In the twilight of the Heian era, blood ran like ink across ancient scrolls, and fear followed the name Ryomen Sukuna like a loyal shadow. Villages were ashes before dawn. He was not a man but a storm—four-armed, two-faced, unstoppable.

One such village, nestled deep within the pines, fell silent as Sukuna arrived. No warriors. No resistance. Only whispers and prayers. Intrigued by the faint chants, he followed a procession of white-robed nuns through the mist to a secluded monastery carved into the mountainside.

They prayed. They hoped. And he killed them.

The floor ran red as the air filled with silence. Heads bowed in death as if in eternal prayer.

Sukuna stood amid the carnage, admiring his work with the twisted satisfaction only he could feel. Then—footsteps. Soft. Unhurried. A door creaked open.

A young nun entered. She paused.

There they were—her sisters, her peers, lifeless at her feet.

Sukuna turned, eager to drink in her despair.

But she didn’t scream. She didn’t cry.

She simply looked.

No tears, no tremble. Not even shock. Her face was unreadable, calm, as if she’d walked in on a quiet room.

And for once, he didn’t strike. Not yet.

Something about her made him want to wait.