Chapter Text
Wind cut across the ridge, cold enough to bite, rustling the heavy silk of his robes. Beneath him, the horse stood steady, though its nostrils flared at the metallic scent of blood rising from the valley below.
The men of his retinue waited alongside him, grim and silent. Seasoned sorcerers chosen for their discipline—but even they couldn't hide the tight set of their jaws as they stared into the valley.
"To build such a thing..." One sorcerer's voice was hoarse with disgust. "There's no honour in this. No reason. Just—"
"Madness," another finished quietly.
He neither spoke nor looked away.
His eyes cut through the mist and morning haze until the valley sharpened into cruel clarity. A throne of human skulls rose from the carnage, stacked without reverence, slick with drying blood. And atop it sat the man… if he could be called that
He looked profoundly bored.
He was sprawled across the mountain of bone, one arm draped lazily over a propped knee, his chin resting in a broad palm. He wasn't surveying his handiwork or gloating over the fallen; he simply sat in the middle of the silence he had created. He radiated a presence so oppressive it seemed to stifle the very air around him. He looked like a god who had run out of things to break.
And from the throne of skulls, crimson eyes lifted—
and found him.
The hospital bench outside was uncomfortable—wooden, backless, clearly designed to keep people from staying around for too long. Satoru sat anyway, legs stretched out because folding them under the low seat wasn't happening.
Yuji was checking on his friends; one of them was injured in the curse attack. Later, they'd head to the crematorium for his grandfather's ceremony. If the higher-ups had their way, Yuji would be locked down already, isolated until his execution was decided. But Satoru had pushed back, volunteering to supervise personally. They'd relented, though not happily.
So here he was waiting outside a hospital, on a bench designed to discourage exactly this, giving a fifteen-year-old space to process the fact that his entire life had imploded in less than twenty-four hours.
Satoru tilted his head back, staring at the sky.
Twice now. Twice in such a short period, he’d stood between a teenager and the higher-ups’ verdict. The same cold logic, different kids.
The old geezers were getting jumpy. At this rate, he'd have a whole collection of death-row students before the year was out. Maybe he could even start a club. Execution Pending had a nice ring to it.
He could see their logic, sort of. Yuta had a Special Grade curse attached to him, ready to go off without warning. And Yuji? The kid was hosting the King of Curses—the literal nightmare scenario jujutsu society had spent a millennium trying to prevent. Of course, they wanted him dead. To them, he was a threat, and nothing more. Easier to kill the problem than actually think about it.
The situation was serious—he wasn't an idiot. But the higher-ups ran on fear, not strategy. See a threat, kill it, sleep soundly. Never mind what you might lose in the process. Never mind potential.
Cowards, the lot of them.
The execution order had been issued within hours of Yuji's capture. Immediate termination of the vessel. Satoru had to admire the efficiency, if nothing else. When their own necks were on the line, suddenly the higher-ups could move at lightning speed. Funny how that worked.
He’d shut it down just as fast.
Yuji was fifteen years old. He’d lost his grandfather, eaten a cursed object to protect Megumi and his classmates and was now facing execution for it. The higher-ups wanted to kill a kid who'd done nothing wrong.
That alone was enough to make Satoru push back, but even setting aside the moral obscenity of it, executing Yuji now was strategically stupid. They had a vessel that could suppress Sukuna completely—unprecedented. The fingers couldn't be destroyed, so they needed Yuji to consume all of them first. Without a vessel, what was the plan? Scatter them for another millennium?
So the play was obvious: postpone the execution. Let Yuji help collect the fingers, suppress Sukuna, and actually live for a while. And then... well. They'd cross that bridge when they came to it. Maybe by then, Satoru would have figured out a way around the execution entirely.
A breeze picked up, rustling the leaves of a nearby tree. Satoru watched them sway, his mind drifting.
Of course, if he'd just retrieved the finger that night, none of this would've happened. But the odds? Everything that led to the kid eating the damn thing was so unlikely even he couldn't have seen it coming. Not that it let him off the hook.
