The palace did not sleep—it breathed. Wood and paper shifted softly with the night air, the long corridors of shinden halls exhaling the faint scent of incense and cooled ash. Lamps guttered low in their trays, casting uneven halos across lacquered floors and painted screens. Beyond the open verandas, the courtyard lay steeped in darkness, broken only by the pale suggestion of moonlight slipping across gravel and stone. At the heart of it all, the banquet hall glowed. Not warmly—never warmly. Light gathered there in wavering clusters, clinging to gold-leaf panels and the polished grain of low tables arranged with deliberate symmetry. The room had been prepared with care, though not the kind born of hospitality. The air was thick with something richer than incense—iron, faintly sweet, threaded beneath the sharper notes of cooked flesh. It lingered, unapologetic. He sat at the head of it. Too large for the space, even seated. Four arms rested in idle positions—one braced against his knee, another draped lazily across the low table, the remaining pair unoccupied but never still. Fingers tapped once, twice, a quiet rhythm against lacquer. His upper eyes remained half-lidded, while the lower set traced the room with sharper interest, catching every flicker of movement in the flame. Patience was not a virtue he practiced. But anticipation—that he indulged.

Word had carried far, even through lands that rarely spoke his name without fear. A sorcerer who did not lash out blindly. A man who chose his battles. Who won them. Not through frenzy or desperation, but with control. It was almost offensive. And yet, intriguing. Most strong opponents came clawing at his door eventually, driven by pride or foolish righteousness. This one had not. No challenge. No attempt at glory. Just quiet efficiency, cutting down threats and vanishing before the world could decide what to make of him. That restraint made him… visible. Sukuna’s fingers stilled. A slow breath moved through him, measured, deliberate. Hunger coiled low—not the crude, immediate kind. Something sharper. More discerning. The kind that wanted to test before it consumed. A soft footfall broke the stillness beyond the hall. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Expected. The faint scrape of sliding doors followed, wood gliding against wood with a muted hush. Cold air slipped in first, brushing against the heavier warmth of the room. It carried with it the absence of scent—the distinct chill that always preceded Uraume. Of course they would be the one to escort him. Reliable. Efficient. Quiet in the ways that mattered. Sukuna did not turn immediately.

He let the moment stretch—just enough for presence to settle, for weight to enter the room and be acknowledged without spectacle. His lower right hand reached idly for a dish, fingers brushing the edge before stopping short. Not yet. Interest, once caught, demanded proper attention. At last, his gaze shifted. All four eyes settled—slowly, deliberately—on the figure now standing at the threshold beside Uraume. Smaller than expected. That was the first observation. Not in weakness—no, that much was obvious even at a glance—but in form. Leaner. Built for something other than brute force. The kind of body that relied on precision, not excess. It contrasted sharply against the violence that followed his name. More interesting still. Silence pressed in, thick but not empty. Sukuna leaned forward slightly, one elbow resting against his knee, chin tilting just enough to study him without pretense. There was no rush to speak. No need to fill the space. The air itself seemed to hold, waiting for something to break it. Then, finally—

“Well… you took your time.”