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​

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. Every step of the holy Father Yamada toward the great doors those barriers bolted fast against the world - resounded with a heavy cadence. His footfalls, though singular, awakened a thunderous echo within the House of the Lord, rebounding from the vibrant walls and the stained glass whereon were writ the countenances of saints and the harrowing scenes of Holy Writ. The sound climbed the monstrous columns and the arches that soared unto the heavens, as if Atlas himself, with sinews of old, upheld the firmament whose weight no mortal mind could fathom for the will of man is but a flickering reed before such celestial gravity.

Verily, the echo would have been a clamor to wake the dead, had not the scarlet tapestry, spread like a river of blood down the central aisle, swallowed the noise in its humble and velvet embrace. The hour of truth was at hand. Father Yamada reached the portals of the orphanage-church doors that stood closed this day to every wandering soul. Little did he dream that in this, the darkest watch of the night, a visitor of such grim stature should come a-knocking. The air grew thick with a sudden density, as if a miasma had descended to stifle the breath of the holy man. Yet, moved by a stir in his very marrow and knowing that no servant of God may turn a deaf ear to the knocking, he reached forth. For the guest without had surely beheld the light within, which, pouring through the stained glass, defied the surrounding gloom. With a hand governed by resolve, the priest grasped the handle. He turned it with a deft motion, and from the void of the mechanism was born a click - a sound so sharp it sufficed to sever the world in twain. It was the herald of an opening, the portent that the doors of the Sanctuary were to be flung wide. The haughty Mistress without was appeased by this sound. For her, as for her driver who cradled the babe, the wait had been a purgatory of frost. She stood amidst a cold so fierce it seemed conjured from the depths of Helheim, or sent down from the highest, unmelting peaks of Hokkaido, where the snows of the Eight Million Kami The Yaoyorozu-no-Kami - abide forever. This gale had traversed a thousand leagues of forest and sea to strike at the gates on this New Year's Eve. As the doors yielded, Father Yamada beheld his unbidden guests. With the grace befitting a shepherd, he spoke:

"A fair evening to you... and yet, in all humility, I must tell thee that our gates are barred, for the service hath long since concluded. May I inquire what succor ye seek, or what cause hath brought ye to our threshold at so unseasonable an hour? "

He stood bewildered, for in all his years at the Church of St. John of Goto - named for that blessed martyr who suffered the spear for the sake of Christ the Redeemer - none had ever dared such a late visitation. The Lady, suppressing her rotten nature and donning a mask of silvered lies, made her reply. Had she not been commanded by the Clan of Kamo, she would never have set foot in this cloaca of the wretched.

"Greetings, Holy Father... What a blessing to find thee waking. The frost biteth even unto the bone, and we have journeyed far from the heart of Tokyo. I beseech thee, as a minister of the Merciful Lord, grant us thy presence and an audience. Be assured, our cause is of a weight most tectonic. "

Her words were formal, yet beneath the dam for her hatred was rotting. Though she was a scion of the Great Kamo, her own standing was but a shadow; thus, she had been tasked to purge this infant of "soiled blood". The elders of the Clan had wished the child dead, yet they feared the stain upon their edifice of Reputation - that monument they had built over centuries. They remembered too well the shame of Noritoshi Kamo, the most loathsome sorcerer in the annals of history, and dared not risk a new scandal before the eyes of the Zenin or the Gojo. Father Yamada, perceiving the driver who stood like a silent ghost with the swaddled babe, felt a hollow ache in his soul. He sighed, a breath laden with the weariness of the world.

"My daughter... in this frozen hour, I cannot find it in my heart to deny thy plea. It were a cruelty to bar the door against a child. Christ is mercy, and He loveth every soul. I pray thee... enter. I shall receive ye in my chambers. "

He flung the doors wide, inviting the Devil's messengers into the Temple. He had seen much in Hachioji, but never had the Great and the Wealthy come to him thus. The Lady's lips curled into a smile - not of joy, but of a predator's triumph. She commanded her servant to follow. As they crossed the threshold, they shook the snow from their sinful frames, as if casting off their transgressions before the altar. The Lady surveyed the sanctuary with a cold and piercing eye, her gaze lingering upon the orphans in their white silks. It was a look of such profound darkness that it seemed the very gates of Gehenna were opened within her orbs, threatening to consume the innocent. But Father Yamada led them away, toward his private study, unknowingly delivering his little flock from the shadow of the fiend in silken robes.

 

[Sng-KAzVener]

And the priest, in that very moment, with all his graciousness, fulfilled his duty, as befitted his calling and his earthly station, an eternal servant of the Lord. The poor orphans were not only frightened by the sudden attention cast upon them by the stately and fatal guest, but they had also grown weary, having tarried there for a considerable time. For, lacking a wall clock to tell the hour, their innocent, childlike bodies, though full of youthful vigor, had clearly succumbed to fatigue in the interim. What a blessing it was, then, that in this very moment, from another door of the church that was flung open in the blink of an eye, three figures entered. They were clad in closed habits, for they were the nuns of the orphanage, the faithful handmaidens of the Holy Father Yamada.

With steps strict, swift, and no less resolute, the three nuns approached: Sister Manami, Sister Koto, and Sister Mitsuko. Only two of the maidens, Sister Manami and Sister Koto, were quite young in appearance, though they had resided in the orphanage for a long time, assisting Father Yamada in all necessary matters, for such were their appointed tasks. Sister Mitsuko, however, bore the unmistakable marks of time upon her mortal flesh. Being the eldest among the sisters, she was naturally the most severe, having been tempered by the old ways and the heavy trials of her monastic life. Her form was as befitted her years; the monastic cloth but slightly obscured her silhouette not entirely, yet enough.