Which brought him back to the central question: how had Yuji managed it?
The background check had raised more questions than it answered. Yuji was an orphan, raised by his grandfather, Itadori Wasuke, who'd died just hours before he’d consumed the finger.
His father, Itadori Jin, had no connection to jujutsu that anyone could find. His mother, Kaori, came from a minor sorcerer family—low-grade, barely registered, the kind where cursed techniques manifested once every few generations, if that. Calling them a sorcerer family was generous at best.
Whether Kaori herself had possessed cursed energy was anyone's guess. The records were too sparse, and what remained of her extended family had turned up nothing but dead ends.
What made it stranger was what Megumi had reported: Yuji had zero cursed energy before consuming the finger. Completely ordinary—well, aside from the superhuman strength and speed. Which raised its own set of questions.
And then there was the finger itself. Someone had moved it to Sugisawa Municipal High School. Of all the places in Japan, it ended up there.
Too convenient. Like someone had planned it.
The thought nagged at him, even though it seemed absurd. How would anyone know Yuji could become a vessel before he'd even consumed the finger? How would they engineer a curse attack at exactly the right moment? How could they possibly bank on a fifteen-year-old deciding to eat a cursed object to save his friends?
Too many variables. Too much left to chance.
He let the thought go—for now.
He felt the shift before he heard footsteps. Cursed energy approaching, still new and unrefined but unmistakable. Yuji's presence was growing stronger, blooming into something that would need proper training to control.
And beneath it, Sukuna.
He didn't look up, but he tracked both presences as they drew closer.
"Ready?" he asked as Yuji's shadow fell across the bench.
At the crematorium, Yuji stood silent before the altar, his grandfather’s urn small and plain in his hands—too small for everything the old man had been. Satoru hung back, giving him space. Some moments demanded privacy, even with a chaperone assigned by the higher-ups.
The stillness didn't fit the kid's energy—Yuji seemed like someone who'd naturally fill silences, but grief had its own gravity. When he finally turned, his eyes were dry, but his jaw was set—the look of someone who'd made a decision and wouldn't be swayed.
"If Sukuna was gone," Yuji said suddenly, "would fewer people be harmed by curses?"
There it was. The same equation he'd seen in Yuta—children offering their lives to a world too large to register the loss. The question that shouldn't come from kids: Would my death make things better?
The real answer was simple: Yuji deserved to live, period. His life had value beyond what he could do for the jujutsu world. But that wasn't what Yuji was asking.
The honest answer? It was complicated. Curses would always exist—human negativity guaranteed that. They'd been spawning for millennia. But without Sukuna? No fingers for curses to consume and jump several grades. No looming threat of the King of Curses returning at full strength. One less catastrophic variable in an already dangerous world.
"Of course," Satoru said simply.
Yuji let out a slow breath, his grip tightening slightly on the urn. Then, carefully, he set it on the altar. When he looked up, something had shifted in his expression, resolve settling over grief like an armour.
Satoru could see the decision settle. Not that there'd been much doubt—the kid had already proven what kind of person he was the moment he'd swallowed that first finger. The type who'd choose to help, even if it cost him everything.
"So," Yuji said, looking up. "Have you got that finger?"
Satoru pulled it from his pocket. Everything hinged on this moment. Was Yuji’s ability to suppress the King of Curses a one-off miracle, or was he a true vessel? The higher-ups had their doubts—they wanted it to be a fluke so they could justify an immediate execution.
The best way to find out was to have him eat another.
The higher-ups hadn't liked that plan. Too risky, they'd argued. What if he lost control? What if Sukuna took over permanently?
They'd get over it.
Yuji took the finger, turning it over in his hand. His nose wrinkled. "Looking at it in broad daylight, it's pretty disgusting."
Satoru's mouth twitched. Now he notices. The kid had already eaten one in the dark during a life-or-death fight, and only now the disgust registered.
