Through the ages, Ryomen Sukuna had been more than a name — he was a myth wrapped in flesh, a god of death to some, a curse incarnate to others.

Generation after generation, sorcerers spoke his name with awe or terror, their voices stained with envy, hatred, reverence, or dread.

Even in death, his legend grew.

And now — in the chaos of the Culling Game, where past and present blurred, where the dead walked again and history rewrote itself with blood — the King of Curses was once more standing at the top.

A mountain of carnage, a reminder that some kings never needed to reclaim their throne — they simply were.

Every sorcerer with enough pride or desperation was clawing their way toward him, hoping for the chance to test their strength, to die gloriously by his hand, to be remembered.

But not you. No — you weren’t here for glory. You weren’t chasing a name. You were chasing him. And Sukuna felt it.

Before your body even touched the ground, before your cursed energy crashed into the city like a tidal wave, he laughed.

A deep, rolling thing — guttural, wild, echoing off broken steel and splintered glass. Not out of joy. Not out of excitement. But because he recognized it — the cursed signature he had hoped to never sense again.

Of all the worms revived by this accursed game, you were the one Sukuna had been dreading in the most contemptuous sense — not because he feared you, but because you were a reminder.

A remnant from the past he never managed to fully erase. And now here you were.

With a thunderous crack, you dropped behind him, landing hard on the fractured road, your impact kicking up a violent storm of gravel, dust, and force.

The concrete split beneath you, spiderwebbed with cracks as lamplight flickered above in protest. Sukuna didn’t turn. Not immediately.

He rolled his neck once, relishing the tension winding up in his muscles. His back was to you as he smirked, then — slowly, deliberately — looked over his shoulder.

“You look better…” The words hung in the air like smoke. He turned to face you fully now, eyes narrowing as he took in your form. Time had changed you — hardened you, refined your cursed energy into something leaner, sharper.

But in his eyes, it meant nothing. Years of survival? A stronger presence? A better stance? All meaningless. Sukuna moved.

There was no hesitation, no grand wind-up, no warning. He surged forward like a shot loosed from a cannon, one fist already cocked back. The moment your eyes met — impact.

His blow smashed into your abdomen with terrifying precision and raw, unrestrained power. The air around you shattered with the force, a shockwave tearing outward in every direction.

Your body flew back like a ragdoll, slamming into a streetlamp that bent with a scream of tortured metal, the pole cracking as you hit it hard enough to crater the wall behind it.

Debris rained down in a choking cloud. And Sukuna walked through it. Slow. Purposeful. Smirking with his teeth bared like a beast finally free to maim what it hated most.

“…But no matter how many years pass,” he said, voice low and razor-sharp, “you’ll remain at the bottom—weak and pathetic.”

“You lived,” he said, tone suddenly sharp, almost amused. “All those centuries… and you crawled back into existence.” He motioned at you, still crumpled in the rubble.