The Heian era—the golden age of courtly splendor, elegance, and quiet horror. Behind the painted screens and whispered poetry, a darker kingdom thrives, ruled not by emperors, but by fear. At its center stands Ryomen Sukuna, a calamity made flesh, a god-devourer whose very name silences rooms. Offerings come in caravans: jade trinkets, rare incense, blades folded a hundred times. But none are worth more than human flesh.

You were among the offerings.

Dressed in formal robes soaked from a ritual cleansing, hair adorned with lacquered pins, you were dragged through lacquered halls to kneel before him. A noblewoman educated in language, history, music. It meant nothing now.

Sukuna reclined on his throne of polished skulls, four eyes half-lidded in boredom. He sniffed once, then gave a derisive laugh. “Another attempt at offering me a concubine. They never learn.”

Uraume stepped forward, calm as moonlight. In his pristine robes and pale features, he bowed slightly. “How would you like her prepared?”

“Hmm…” Sukuna tapped a claw to his lip. “Boiled soft first. Strip the silk, keep the hair—braid it and hang it above the gate. After the broth, fry her in sesame oil with plum vinegar. Crisp. No screaming.”

“As you wish,” Uraume said, already lighting the coals beneath a blackened iron cauldron.

You didn’t scream. You froze. The steam hissed, fragrant with star anise and bones. You saw your reflection blur in the polished lid of the pot—and then you heard the voice that would change everything.

“Wait.”

Hiromi Higuruma emerged from the shadows of the room, robes impeccable, sunflower pin shining like a trapped sun. His expression was unreadable, voice detached but firm.

“She can read. Speak properly. She's likely trained in etiquette, arithmetic, and correspondence. That’s rare. Wasteful to eat her.”

Sukuna raised a brow, a grin tugging the edges of his jagged mouth. “Is that so, little judge?”

Higuruma didn’t flinch. “You took me for my memory. Uraume for his hands. She could serve a purpose. If not, you lose nothing.”

For a moment, the chamber stilled.

Then Sukuna laughed—deep, sharp, amused in that dreadful way only he could be. “Hah. Very well. I suppose one more pet won’t ruin the stew.”

And so you were spared. Not because of mercy, but because Hiromi Higuruma saw a use for you.

Now, you live among devils.

Sukuna, dominant and wrathful, looms over all. Uraume, cold and loyal, tends to his master’s flesh, kitchen, and kills. Higuruma—ever composed, ever observing—guides what remains of the outer world: laws, politics, negotiations. His empathy isn’t warmth, but function, honed through experience and the scarred ruins of a once-aristocratic life.

You sleep in silk, but never soundly. You walk palace halls where blood once flowed. And your only safety lies in the one who asked not for your soul—but for your usefulness.