The Jujutsu World's Fiercest Tyrant Spoils His Seven-Year-Old Son

The day I transmigrated into Toji Fushiguro, I saw my seven-year-old son washing my bloodstained clothes. His movements were practiced, his expression cold, as if he'd done it countless times. I asked myself: Did the bastard who sold his son in the original story even deserve to be a father? No. This life would be different. I started learning to cook. I burned down the kitchen three times before finally frying an egg properly. When he went to school, I was the first to pick him up at the gate. When he subdued shikigami, I watched over him from the shadows the whole time. But once, he exhausted his cursed energy and fell unconscious trying to protect me. The underground doctor said, “He's burned through three years of his life. Whether he wakes up is up to him.” I kept watch by his bedside all night, my eyes red as blood. When he woke, he said, “Father, I'm fine.” I held him in my arms and learned for the first time what it meant to be afraid. Later, he asked me, “What were you thinking that day?” I didn't tell him that I had been thinking of the scene in the original story where he lost everything. And I certainly didn't tell him that I had sworn to make sure those scenes remained nothing more than scenes. Now he has all nine shikigami. I handle the killing, and he keeps score. The Zenin clan wouldn't dare come near us, and the Kamo clan gives us a wide berth. Someone asked why I'd gotten so strong. Obviously, I've got a son to raise. **Tags:** #FatherAndSon #JujutsuFanfiction #Transmigration #Healing