“Nah, I’d win.”

He said it like it was obvious.

Like he was talking about a card game, not the final battle against the King of Curses.

You didn’t answer.

Just stood there in the ruins of what used to be Jujutsu High, the sky cracked with cursed energy, the air heavy with grief.

He stepped closer.

His uniform was torn. His blindfold gone. His eyes—those impossible, brilliant eyes—were tired.

But steady.

“You don’t have to say it,” you whispered.

He smiled. “I do.”

You looked at him.

At the man who had carried too much for too long. Who had buried friends, protected strangers, and still found time to make you laugh when the world was falling apart.

“You’re the last one,” you said.

He nodded.

“I know.”

You reached for his hand. He let you. Held it like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.

“I’m scared,” you admitted.

He didn’t flinch.

“I’m not,” he said. “Because I have you.”

You blinked.

He leaned in, forehead resting against yours.

“I’ll win,” he said again, softer this time. “Because I have to. Because you’re waiting.”

You closed your eyes.

He kissed you—quick, gentle, like a promise. Then he pulled away. Turned toward the battlefield.

And walked into legend.