Jujutsu Kaisen — Chapter 97 - Volcano and Chess Player — Who Says There's No Perfect Crime?

Tokyo. Ginza.

A jazz café hidden deep in an alleyway.

The interior was all retro 1980s, dark wood, faded velvet, the air thick with the rich, mellow scent of coffee brewed through a siphon pot.

Kenjaku stirred his Blue Mountain coffee with a small silver spoon, a mild smile on his face.

Across from him sat two inhuman beings.

One had a head that was a single-eyed volcano, magma-like Cursed Energy crawling slowly across its surface, scorching the surrounding air into faint, visible distortion.

The other was wrapped head to toe in bandages, only its eyes visible, gnarled like tangled tree roots, exuding the quiet scent of earth and growing things.

Jogo. Hanami.

"I still don't get it." Jogo's voice was soaked in impatience. "Why all these convoluted methods? Controlling humans, stoking panic, breeding Cursed Spirits — it's too slow."

"Control the zaibatsu? Brainwash politicians?" He jabbed a finger at the dossier on the table, contempt burning openly in that single eye. "You really think this world runs on their pathetic little rules? Documents, contracts, it's all worthless paper."

He pointed through the window at the ordinary people streaming past on the street below.

"These fragile, inferior creatures. Why not just burn them all to ash and be done with it?"

Jogo's eye narrowed. "Pure, absolute power, that's how you cleanse this false world. That is what we should be doing."

Kenjaku took a sip of coffee.

"Human social structure is far more like a giant petri dish than you realize. Kill them outright, and the people die, and the emotions die with them. But trap them in a hopeless spiral, squeeze their fear and anxiety day after day?" He set the cup down gently. "That is an inexhaustible vein of Cursed Energy."

Jogo let out a cold grunt. He didn't argue.

"Jogo." Kenjaku shifted the subject without warning. "How strong do you think you are?"

Jogo blinked. Then his mouth split into a vicious grin.

Sparks of magma spat from the crater at the top of his head.

"Very strong."

"That so-called King of Curses everyone makes such a fuss about. Ryomen Sukuna." Kenjaku paused. "Compared to him, how large is the gap?"

Kenjaku considered for a moment, then raised one finger.

"If we take Ryomen Sukuna at full power as the baseline..."

"You are probably equivalent to around 7 or 8 fingers."

7 or 8.

Jogo's breath went rough.

The corner of his mouth pulled upward on its own. His single eye blazed with pride he couldn't suppress, raw, barely contained arrogance.

A waiter in a white dress shirt emerged from behind the counter.

"Sir, sorry to interrupt." He approached with a tray, smile plastered on, completely failing to register how deeply wrong his customers looked. "This is a non-smoking establishment. That thing on your head, uh..."

He stopped.

He had finally gotten a clear look. A volcanic head. One eye.

Jogo didn't even turn around.

Just a thought.

A heat wave detonated.

The waiter didn't manage half a syllable.

Temperatures exceeding 2,000 degrees burst outward in a wide arc. The living body was completely carbonized in a tenth of a second.

CLATTER!

A charred skeleton collapsed onto the tile floor. Not even the ashes rose.

Behind the counter, the proprietress had been wiping a glass. She saw all of it.

The stemware slipped from her hand and exploded across the floor. A shriek tore through the café's quiet.

Guests by the windows scrambled over each other toward the door.

"So noisy."

Jogo snapped his fingers.

A wall of fire erupted from the ground.

The café's two solid-wood and glass doors vanished behind a sheet of raging flame. Fire tongues slithered along the carpet, crawled up the wallpaper, melted the wall lamps. The glass windows let out a grinding, teeth-aching crack under the heat.

The screaming lasted less than half a minute before the inferno swallowed it whole.

The stench of burnt flesh filled the room from floor to ceiling.

"You see?" The arrogance in Jogo's voice was barely contained. "This is absolute power. Those so-called Jujutsu Sorcerers, in the face of this, they don't even have the right to struggle."

Kenjaku was still smiling. He refilled Jogo's empty teacup without being asked.

"A splendid performance." He set the pot down. "But that kind of power is more than sufficient against ordinary people. What if your opponent were the man they call the Heavenly Tyrant?"

Jogo's grin went rigid.

"Toji Fushiguro."

Kenjaku let the name leave his lips softly. "Do you think your flames can burn through his muscles?"

"He's just a monkey with zero Cursed Energy!" Jogo lunged to his feet, stung right where it hurt. Scorching heat rolled off him in waves, turning the tabletop faintly red. "One monkey!"

"Is that so?" Kenjaku's tone didn't shift. "Then let me tell you what that monkey did. Ryomen Sukuna — having already absorbed one finger — was driven from the roof of a teaching building straight down into the foundation. Like hammering a nail. The entire time, Sukuna couldn't manage a single complete Domain Expansion."

Kenjaku looked up. Beneath the stitching, his eyes held something almost like pity.

"Jogo. The times have changed. Jujutsu High is no longer that place where people played house with Cursed Techniques. Three genuine Special Grades are entrenched there now. And behind them, a pack of humanoid monsters drilled into shape by that madman, every one of them with the Eight Gates Released Formation unlocked."

"Toji Fushiguro's combat power alone is enough to take each of you, disasters not yet at full strength, and beat you one by one like punching bags."

Kenjaku leaned back into the sofa and spread his hands open. "Head-on, we have no chance. None. That is precisely why I need a different track."

Jogo's chest heaved. Thick black smoke churned from the crater on his head.

He didn't believe it.

A mortal. No Cursed Energy. How could any mortal be that strong?

This was a lie. It had to be, Kenjaku fabricating threats to push his spineless, overcomplicated plan.

"I'll find that man myself."

Jogo's voice was flat and cold. Violent hunger for a fight burned in his eye.

"And I'll twist his head off with my own hands. Use it as your new wine cup."

He was gone before the words finished landing.

Only Kenjaku and Hanami remained in the ruined café.

Kenjaku watched the space where Jogo had been. The mild smile on his face shifted slowly, something stranger taking its place underneath.

He lifted his teacup and, without looking away from that empty spot, said quietly to the silent Hanami:

"Does he know that Ryomen Sukuna actually has four arms?"

Hanami: "...?"

Kenjaku didn't acknowledge the shock. He only shrugged.

He reached into the sleeve of his monk's robe and drew out a kraft paper dossier. He set it on the table and slid it gently toward Hanami.

"Forget that hot-headed idiot."

His fingertip traced the cover. Written in black marker: a small town's name, and the code designation of a chemical factory.

"I have always preferred this method over a frontal assault."

A faint thread of mad delight wove through his smile.

"Fear. Resentment. Despair." He let each word land separately. "These are our most perfect nourishment."

He pushed the document in front of Hanami. A secret illegal discharge plan. A remote chemical factory town. A slow, quiet catastrophe waiting to be set in motion.

"This," Kenjaku said, "is your first meal."

➤ Next: Jogo's First Battle: Total Domination!