since I am new here, I hope for your patience if I've made any formatting or placement errors. Please let me know if anything needs fixing, and I will correct it immediately.

Thank you!​

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Prologue​

"Since our earliest days, we are taught that God created us in His own image and likeness. That He is the measure of all existence, and His love for us is boundless. We are bidden to love our neighbor as ourselves, believing that He shall not forsake us in our hour of need, nor fail to shield us from the foulest of demons…

But what remains, if in the hour of agony the Almighty remained deaf? Had He the right to keep His silence while the sufferer prayed with his last breath, crying out for mercy?
For to that cry, another appeared. One who, delivering me from the devils, stretched forth a hand of succor and of care. And if he hath done that which the Creator dared not... have I not the right to name him the True God?" - Takamoe Kamo
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Interlude: Sendai Colony

Date: November 12th 2018 year

Another day of the cataclysm known as the "Culling Game" grinds through Japan. Half the realm lies in ruin, its people adrift in a stupor of disbelief, failing to grasp the madness that has strangled their land. Souls perish in geometric progression; the throne of authority remains silent, its position unknown. Within the Sendai Colony of Miyagi Prefecture, events of truly monstrous scale and substance are unfurling. The participants those few who had amassed blood-stained points and reveled in their fleeting dominance never fathomed they would collide with a Special Grade sorcerer from the Tokyo Jujutsu High: Yuta Okkotsu.

The spectacle of him standing fiercely against these instruments of slaughter was nothing short of breathtaking. Even as a Special Grade, standing alongside the likes of Yuki Tsukumo or the renowned Satoru Gojo, few possessed the mastery to contend alone against sorcerers of the Heian Era and that Special Grade curse - an insectoid horror birthed from a diseased mind, feasting with delight upon human flesh while its victims perished in agonizing helplessness. Yet Yuta, battered and bloodied, emerged the victor. He did not claim the lives of the survivors; instead, with a haunting kindness, he spoke to his foes, asking them to mercifully surrender the points they had harvested from the innocent...

But the air shifted. The threads of fate tangled. As if for Yuta's very soul, another had descended - one he had never beheld, yet who knew him intimately. For the Sufferer had marked him with a monstrous brand, and Okkotsu bore it now: the mark of the Persecutor.

— << Hoc est autem judicium: quia lux venit in mundum… >> —

A distant male voice sliced through the silence of the Sendai ruins. It was cold, reminiscent of the frozen lake of Cocytus where Lucifer himself lies interned for eternity, yet it echoed with a thunderous resonance. At the sound, Yuta froze. His former opponent, Ryu Ishigori, went still. Okkotsu's left hand trembled involuntarily. The stranger did not cease.

— << ...et dilexerunt homines magis tenebras quam lucem: erant enim eorum mala opera. >> —

As the Latin faded, Yuta heard a rhythmic, unsettling sound: glass spheres clicking and grinding between the stranger's fingers. Looking up, some twelve meters away, he saw a solitary lamppost amidst the wreckage. Atop it sat a silhouette. The figure fingered prayer beads the color of parched clay. He was draped in white garments that caught the light like a thousand stars, covered by a heavy scapular as black as the abyss. He wore the habit of a Cistercian. At his waist, a coiled cingulum rope was knotted; about his neck hung the stole of a priest and a humble crucifix of dark oak. Beneath the cross hung a large, vibrant square of green and gold, slashed by a crimson stain that formed three letters: SSS. A white hood cast his features into shadow, yet as he stood there, he bowed his head in a mock-humble reverence.

— << This is the verdict: Light has come into the world, but people loved darkness instead of light, because their deeds were evil. >> —

The stranger raised his head. Sunlight broke through the clouds, illuminating half his face with a greedy intensity. Yuta felt those eyes—not looking at him, but piercing through him, skewering his sinful soul like a blade.

— The Gospel of John. Chapter 3, verse 19. Speak then, Persecutor... did you not also choose the darkness when you wielded the instruments of passion within the walls of Tokyo Jujutsu High? —

The question fell like a hammer of God. Its weight was tectonic, a mortal burden of a fallen world pressing down on Okkotsu's shoulders. The stranger had shifted into Japanese, yet the transition was seamless, a bridge of shared grief and divergent fates that would now alter the course of their lives forever.

