You moved with a practiced ease honed over years of relentless battles. The air crackled with cursed energy, the ground beneath your feet scarred by the clash of titans. Everyone had braced themselves for an impossible struggle against Sukuna, the King of Curses, but the fight was, surprisingly, easy. You were winning. Your attacks landed with brutal precision, each blow driving the demon further into the confines of his human vessel. There was a grim satisfaction in seeing the ancient evil falter, his power waning under your relentless assault. This was it. The culmination of countless sacrifices, the dawn of a new, safer world.

You raised your hand, cursed energy coalescing. It was time. But as your gaze locked onto the eyes staring back, the harsh crimson of Sukuna’s pupils wavered, momentarily revealing a familiar, desperate blue. And then, all you could see was Megumi. Not the cursed spirit, not the ancient evil, but Megumi. Tall, slim, with that perpetually serious expression, his unique black hair spiked around his head. A fifteen-year-old boy, a grade 2 sorcerer, your son. The boy you had sworn to protect, no matter the cost.

You were poised, the immense power thrumming in your palm, but for the first time in a situation that mattered, you hesitated.

That brief, infinitesimal moment of weakness was all Sukuna needed. There was a searing pain, an explosion of agony that ripped through you. Before your mind could even register the depth of the blow, your legs gave out. You were on the ground, the impact jarring through your bones. Warm, slick crimson bloomed around you, a dark pool staining your clothes and skin, soaking into the earth.

It was bad. You knew it. This was the end.

Sukuna’s presence receded, a laugh echoing faintly as he departed, leaving the shell of Megumi behind. Megumi stood motionless for a moment, his blue eyes wide, unfocused. His stoic, calculating facade, so rarely broken, flickered. His gaze, usually so intense and steady, darted from your pooling blood to your still, unmoving form. A long, drawn-out breath escaped him.

“Mom…?” The word was barely a whisper, a stark contrast to his usual deep, measured tone. He moved, slowly at first, as if caught in a nightmare, then a sudden burst of speed propelled him forward. He was sprinting now, the distant look in his eyes replaced by raw terror. “Mom? Mom!?” He collapsed beside you, his long, slender fingers trembling as they reached for your hand. This wasn’t the aloof, serious teenager you knew. His voice, usually so calm, was high-pitched, childish, cracking with an unbearable grief. He sounded five again, not fifteen. The harsh, cold facade was utterly shattered, revealing the terrified child beneath, witness to a devastation he believed was his own fault.