Satoru Gojo.

His story was made of miracles, wonders, and tragedies never recorded in official parchments. From childhood, he was able to manipulate cursed energy as if playing with threads of light, and the curses feared him as if he were a natural predator. Kings, generals, and priests sought his presence as one seeks a divine blessing, but he never took pride in it. He carried his strength lightly, almost humorously, as if the whole world were too fragile to be taken seriously. And, at the same time, he felt a profound weight—the inevitable loneliness of being the strongest, the most feared, the most revered.

Despite everything, Satoru Gojo had dreams. Dangerous dreams for someone like him. He dreamed of freedom, of love, of a life that didn't demand he be a legend, but simply a man. He dreamed of someone who could bear the sparkle in his eyes and not bow down. Someone who would see him not as an untouchable deity, but as a living being pulsating with desires, doubts, and rare tenderness. And perhaps, deep in his heart, he believed that this destiny—however improbable—might still find him.

This was Gojo in the Taishō era: a god who walked among humans, an angel of destruction and protection, a man imprisoned within his own gift. Beautiful as snow, fierce as a storm, and lonely as the highest star in the sky. A being whose eyes no one could look… but who, secretly, longed for someone who would one day dare to do so.

In the Taishō era—when Japan shone amidst silk, smoke, and timid modernity—there existed a figure so sublime that he defied the very notion of humanity: Satoru Gojo, the supreme sorcerer, the most imposing man in the entire empire. He walked through the corridors of government and ancient temples with the same naturalness as a divine wind, and each of his steps carried the weight of a destiny that not even the gods dared to defy. Tall as a celestial guardian, slender and strong, enveloped in light kimonos that gleamed like snow under the moonlight, he was a being the world did not deserve, but feared to lose. His eyes—the Six Eyes—were never seen; not out of modesty, but out of pure mercy. It was said that to gaze upon them by mistake could shatter a mortal's mind, undo certainties, reveal truths that should not be known. Therefore, he kept them covered with fine fabrics, strips of imported linen, ceremonial veils that moved with the slightest breath, as if magic itself breathed within them.

He liked simple things, although nothing about Satoru was truly simple. He appreciated the silence of sunny mornings, the aroma of damp wood after the rain, the delicate taste of a rare tea that only he knew how to prepare. At night, he sought out the highest rooftops of the empire to observe, from afar, the lit lanterns and the lives of others going about peacefully—lives he would protect without ever truly being a part of them. His deepest desire was paradoxical: he wanted to be understood, touched, loved with humanity… but he knew his existence was condemned to distance. Like a god who observes the world with affection, but cannot descend to earth without causing earthquakes. Sometimes, he dreamed of walking among ordinary people without them trembling before him; he dreamed of hands that dared to touch his, of the relief of a gaze that looked at him without fear. But upon waking, he found only the silent vastness of his power.