Akira felt the school’s reputation needed an update. Around here it was polarized, either handsome and pretty or built like a gorilla. This senior, Kinji Hakari, followed the same tall and broad path as Principal Masamichi Yaga.

  If you ignored their faces and looked only at build and presence, people could believe they were father and son. One looked like a gang boss, the other like a delinquent. Even after seeing his face, the delinquent vibe did not fade.

  His hair was a mess, his uniform wrinkled, and his eyes rarely met anyone head-on. His features were not as wide or intimidating as Yaga’s, but they carried constant irritation, like everyone owed him money. Hearing such a person talk about being friendly sounded suspicious, like friendly fists instead of words.

  Maki Zenin’s eyebrows shot up at once. Not swinging her staff already counted as restraint learned from following Akemi Aki. She stepped forward and snorted, “Maki Zenin, specialty is beating people up. I don’t want others using my family name to—”

  Before she could finish, Kinji Hakari’s face fell. “Boring. With that, you think you can take down Kyoto Tokyo Jujutsu High?”

  “Is this guy asking for it?” Maki Zenin’s expression turned sour.

  A white broom-headed figure appeared between them like a ghost. “Oh? Kinji, you’re back.” Then he added, “You’re late again, delinquent teacher.”

  Kinji Hakari snapped back, “You’re one to talk.” Oddly enough, it fit. Very few people could speak normally to Satoru Gojo.

  “You were later than me,” Satoru Gojo shot back. “I messaged you and Atsuya three weeks ago. Why the delay? Where’s Atsuya?”

  “Teacher Kusakabe is on vacation,” came the answer. Even with only one second-year, the staff was fully assigned. “You know him. If he can lie down, he won’t sit. If he can sit, he won’t stand.”

  So that was the teacher lineup at Tokyo Jujutsu High. Satoru Gojo was a problem teacher, Atsuya Kusakabe was a master of slacking, and Shoko Ieiri lived in a constant haze of intoxication. Even the anger from Kinji Hakari’s provocation faded a little.

  “I needed him for something important,” Satoru Gojo said with a shrug. “Forget it. When he’s on leave, he never answers calls or mail. It can wait until after the event. What about you? You look terrible.”

  “You can tell at a glance. Bad condition,” Kinji Hakari replied impatiently.

  “Lost a bet?”

  “You know the answer.”

  “Scum.”

  Maki Zenin’s blood pressure shot back up. Even though Japan had grown more open after becoming a developed country, there were still strict lines that could not be crossed. Before twenty, touching those lines meant being labeled delinquent, punished, suspended, or worse.

  Despite her sharp mouth, Maki Zenin lived cleanly. Akemi Aki once said she would be popular if she fixed how she talked, but Maki Zenin refused. She said it was too much trouble, and training was hard enough that she needed an outlet.

  “Hey, delinquent teacher, just don’t bring this waste along,” she said. “Without him, we can still win.”

  “What?” Kinji Hakari’s temper flared at once. Losing a bet had already put him in a foul mood. “You want to fight, woman?”

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “If I say yes?”

  Maki Zenin never backed down from a fight. Winning was one thing, but she would not lose in presence. Kinji Hakari was the same.

  “I’ll say this first,” he warned. “At the gambling table, I don’t hold back. Being a woman won’t save you.”

  “Perfect.”

  She charged, swinging her long staff without a blade. One strike put Kinji Hakari flat on the ground. Just one strike.

  Afterward, Maki Zenin froze. Everyone else did too. All talk, but this weak?

  It made no sense. Kinji Hakari’s footwork, movements, and Cursed Energy control were all high level, and his guard was correct. That was why Maki Zenin had hit so hard. Someone like that should not fall so easily.

  “Second-year, get up. Stop playing dead.”

  “He’s not pretending,” Satoru Gojo said, finally explaining. “That’s Kinji’s Cursed Technique. It’s tied to gambling. When his luck is good, even I find him tricky. When it’s bad, you see the result. This time was like rolling dice and getting a one.”