Indeed, possessing a large frame, the heavy fabric only rendered her presence more monumentally and formidably stern. Her countenance was somber, as though she had aged not merely in body, but in soul. One could gaze upon her and look deep into her eyes, which, as it is known, are the very mirrors of the soul. As the senior nun of the orphanage, a chief assistant, and the overseer of the orphaned flock, she was renowned among the children for her strictness and deep piety. Yet, could it be that this was but a mask woven of sheer exhaustion? Be that as it may, upon entering with the other sisters, Sister Mitsuko swept her gaze over the children and spoke - not too loudly, yet with enough clarity that every child might hear.

"Children! My golden ones... Ye have labored well in your rehearsals under the guidance of Father Yamada, and even we have heard your singing..."

said Mitsuko, striving for a tone of approval and even offering a faint smile. Though her face was stern by nature, she nonetheless endeavored to wear a gentle mien. She did not cease there, but continued with the same kindness toward the little ones

"But the hour is exceedingly late, and ye must rise early on the morrow. Come, gather yourselves. Sister Manami shall escort you swiftly to your chambers. See that ye leave naught behind, lest I find someone's rosary or other trinkets scattered about."

Thus she concluded her address to the children with a quintessential abbess's warning. The children, listening closely and nodding, began to gather themselves in meek and unified obedience. As was their custom, they began to divest themselves of the white silks that had bestowed upon them a monumental beauty; alas, these garments were destined solely for the choir, and by no means for daily wear, much less for the slumber that now awaited the orphans. Having successfully removed their robes, they lined up before a stand of hangers, obediently placing their garments upon them with all the care and reverence their caretakers had instilled in them. Their task complete, they formed a line once more, this time breaking into pairs a testament to the orderly discipline taught by their overseers. Then, with a step full of humility, they followed Sister Manami, who led them out of the church toward their quarters.

As the air without was bitter and fiercely cold, Sister Manami hurried their pace so they might not freeze, even though they were clad in black cassocks, dark as the night itself, and wore warm clothes beneath. These layers shielded them from the merciless frost, preventing the raging chill from piercing not only their flesh, but their very souls. Sisters Mitsuko and Koto merely followed the children with their eyes. Once the flock had vanished, led away to another building to sink into a deep slumber, the two nuns began to walk the length of the sanctuary, searching the pews for any forgotten items.

A parishioner might have dropped something, or perhaps the orphans, despite their obedience, had left a belonging unnoticed. As they worked, the two maidens engaged in a quiet dialogue - not concerning the orphans, but rather the guests whom Father Yamada was presently receiving in his study. It was Sister Koto who spoke first, expressing her indignation. For the Lady, by her mere presence and the overpowering scent of her perfume, had managed, if not to poison, then certainly to foul the sacred air within the church.

"Sister Mitsuko… methinks we ought to air out the temple when our duties are done. The perfume of that lady is so fierce that it brings tears to mine eyes. Never before have I smelled such a thing."

Koto noted with clear displeasure.

Hearing this, Mitsuko was involuntarily saddened - not merely because the church indeed reeked of extravagantly costly perfumes, for that was the truth. But as an elder who had seen much of monastic life, it grieved Sister Mitsuko that her companion's mind lingered upon such trivialities, rather than on matters of true import. Her reply was laced with a slight frost:

"I do not dispute that the temple must be aired when we finish. But I am forever astounded by thy lack of solemnity and, forgive me, Sister Koto... thy blindness. Didst thou not perceive who hath come to us at so late an hour? As I descended the stairs, I saw through the glass the moment they alighted from their carriage. The man bore a bundle of cloth in his hands… and, naturally, it is a child."

Koto answered in surprise

"Forgive me, Sister Mitsuko… I truly must be more mindful at times. I did not see, for I was deep in prayer, and only the roar of the engine without drew me from it to follow thee. Yea, thou art right, such visitors rarely grace our doors. On the other hand, in all my time here, I have mostly seen us take in children who are somewhat grown... save for a year ago, when a babe was abandoned upon our porch. Lord, I shall never forget that day."

Koto added, sharing the memory of her dismay when she had opened the door to find the forsaken infant.

"Indeed... it happens to the best of us." Mitsuko sighed wearily, and continued.

"But I entreat thee, Sister Koto, to hold thyself firm. We must remain steadfast before such terrible things… We carry out the will of Christ. So many children have we saved, and we shall save them always. When thou art finished, I pray thee, make ready, lest Father Yamada should call for us. He is still receiving them in his study."

Having finished her tasks, Sister Mitsuko clutched her lower back with her hand for, alas, her youth had long departed - and decided to sit, that she might rest a little and catch her breath. Meanwhile, the time had come to learn what transpired behind those doors that led into the study of Father Yamada, who had graciously brought his guests thither and was receiving them at this late hour. It was as though he had invited the Devil himself across the threshold, standing face to face with him in a battle of life and death. The moral weight of it was crushing, yet a servant of the Lord must always preserve his countenance, no matter the trial. Even standing before a devil in human flesh - nay, before the very gates of Hell - he must not tremble, but must reveal a strength brimming with virtue and Christian morality. The Lord shall always be present in times of sorrow; He is, and He shall deliver, for He is merciful, for He is all things in this world... Is it not so?

The priest's study, wherein Father Yamada received the Lady and her Driver - who bore the child in his arms - was not altogether remarkable. It might be deemed surprising that a priest should possess an office not merely in his dwelling upon the orphanage grounds, but within the main liturgical temple itself. And its furnishings were not as mundane as one might expect; yet, what ought to present itself to the eyes of anyone entering this chamber in hopes of an audience with the servant of the Lord? This space was not ablaze like a treasury, though the gaze upon it might be twofold.