 

[Sng-KAzVener]

Preface to Chapter 1
Greetings, dear reader! It is somewhat unusual for us to meet again so soon, but I have my reasons. I hope your day is faring well. This serves as my preface to the publication of the first chapter.

If you have already read the Prologue and the Interlude, I trust they left a powerful impression, indeed, that was my intent. In the future, I plan to include a brief preface at the beginning of each chapter. I suggest you do not skip them, as they may contain vital information.
Furthermore, I have a small surprise for you: you will occasionally encounter Interludes from the future plot. However, please note that when the main narrative eventually reaches those moments, they may differ slightly or even significantly from the Interludes, as those are essentially "rough fragments" of destiny.

I wish to emphasize that starting from this chapter, you will witness my original story a sort of DLC, or perhaps even an Apocrypha and Gospel to the main canon of Jujutsu Kaisen by Gege Akutami. My narrative explores events occurring behind the scenes, expanding the world created by Mr. Akutami. My goal isn't to present a mere "alternative universe" far from it. This is a literary expansion rooted in Christian mysticism, born of respect for the original work, yet also an expression of my profound disagreement with how Akutami treated one of his most beautiful and compelling characters: Suguru Geto.

Through my original character, Takamoe Kamo, I intend to reveal the true grandeur that Geto commands. This is my tribute to him as a writer. You, in turn, may honor my labor by sharing your reviews, rating the story, leaving reactions, and following my profile to receive updates.
I firmly believe you will find this tale captivating. As a small interactive challenge, I leave a Latin abbreviation at the end of this text. Your task is to unravel its meaning. The clue is hidden within the narrative itself you must read closely and grasp its core to solve the riddle. As a hint: the deciphered answer is religious in nature. Everyone who succeeds in solving it will be personally mentioned and honored in my next preface.

I wish you a pleasant reading.​

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Chapter 1 : The Price of Silence (Part 1)

Date: New Year's Eve, 1997

A sublime winter evening ushered in the twilight of the century. The world stood on the precipice of a new millennium, a flame on the horizon promising a new beginning for a weary humanity. It was a century outlived - drenched in blood and agony where man had built his staircase to progress upon the bleached bones of the forgotten.
Japan, recovering from the scars of its past, had learned to speak a language other than the sword, yet it guarded secrets far more wondrous and terrible. A power unknown to the common gaze thrived here, possessed by the few, birthing cults like rice in the paddies. Great clans had built their Everest upon this occult strength, cherishing their titles and gold with a soulless ferocity, committing deeds that would make the Devil himself marvel.

In the heart of Tokyo, through a sea of hurried cars and festive revelers celebrating Omisoka, one vehicle commanded a fleeting, hushed attention. It was a vessel of status, an expensive machine carrying a passenger of no small importance. Inside, the cabin was a sanctuary of crimson silk.
On the rear seat sat a lady in an exquisite kimono a masterpiece of fabric that shimmered like a living thing. She smoked with a predatory grace, indifferent to the driver, and colder still to the soul sleeping beside her in rich swaddling cloths. A child. A boy. He was neither deformed nor sickly his face was as innocent as any babe in a maternity ward. But a suffocating tension filled the air.

By her very posture, the lady broadcast a visceral loathing for the infant - as if he were a stroke of catastrophic luck, a monstrous destiny born in the flesh. The New Year's traffic was a crawling purgatory, irritating the stately woman. Clouds of blue - gray smoke swirled, stinging the eyes of the sleeping child until he awoke, his first breath a scream of pure distress. The lady did not reach out. She merely clicked her tongue in disgust. Her voice, when she spoke, was a jagged shard of ice.
— Little wretch… wailing like a swine again… — She savored the malice in her words.

— Your witless mother ought to have scoured you from her womb, but no… she presumed to shroud your foul birth from our eyes. A wretched error, and now the Clan is left to dredge through this mire. They are right to say purity is everything. Creatures like you are defective by nature - a mistake that must be purged. I hope you rot in whatever hole you find yourself, abandoned by those who sired you... — She drew from her cigarette holder with a cruel satisfaction while the infant wept, choking on the stench of tobacco and hatred. The driver remained a silent ghost.
It was a scene of such profound inhumanity that the heart might bleed to witness it how a crown of creation could spew such darkness upon a blameless soul. The mother's fate - she who had conceived this child with a noble man was a mystery lost to the Clan's shadows. Did he deserve this fate, having only just arrived?

