Rain fell in greasy sheets across the back alleys of the red-light district, washing neon light into blood-colored puddles. The scent of cigarettes, cheap perfume, and damp concrete hung in the air. Hidden behind the door of a rundown brothel called The Sleeping Crane, a boy no older than five sat cross-legged on a stained futon, sharpening a kitchen knife with a stone far too coarse.
He did it quietly, mechanically. His small hands were cut-up, knuckles split from too many fights with street kids twice his size. A faded bandage peeked from under the cuff of his shirt, and a half-healed bruise marbled one side of his jaw.
His name was Kishibe—just Kishibe. No one had given him a surname. His mother, a jaded woman who sold her body to feed her alcohol habit, called him "boy" or "brat" more often than not. Still, she'd once told him in a rare moment of drunken affection, "You were born with eyes that see death, y'know that? Maybe you'll be a killer. Or maybe just a dog who knows when to bite."
She hadn't meant it as cruelty. That was the closest thing to love Kishibe ever got from her.
---
Tokyo Jujutsu High — Years Later
The tall gates of Jujutsu High loomed like the threshold to a different world. Here, cursed energy coiled like smoke behind the trees, and ghosts with jagged smiles waited in the shadows.
Kishibe walked in wearing the uniform with the collar loose, his posture casual, like none of this impressed him. He was thirteen. Quiet. Sharp-eyed. Dangerous in a way the instructors didn't quite know how to categorize.
And he wasn't alone.
On his first day, Satoru Gojo and Suguru Geto were already legends in the making—bright, loud, magnetic. Gojo wore sunglasses indoors and talked like the whole world belonged to him. Geto was more composed but no less intimidating. When they looked at Kishibe, they didn't see another student.
They saw a stray dog with something feral behind the eyes.
"Who's the new kid?" Gojo had asked with a cocked eyebrow.
"Knife on him," Geto replied coolly, noting the flash of steel hidden in Kishibe's jacket. "Doesn't walk like a sorcerer. More like a butcher."
Kishibe didn't bother introducing himself. He stood there like a shadow that refused to vanish in daylight. Gojo smirked, already thinking of ways to test him.
---
First Blood
It didn't take long for the first mission. An urban exorcism in a half-abandoned ward. A Cursed Womb had taken root in a decrepit apartment complex where a string of disappearances had gone uninvestigated.
They sent Gojo, Geto—and Kishibe, the new kid.
Geto summoned two mid-grade curses. Gojo warped reality like it was child's play. But Kishibe? He went into the dark with only a combat knife and emerged alone, covered in black blood, a deep gash in his arm.
The curse was dead. The hallway was painted in viscera. No cursed technique had been used.
"You don't even use jujutsu?" Gojo asked afterward, incredulous.
Kishibe didn't answer. He just stared at his hand, fingers twitching from the high of the kill, before muttering:
"I don't need flashy tricks to gut something that screams."
---
The Monster Trio — Born from Violence
They didn't say it out loud at first. But the name started to stick.
Three first-years, each a monster in his own right.
Gojo, the strongest. Untouchable. Brilliant.
Geto, the genius manipulator. Calm, composed, unshakable.
And Kishibe—the beast who learned to kill before he learned to read. His cursed energy was erratic, wild, barely held in check. But his instincts? Flawless. When he fought, he fought to end things. Quickly. Brutally. Efficiently.
No elegance. Just raw survival.
The three of them together… were a storm no curse could outrun.
But beneath that chaotic unity, Kishibe and Gojo clashed constantly.
"You think being strong means being loud?" Kishibe once said, sharpening his knife on a rooftop while Gojo rambled about technique.
Gojo smirked. "Nah. Being strong means never having to explain yourself. I just like the sound of my voice."
Geto watched them both with quiet interest. "You're going to get along great," he lied.
---
End of the Prologue
In the distant future, the boy born from the gutter, raised by blood and violence, would stand shoulder to shoulder with gods.
But even gods bleed.
And monsters remember everything.