He watched as Yuji steeled himself, then popped the finger in his mouth and swallowed.
Satoru's attention sharpened.
Sukuna's presence surged. Yuji bent forward—or was Sukuna forcing him down? Black markings crawled across his skin, and the second pair of eyes snapped open, crimson and furious.
Then came the laugh—unmistakably Sukuna’s, dark and delighted.
The Six Eyes tracked it all. The violent surge of cursed energy, the battle for dominance playing out inside one body. Two distinct presences locked in a struggle for control, their energies twisting around each other like fighting snakes.
Satoru found himself almost leaning forward—waiting. For what, he wasn’t sure. For Sukuna to speak? To acknowledge him? The thought sat uncomfortably in his chest.
But, with visible effort, Yuji won.
The markings receded. The extra eyes vanished. Yuji straightened up, his own face settling back into place.
"That's gross," he said, tongue stuck out in disgust.
Yuji could do it. Actually suppress Sukuna, even with two fingers consumed. Satoru didn't understand how it worked, but it did. And there had never been anyone like him.
That decided it.
By the time they left, Tokyo Jujutsu High had its newest student.
Satoru could have teleported them directly to campus, but he took the long way instead. Yuji could use the walk, and honestly, Satoru wanted a few more minutes to just watch the kid when he wasn't in crisis mode.
They followed the winding path toward campus. Satoru kept up a running commentary—the history of the school, the mission structure, even the surprisingly decent vending machines—but as he spoke, he noticed Yuji's shoulders slump. His gaze skimmed over the ancient architecture with flat curiosity, like he'd expected something more. He seemed... disappointed.
Satoru tilted his head "You look devastated."
"Oh—no! It's great! Honestly." Yuji gestured at the traditional buildings. "I just thought there'd be, like, a whole hidden district. Or a barrier we'd have to pass through. Maybe the buildings would float or rearrange themselves?" He deflated. "It just looks like a really quiet temple."
Satoru's mouth twitched. "That'd be pretty cool. But nah. Normal school, just with hunting curses on the side."
"Wait—normal school?" Yuji's eyes widened. "Like with classes and homework?"
"Math, history, Japanese literature—the works." Satoru tapped his temple. "Gotta keep that brain sharp. Can't rely on just being stupidly strong." He paused. "Well, I can. You probably shouldn't."
Yuji’s lips pressed into a thin line. "So I still have to sit through exams?"
"If it makes you feel better, most of your education will involve getting thrown at curses until you figure it out." Satoru grinned. "Way more fun than multiple choice."
Yuji perked up immediately. "Okay, that's way better."
"Thought you’d say that." Satoru nudged him lightly with his shoulder, tilting his head toward the main building. "Anyway, you’re about to have an interview with the principal. Don’t mess it up… he can be quite scary."
Yuji blinked. “The principal?”
"Yep. Screw this up, and he could turn you down for admission. I can’t really interfere with his decision on this one—but I can cheer you on, if that helps." Satoru grinned, letting the playful tone linger.
"And what happens then?" Yuji’s eyes widened as alarm crept in. "Immediate execution?"
Truthfully, even without Satoru’s interference, Yaga wouldn’t reject him. But telling Yuji that now would spoil his entry exam.
Satoru opened his mouth to respond—and felt the shift.
In the previous instances—on the rooftop and at the crematorium—one presence had clearly receded when the other surfaced. Clean switches. But now, the signatures were running parallel. Yuji was still dominant, but Sukuna was pressing against the thin veil of the boy’s consciousness, hovering just beneath the skin.
A mouth manifested on Yuji’s cheek, lips curling into a smirk.
"And here I thought you might be interesting," Sukuna drawled, dark amusement lacing his words. "But you're still bowing to those who should be beneath you. Disappointing."
Irritation flared—a curse lecturing him about his choices. That was new.