One fact was manifest: the lady was a void where a heart should be. She savored the knowledge of the child's destination, relishing the act of orphaning him. As the car sped west, crossing the forty kilometers toward Hachioji, the snow crunched beneath the wheels like breaking teeth. By nine o'clock, the child had exhausted his grief and fallen into a hollow sleep. Then, on the horizon, the destination appeared a monumental spire, crowned with a cross, piercing the black winter sky. Meanwhile, the vehicle moved inexorably toward its mark, a silhouette rising against the winter gloom. It was a church Catholic and unassuming in its form, a sanctuary for the folk of Hachioji to seek the Almighty's light in their darkest hours. Yet, it stood apart by its very placement, nestled against a forest so dense and a slope so precipitous it seemed the very mount where Sisyphus, King of Corinth, was condemned.

Punished for his deceit and for cheating death itself, he was sentenced to an eternal and agonizing labor: to heave a boulder of monstrous weight up the heights, only to watch it plummet back down in mocking defiance. Thus did the gods laugh, exulting in their power over the vanity of mortal kings. It must be noted that this church was joined with an orphanage, where, remarkably for such a late and frozen hour, the lights still burned bright. The stained - glass windows, inscribed with sacred imagery, cast a monumental glow upon the world outside. A profound paradox took root: while a scene of cruel misery unfolded within the moving car, the church held a different idyll entirely. Children, clad in white silks and standing in disciplined rows, held their candles high, illuminating the temple with their celestial voices. It is difficult to convey the grace of their monophonic song; their voices melded into a singular, indivisible whole, rising toward the Creator.

A.D.I.P

 

[Sng-KAzVener]

They sang under the accompaniment of the organ played by the rector, performing the "Te Deum Laudamus". It was a truly monumental hymn to the Father of All. It was a curious sight: how this Abrahamic faith coexisted with the traditions of Japan - in one place, people prepared for the festivities of Omisoka, while in another, a choir of youths sang praises to the Eternal. Their hymn spoke of a mortal and human love for Him who returns that love to all living things. How breathtaking it was to hear them; yet how sorrowful to know that the luxury vessel speeding through the cold would soon alter their fate forever.

As the youths finished their song, the silence was broken by the sound of rhythmic, approving applause. It was the head rector of the church and orphanage, Father Yamada. Long had he served this small parish in Hachioji, beloved by both the common folk and the orphans he cherished as his own. He approached the boys with a face radiating joy and love.

— How magnificent! Once again, you have moved me... truly, an angelic song for my ears. I am so proud of you, my children. Only imagine how the parishioners will be enthralled next Sunday! It shall be a most pleasant surprise for them... — He spoke with a heart full of care, for this was a rehearsal for the coming Sabbath. But while this peace reigned within, the car - that womb of luxury on wheels - had reached its journey's end.

The vehicle came to a halt. The lady in her exquisite kimono threw her fur coat over her shoulders naturally, her hand did not deign to touch the door handle. The silent driver, draped in his coat and cap with white-gloved hands, stepped out. He moved with the measured pace of a submissive servant, opening the passenger door for his mistress. Her attire was the very pinnacle of luxury - a hypnotic brown sable, natural and rare. A bitter thought arises: how can man, the crown of the Almighty's creation, torture thousands of innocent creatures for the sake of soulless vanity?

Man, poisoned by sin and cruelty, slaughters these small beings by the thousands only to stitch their skins together for comfort and status. No one remembers that in this world, all is bought with blood; and man pays the world with his own blood in return. Stepping from the car, the lady did not even glance at the child she loathed with all her black heart. With a devilish look, she commanded the driver to take the swaddled infant. He obeyed in silence. Carrying the child, he followed the mistress as she strode toward the heavy church doors, which remained bolted against the night.

Just as Father Yamada finished his praise, he and the choir heard it: a violent, wrathful strike upon the wood. The sound was startling in its suddenness and terror. It was as if something monstrous had emerged from a dark world - from Tartarus itself - beating against the doors of God's house in a desperate bid to enter. The orphans flinched in fear. Father Yamada, sensing the strangeness of a visitor at such an hour, turned and walked hurriedly toward the great doors to see who dared disturb the evening's peace.