Sure, Gojo Satoru griped about dying of exhaustion, but his body was honest—after some rolling and whining, he crawled back to the desk, wrestling files again.
Watching others slog never hit him, but doing it himself? Way messier than he'd thought—threads everywhere, every angle to juggle.
Given the choice, he'd rather brawl a Special Grade—or take a beatdown from Akira, Geto Suguru, Yuta Okkotsu, and Yuki Tsukumo combined. Crowd fights were his jam.
How Akira held up was beyond him—morning to noon, glued to the chair, not a peep of—
Snap.
"Tch, pen broke again. Mom~ grab me another box of pens. Don't toss the bubble wrap from the delivery—let me pop it first."
Okay, scratch that.
Kid's struggling too—just not as loud about it.
See? No one stares at this mess without losing it.
If he'd known, he'd have—
"Known or not, quitting now hands the geezers the win. Gave you a shot, you flopped—don't blame me."
Akira's gaze floated over, light as air.
"I know! Split the bubble wrap!"
"Split" meant snatch—yanked half from Hayami's hands, popping it like he was crushing the brass's skulls.
"The old farts know we're green at this—waiting for us to flop. Dream on! I'd burn out my brain before letting them gloat."
"Best mindset you could have."
Akira nodded, unsurprised.
Gojo's a nutcase, sure, but an idealist too—his drive for a cause is nuts, and he's no slouch when it's brain time.
"But this pace won't cut it. We're holding now, but the geezers keep dumping bodies on us…"
A standalone branch isn't just Akira and Gojo—it's a full top-to-bottom machine.
Gojo had no crew prepped for this—had to pull from elsewhere. Problem? Outsiders aren't loyal. Weight still lands on Team Gojo's core.
Principal Yaga's nominally the branch head—lately he's been hustling, schmoozing the government, locking down systems.
Hayami runs the office and logistics, sometimes doubling as finance checker.
Gojo leans on the Gojo Clan's web for HR—picking the least bad from the short stack.
Akira handles the Alliance's heart: mission dispatch.
Season's shifting—summer's tame curses are waking up. Tokyo High's students are Akira's errand squad, spinning like tops.
Every student, year one to four—no exceptions.
Complaints? Sure.
See Gardevoir, my shadow secretary? Beat her, I'll listen.
No dice? Darkrai's over there, babysitting—try him.
Too tough?
Enter the Baby Cup. Win the crown, you're in.
Results?
"Marururu~" (Thunderbolt)
"Tanga~" (Leaf Blade)
"Gastly~" (Confuse Ray)
"Ruff… Woof~" (Ember)—and you're in the wrong anime, you husky-pekingese mutt.
"Cool~" (Icy Wind)
"Yogi~" (Sandstorm)
"Mini~" (Dragon Rage!!!)
"Wani~ Wani~" (Water Sport)—Milotic wannabe, chill. Pre-evolution, you're Magikarp-tier.
"Po~ Poriko~ Poporiko, Popori Po~"
Stop, Swablu—others sing for cash, you sing for lives.
Only Darkrai, the true "Sleep King," tanks it.
Point is, Akira's Baby Cup's a freak show—each one a beast.
Serious hunch these "babies" aren't normal—born "Totem" vibes, hogging the universe's first luck slot.
Guesses, no proof.
Doesn't change Akira's "school tyrant" status. Can't beat the Cup? Yuta Okkotsu, Cup champ, is Akira's ride-or-die. Rika Orimoto's Gardevoir's fangirl…
Wait, something's off.
Whatever—Tokyo High's a whirlwind under Akira and Gojo.
Akira owns the kids; Gojo wrangles the adults.
"Don't pile more on Ijichi—look at him, skin and bones. You cool with that?"
"I'm cool."
Forgot—unlike Akira, Gojo's shameless and heartless.
Good thing Akira's got shame and heart—no cash could buy that out.
"Cool or not, no go. He's got no Reverse Technique to recharge or fix brain damage. Keep this up, he's hospitalized soon."
"Fair point. Already roped in Nanami."
"Nanami's fine by me, but he's no overtime hater—you sure that's safe?"
"No sweat. Here, no overtime's not an option. Nanami's stuck," Gojo grinned, white-haired devil mask off.
Akira: "…"
Should I tip Nanami off? Fellow wage slave solidarity.
Nah—shared blessings, shared curses, shared OT.
After screwing the junior, Gojo's mood soared, tossing over a snack bag. "Almost forgot—how's that system you cooked up? Supposed to slash the grind, boost efficiency?"
"Almost done. Just tweaking the scan-upload gear. Once it's set, we're online—sayonara to these damn papers."
The Alliance has computers and net, but they're mostly decor. Sign-offs are pen and paper, contact's phone or mail—fax for emergencies. Early 2000s vibes.
Not all on the Alliance—Japan's aging rigidity's a culprit. Olympics stats via fax, hand-cranked calculators—you believe that? It's Japan's reality.
Akira's past-life office suite would've crushed it—dimensional gap.
To ditch the grind, he tapped Yoshikichi's coding chops and Porygon as the system core—smooth, secure flow guaranteed.
That's why Akira endured—endgame in sight.
Mid-chat, his phone pinged—"Black Tech Office System (WIP)" alert.
"Perfect timing. Let's see… latest task list, classified, Special Grade only?"
"Special Grade?!" Gojo perked up, scooting close—he's one too.
Hayami bailed instantly. Special Grade-only meant no clearance for her. Akira wouldn't hide it, but she'd lead by example.
That's the Ming family way.
Once she was out, Akira tapped the mission brief.
Line one—
Location: Hokkaido.
"Hokkaido again?"
Gojo's brow furrowed.