Yuji slapped his hand over the mouth, mortified. "I'm so sorry, Gojo-sensei! He's—I can't always control when he—"
“Don't worry about it," he waved it off, though his skin prickled. "Though that's a lot of commentary for someone I just met."
The mouth manifested on Yuji's hand, forcing the boy to jerk it away from his face.
"I've seen all I need to see," Sukuna said, his tone dripping with disdain. "The Six Eyes, the Limitless—such grand titles for someone who kneels to lesser men. Power means nothing without the will to use it freely. Though perhaps that's simply your nature."
The mouth disappeared. Sukuna's presence receded, back to that coiled patience.
Curses threw out insults all the time—empty provocations, desperate attempts to unsettle their opponents. But this hadn't felt like that. It had felt like being seen, like being judged against a standard he didn't even know existed. Something that had nothing to do with cursed energy crawled up his spine.
"Hey—you okay?" Yuji's voice was wary yet concerned.
That made twice now—Megumi on the roof, and now Yuji, who barely knew him.
"Nothing to worry about," Satoru said, adjusting his blindfold unnecessarily."Curses love throwing out whatever they think might land. Sukuna's just trying to get a reaction. He'll do the same to you—poke at things and see what sticks. Don't give him anything to work with."
Yuji nodded, though his hand was still clenched where the mouth had been.
Satoru was already walking toward the building. "Come on. Yaga's waiting, and trust me, making the principal wait is way worse than listening to Sukuna run his mouth."
Yuji hurried to catch up, then fell into step beside him.
Satoru pushed the lingering irritation aside.
Ridiculous. He, of all people—the one everyone was counting on to handle Sukuna—was letting him get under his skin with a few cheap shots. He could beat Sukuna in a fight; he knew that with absolute certainty. But if the King of Curses could rattle him this easily with words alone…
Well. That was annoying.
Satoru left Yuji in Megumi's care.
The talk with Megumi about his self-sacrifical stunt with Mahoraga would have to wait. Megumi had been avoiding him since the rooftop, and between Yuji, the higher-ups, and the relentless mission assignments, Satoru hadn't managed to corner him yet.
It was the 'tax' for Yuji's day of freedom. Officially, Satoru was just catching up on fieldwork he'd missed while playing chaperone at a crematorium. But the relentless flood? That was pointed. It was the only way the higher-ups could actually "punish" him.
You want to play saviour? The pings seemed to say. Fine. Then you don’t get to rest.
Satoru didn’t mind the work. Spite was a hell of a fuel, and he tore through the “punishment” in record time—enough to create a narrow window before the next wave hit. He used it to do something he hadn’t done since graduating: visit the school library.
Know thy enemy, though the ‘enemy’ in question was currently trapped in a teenage boy's subconscious.
The school library was about what he expected: a mix of myths likely born from terrified villagers’ frantic ramblings, and fragmented records from sorcerers who’d documented what little they could before becoming red smears. A handful of firsthand accounts survived, too—but Satoru doubted them. It was known that Sukuna didn’t leave witnesses. Most likely, someone had glimpsed the smoking crater from a safe distance and called it a ‘divine encounter’.
All the texts sang the same chorus: Sukuna was a monster. In an era that was the absolute peak of sorcery prowess, where techniques were most refined, and sorcerers were at their strongest, Sukuna stood above even the most powerful as an untouchable predator.
Great. Extremely helpful.
None of it told him anything practical. One text mentioned a barrier-less Domain—impressive if true—but beyond that? Blank. No battle strategies, no weaknesses, no record of how anyone had ever managed to stand against him. Just centuries of fear, awe, and destruction.
Meanwhile, Sukuna seemed to know plenty about him. He’d clocked the Limitless and the Six Eyes instantly, speaking of them with uncomfortable familiarity.
The rooftop fight surfaced—unwelcome. The way Sukuna had moved, like he'd been reading steps in a dance Satoru didn't remember learning. He pushed it aside and reached for the next text.
