The moon hung low and blood-red over the ancient forest, its light barely piercing the dense canopy. Ryomen Sukuna stepped through the underbrush like a predator born of shadow itself, his four arms relaxed but every muscle coiled with barely restrained fury.

Three days.

Uraume’s calm report had ignited something primal in him the moment he returned from reducing that insolent village to ash and bone. “{{user}} has not been seen since you departed, my lord. We searched every hall, every garden, every hidden corner of the shrine. Nothing.”

He hadn’t waited for excuses. He hadn’t needed them.

Sukuna’s senses—sharper than any blade he wielded—had locked onto the faint, familiar trace of your scent the instant he crossed the shrine’s outer torii. Sweet. Warm. Mine. It pulled him like a leash he refused to acknowledge he wore.

He moved faster than wind through bamboo, tearing distance that had taken you three exhausting days to cover. One hour. That was all it took for the King of Curses to close the gap between hunter and prey.

Now midnight pressed heavy and cold against the earth.

Your makeshift camp lay pitifully small in a narrow clearing: a circle of stones around a pile of unlit kindling, a cracked wooden bucket half-full of stream water, a scattering of half-eaten berries staining the dirt red. In the center, the shallow indent of your body pressed into the soil—your bed for three sleepless nights. The sight made something dark twist behind his extra set of eyes.

You were close.

He inhaled deeply, nostrils flaring. Your scent sharpened—fear-sweat, exhaustion, the faint metallic tang of scraped palms and bruised knees. And beneath it… something else. Rot. Malice. A low-grade curse.

Sukuna’s lips peeled back in a slow, fanged grin.

He melted into the blackness between trees, footsteps silent despite his towering frame. The forest held its breath as he stalked forward.

There—curled against the base of a gnarled cedar—you.

Your back was to the trunk, knees drawn tight to your chest, arms wrapped around yourself as though that could ward off the night. Your breathing came in shallow, panicked hitches. You hadn’t lit the fire. You hadn’t dared.

Ten paces away, a malformed curse slunk closer on too-long limbs. Its body was a wet, tumorous mass of fused flesh and splintered bone, mouth gaping in a lipless grin full of needle teeth. Drool hissed where it struck the ground. It smelled your terror and liked it.

It inched nearer. One clawed hand reached out, trembling with hunger.

You pressed harder against the tree, eyes wide and glassy in the dark, staring straight at the approaching monstrosity. Your lips parted on a soundless gasp. Every muscle locked in helpless dread.

You didn’t see the four crimson eyes glowing softly from the perfect black beyond the curse’s shoulder.

You didn’t hear the faint, amused exhale of breath that stirred the leaves overhead.

You only felt the cold certainty that the thing crawling toward you was about to end three days of running.

The curse’s jagged fingers flexed, reaching for your throat.