  “Two ones,” Kinji Hakari said as he rubbed his arm and got up. “Awful. I skipped breakfast and wanted a quick win. Instead, I was the one instantly taken out. With my luck right now, maybe Makoto shouldn’t go to Kyoto.”

  “Don’t say that,” Satoru Gojo replied, handing over a paper bag of snacks. “Luck goes up and down. Rolling two ones won’t keep happening. With your strength, roll a three or higher and you beat Kyoto. No problem.”

  “Then let’s try.”

  Kinji Hakari pulled a die from his pocket and tossed it. It bounced a few times and landed on four.

  “Not bad. Maybe I should try to win it back.”

  That settled it. He was a gambling man, and his Cursed Technique was tied to gambling too.

  Akira recalled the student file his mother had brought home. Kinji Hakari scored high in physical ability and Cursed Technique, but his theory grades were a disaster. Calling him scum and deadweight was not wrong.

  It was hard not to suspect he became a Jujutsu Sorcerer because he could not handle studying.

  “What, you got a problem?” Kinji Hakari noticed the look and glared, already forgetting the pain.

  “So what if I do?” Maki Zenin slammed her staff to the ground. “I’ll tell you straight. This is our first-year boss, Ming-ge. If you provoke him, one hit won’t settle it.”

  Akira jolted. Ming-ge, what was that supposed to be?

  Before he could deny it, Maki Zenin flicked her ponytail and shouted, “Ming-ge, hello!”

  “Ming-ge, hello.”

  “Salmon.”

  Panda and Toge Inumaki answered just as loudly, and even Yuta Okkotsu joined in with the air of launching a warship. Yuta, you learned bad habits too. Weren’t we supposed to be on the same side?

  “Ming-ge, huh. I’ll remember that,” Kinji Hakari said, accepting it without hesitation. “What do you want to say?”

  Fine, Ming-ge it was. He could always borrow Satoru Gojo’s Sunglasses later and add a fancy title in front. Akira gave up and shook his head.

  “I just want to ask one thing,” he said. “Can your Cursed Technique cheat? Gambling is like fighting. As long as you win, that’s enough.”

  Kinji Hakari fell silent. At last, he understood why this harmless-looking Boy was the first-year boss. This was not a gambler. This was a cheat far worse than one.

  His friendly smile gained a sharp edge. Were all these first-years monsters?

  Japan is a country where theme culture is everywhere. There are theme parks, Theme Train, theme ships, and all kinds of strange variations. Some themes are proper, like popular anime or games, while others are not so proper, such as the legendary “X Han Train.”

  Today, on a certain car of the Shinkansen traveling from Tokyo to Kyoto, a brand-new theme appeared. The theme was gambling. It was loud, obvious, and impossible to ignore.

  “Full House (Full House, Full House). Looks like my luck is finally turning.”

  “That’s too sweet, Makoto. Kinji Hakari, Shijo Street A. I’m the final winner.”

  “Don’t be so sure. Straight Flush!”

  “You’re kidding me. You can even draw a hand that shortens your lifespan?”

  “No choice. The golden beginner hand is sometimes just like that.”

  “I heard that rumor too. People who have never been at the table always get great luck the first time. If they only start gambling after becoming a Third Magus, the luck can last a long time, until it finally runs dry.”

  “How do you know so much? Aren’t you supposed to stay away from gambling?”

  “We don’t sit at real tables, but we play online games.”

  “And mobile games.”

  The way those two words were spoken carried clear resentment. In their eyes, all probability-based games were bad civilization.

  “I refuse to believe I can’t win!”

  “Six sixes. Let’s see how you beat that.”

  “Too small. Narrow thinking. If we compare small numbers, we can break the dice to reduce points. If we compare big numbers, watch carefully. Six sixes plus six ones. Forty-two.”

  “W-what???”