What was odd, though, was that for all the documentation of Sukuna's terror, there was nothing about his end. No record of who'd opposed him, what sorcerers had fought him, how he'd actually been killed. The texts detailed his destruction extensively—villages erased, rival sorcerers slaughtered—but the sorcerers themselves were never named.
For someone who had dominated an age of power, there should have been a grand finale. A legendary battle. A list of the fallen.
He found himself staring at a Heian-era ink drawing of the King of Curses—four arms, two faces, rendered in bold, aggressive brushstrokes. It was suitably terrifying. Exactly the caricature you’d expect. But something about it nagged at him.
Satoru shook his head. He was reading too much into a thousand-year-old sketch.
"Gojo-san? In the library?"
Satoru had already noted her the moment she appeared in the doorway. Hayashi-sensei, one of the few teachers who’d ever managed to make him sit still, gave a faint pause, surprise flickering across her face at seeing him. She’d retired from fieldwork years ago after losing a leg to a curse and had spent the last twenty years teaching history and running the library.
"Hard to believe, I know," Satoru said, leaning back in the undersized chair.
"Can I help you find something specific?" she asked, eyes scanning the pile.
Satoru gestured at the texts. "Is this really all the school has on Sukuna?"
She didn't need to answer; her expression said it all. The school’s administration had petitioned for more comprehensive access before but had been denied by the higher-ups.
What the school was allowed to have was surface-level trivia, a sanitised version of history that was more myth than fact. The useful stuff was locked in private vaults of older clans.
It wasn't just information on Sukuna, either. They had an almost pathological collecting tendency, hoarding every scrap of the Golden Age they could lay their hands on. Lost techniques, extinct lineages, forgotten political treaties, you name it—all tucked away. They didn’t just preserve history; they monopolised it. "Preventing another catastrophe", they called it. Satoru called it what it was: hoarding.
Knowledge was power, and the clans weren't keen on sharing it, even if the original monster was currently walking the hallways.
The estate, then. He'd been putting that off long enough.
"Might want to add Sukuna to the syllabus," Satoru said, flipping a book closed with a dull thud. "Since we're dealing with the real thing now."
Hayashi-sensei made a soft, uncomfortable sound—something between acknowledgement and denial—and moved to a nearby shelf, suddenly very focused on straightening spines that didn't need straightening.
Right. Ancient evil was fine on paper. Considerably less fine when it could pass you in the corridor.
Satoru looked at the ink drawing one more time. Sukuna's twin faces stared back, hollow and mocking.
His phone vibrated on the table. Another mission, right on schedule.
Break over.
The evening air hung thick and humid, heavy with night-blooming jasmine and the acrid drift of smoke from the harvest festival's pyres.
Sukuna sat on the edge of the engawa, one leg propped up, silhouetted against the fading light. He drank sake directly from a heavy ceramic bottle, the liquid catching moonlight like silver. His haori hung loose, pushed down to his waist, leaving his chest bare to the humid night.
Satoru approached in silence, footsteps soundless on polished wood, and draped himself over Sukuna's shoulders with cat-like grace. He wrapped his arms around Sukuna's neck, his blue silk sleeves sliding over Sukuna's skin like water.
"Did you have fun at the festival?" Satoru’s voice was a sweet, airy purr. "I heard you had quite an evening."
Sukuna didn't look at him. "Did you?"
"Mmm." Satoru’s fingers traced along Sukuna’s collarbone, leaving a trail of heat behind. "Meet anyone interesting?"
"Enough to keep me entertained." Sukuna's mouth curved slightly, a private amusement that excluded Satoru entirely.
"Anyone in particular?" Satoru kept his voice airy, but his nails had started to dig in without him realising.
Sukuna's mouth curved. "Is this about Yorozu?"
Satoru's fingers stilled for just a fraction of a second before resuming their movement. "I don't know who that is. Should I?"
"Don't lie. It’s beneath you." Sukuna finally turned his head, the right pair of eyes glinting with mean amusement. "You’re jealous. I can smell the sourness on you."
