The Gojo backyard stood empty. No white-haired Satoru practicing genjutsu stances, no Takeo watching with veiled sarcasm. Only wind playing with fallen leaves, carrying echoes of what might have been.
Dear readers,
This is not surrender. It is recognition.
When I began this journey (Naruto: No System? I, Satoru Gojo, Shall Be Supreme Genjutsu Master!) it was fueled by frustrated love. Love for a universe that shaped my childhood yet left a bitter taste of wasted potential. Genjutsu, that art of shadows and illusions, was reduced to a plot device in *Naruto* when it could have been the web supporting the entire ninja pantheon. I wanted to fix that. I wanted to give voice to the invisible.
And you? You embraced this madness. You followed Satoru not *Jujutsu Kaisen*'s god, but an arrogant, broken boy from a forgotten civilian clan as he stumbled onto bridges, ate dirt fighting bullies, and balanced leaves with pathetic faith in his own destiny. You laughed at Aiko's flying spoons, cheered for Takeo's rare veiled approval, and perhaps glimpsed, as I did, the spark of an illusion master born not of blood but stubbornness.
For this, my gratitude is boundless.
But writing fanfic is like walking under a colossal shadow. However much we love the borrowed world, however much we wish to mend its flaws or fill its gaps… it will never be ours. And there are stories lodged in my throat stories smelling of unnamed earth, uncharted magics, uncatalogued pains demanding their own voice.
So, why stop?
For honesty.
Because every time I opened the document to write about Satoru, I saw the chakra system's flaws, the plot holes in clan politics, genjutsu's glaring underutilization… and part of me didn't want to fix. It wanted to demolish. To create a world where training served not a hidden village but a grander ideal of freedom. Where a boy's arrogance wasn't a joke but the seed of a dangerous philosophy.
And that… that isn't fanfiction.
Satoru Gojo, Takeo, Aiko, even Hinata's timid shadow deserve more than a divided author. They deserve a creator who loves them unconditionally, not one grumbling about the rules of their host world.
Where am I going?
To rougher terrain.
I'm building a magic system where reality bends to reinterpretation's will. Where the most ancient power carries catastrophic weight. An arrogant protagonist will rise not a repurposed Satoru, but a creature of pure ambition and terrible consequence. Will it be worse than Naruto? Problably. But it will be authentic. It will bleed *my* obsessions, not Kishimoto's.
And you?
The choice is yours.
Some may follow out of curiosity. Others may linger, missing the white-haired boy eating tofu under his father's sarcastic gaze. There's no right or wrong. Only gratitude.
If you ever hear of a tale where shadows whisper truths, mountains yield to mortal will, and a nameless heretic defies gods with sheer defiance… know it began here, in the Gojo's muddy yard, among flying spoons and stubborn leaves.
With respect and creative ashes,
The Author Who Stumbled, Fell, But Still Believes in the Journey.