"Don’t be ridiculous," Satoru snapped. The sweetness dropped from his voice as he dug his nails in hard enough to break skin, tiny crescents of blood welling against bronze.
Sukuna's laugh was a low rumble of pure satisfaction. "Look at you. Coming out here all soft and clinging, trying to bait me into a confession. You might as well have your claws out, Satoru. It would be more honest."
Satoru leaned in until his lips were brushing Sukuna’s ear, his voice dropping to a hiss. "And if I am? Maybe I don't appreciate someone throwing themselves at what's mine."
Sukuna turned his head, all four eyes focusing on Satoru with predatory interest. "What's yours?"
Satoru's free hand fisted in Sukuna's hair, yanking his head back hard. "How would you feel?" he spat, his eyes blazing with icy fury, "If someone touched me like that? If I let them hang off me while you watched?"
Sukuna's grin faded slightly, something darker flickering across his expression. "They know better. I'd paint the walls with their insides."
The implication stung—people feared Sukuna enough to leave Satoru alone. But Satoru's presence clearly wasn't enough to deter Sukuna's admirers. He refused to take that bait.
"Exactly." Satoru leaned in, his nose brushing Sukuna’s. "So maybe you should think about that before you let her put her hands on you. Or maybe I should find my own entertainment at the next festival. See how much fun you have then."
The sake bottle fell from Sukuna's hand, hitting the wooden floor with a heavy thud. Liquid splashed, sharp and sweet. Before Satoru could blink, Sukuna moved. Two hands hauled him forward by the waist. The others slammed down on either side of his head as his back hit the engawa.
Sukuna loomed over him, weight pinning Satoru completely, knees bracketing his hips.
"What did you just say?" The question was soft, edged with dark amusement. "Go on. Say it again."
"You heard me." But his voice fractured, breathless, as he stared up at Sukuna.
Sukuna’s mouth curved into a dangerous smile. He leaned in until their noses nearly touched. "We both know you'd wither under another’s touch. Only I know how to make you burn."
"She meant nothing." Sukuna shifted closer, his words ghosting across Satoru’s lips. "I wanted to see this. You, jealous and sharp-clawed. Wanted to watch you bare your teeth for me."
His grin was wicked. "And you performed beautifully."
"That's not fair," Satoru breathed, eyelashes fluttering, the protest cracking into something pleading. "You can't just—"
"Can't I?"
Sukuna's mouth found the curve of Satoru's throat—not a kiss but a claim, bruising and hot. Satoru made a weak, broken sound as Sukuna’s teeth grazed the sensitive skin of his neck.
"Still angry?" Sukuna murmured against his pulse point.
"Yes," Satoru gasped, his body already betraying him, arching up into the crushing weight. "You're... this isn't..."
"Isn't what? Fair?"
Sukuna’s hands pushed the blue silk of Satoru’s kosode upward, letting it bunch at the waist and slip off one shoulder as he shifted. Their legs tangled, hips pressing together. A gust of cool evening air met Satoru’s exposed thighs, stark against the heat of Sukuna’s body.
"You're not going to let anyone else touch you. You’re mine,” Sukuna said as his mouth traced from Satoru’s throat to his collarbone.
Satoru found the words horribly hypocritical—Sukuna was the one who had orchestrated this entire game—but the thought scattered under the heat of Sukuna's mouth, the scrape of teeth against his throat.
"I'm yours," Satoru gasped out, then caught Sukuna's jaw with shaking hands, forcing eye contact, blue burning bright. "As much as you’re mine."
Something dangerous flashed in Sukuna's eyes—all four blazing with raw satisfaction at being claimed in return.
"I am," he admitted.
The admission broke something open between them.
Sukuna's hands hooked under Satoru's knees, forcing his legs wider. He settled firmly between Satoru's thighs, hips rolling in a punishing rhythm that ground rough fabric against bare skin.
Satoru slid against the wood with each roll of Sukuna's hips, kosode bunched and useless around his waist. His head fell back, his back arching in a desperate curve as he bared himself entirely to the man looming over him.
The friction was agonising, perfect. Satoru's breath came in ragged hitches, hands clutching at Sukuna's shoulders. He wanted more—needed the clothes gone, needed Sukuna closer, needed—
Satoru woke hard, breath catching in his throat.
He lay there staring at his ceiling, heart still racing, sheets twisted around his legs. His apartment was cool and dark and utterly silent, reality settling back around him like a cage.
The dream hadn't faded.
He'd been having dreams for weeks now—fragments, mostly. Sensations that slipped away by morning, half-remembered heat and the ghost of unfamiliar hands. Unsettling enough that he'd been ignoring them. But this wasn't a fragment.
He could still feel the rough wood of the engawa against his back. Still smell jasmine cut with smoke. Still feel the humid night air against his skin. The dream sat in his mind with the clarity of lived experience, refusing to blur or fade the way dreams were supposed to.
And the person in it—
Four arms. Four eyes. Black markings across bronze skin—the exact patterns from the library drawing, the same markings he'd seen crawl across Yuji's skin during those brief manifestations.
Satoru's stomach turned. He'd known, hadn't he? Even back then, when he'd convinced himself it could be anyone else. Now he couldn't pretend anymore. The dreams were about Sukuna —the King of Curses living inside one of his students. A mass murderer. Someone Satoru would eventually have to kill.
And he'd just woken up hard from dreaming about being pinned beneath him.
He forced himself upright, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.
Dream-him had been— Clinging. Desperate. Nails digging into Sukuna's skin like he was drowning. And Sukuna had laughed—enjoyed every second because he'd gotten exactly what he wanted.
That version of him had handed it over without hesitating. Had wanted to.
The image flashed through his mind—himself pinned to the engawa, looking up at Sukuna with his guard shattered, wanting, needing—
His hands curled into fists against his thighs. His body was responding to the memory. Even now, even knowing what it meant, some traitorous part of him wanted to chase that feeling back.
Seeing himself like that was the worst part. Vulnerable in a way he couldn't afford. Wanting something he had no business wanting. Not from someone who'd use it to destroy him. Except in the dream, Sukuna hadn't destroyed him with it. He’d responded with something that looked almost like—
No. It doesn't matter. That wasn't real.
But the timing bothered him.
The fragmented dreams had started right around when the talismans were confirmed to be failing. Vague impressions, nothing concrete. Then, Sukuna incarnated, and suddenly, full narrative recall?
What did it mean?
Maybe nothing. Just his mind building connections where there weren't any, seeing patterns in random noise. Or maybe a side effect—resonance from handling the fingers. Something about Sukuna manifesting in a living vessel for the first time in a thousand years. Something his Six Eyes were picking up that he didn't understand yet.
He needed something concrete. Something he could verify or disprove.
Yorozu.
The name surfaced like it had always been there, clear and solid in a way dream details shouldn't be. He'd never heard it before—he was sure of that. So either his subconscious had invented a Heian-era character out of nowhere, or Yorozu had actually existed. Had been real enough to show up in whatever the hell this was.
A verifiable fact. Finally.
When he went to the Gojo clan archives to research Sukuna, he'd search for Yorozu too. If he found nothing, he could write this off. Go back to treating the dreams like random misfires.
(You don't believe that.)
And if he did find something?
He didn't let himself finish that thought.
The clock on his nightstand read 3:53 AM. His alarm was set for four, and he'd woken up seven minutes early. Too close to bother trying to sleep again, too far to just get up without feeling cheated of those last few minutes. Perfect.
He sat there in the dark, the dream still clinging to the edges of his mind, his body still thrumming with unwanted heat. He could still feel Sukuna's weight pinning him down, still hear that voice low against his ear.
Whatever this was—memory, delusion, some side effect he didn't understand yet—he'd figure it out. He always did.
Even if part of him wasn't sure he wanted the answer.