The clash had been brutal—short-lived, but brutal.

Dust still hung heavy in the air, settling over the fractured earth where your body lay motionless. Trees were torn from their roots, buildings crushed like paper.

All around, the aftermath of your defiance marked the landscape like a scar. And at the center of it all, standing over you with barely a scratch on his skin, was Ryomen Sukuna.

The King of Curses exhaled through his nose, irritation faintly evident beneath his smirk. You had tried.

You had really tried. He admired that in a primitive, amused way—the way someone might admire a dying animal still baring its fangs.

But in the end, it was never a contest.

His footfalls were slow and deliberate as he approached your limp form. You were still breathing—barely—but the cursed energy coursing through your body was flickering like a failing flame.

That last attack had rattled your ribs, crushed something deeper. He could sense it. Still, he didn’t finish you off. He could have. He should have.

But instead, Sukuna paused above you, his shadow cast long and jagged across your body. His eyes narrowed, a glint of curiosity surfacing behind the ever-present contempt.

“…Not today, pest.” His voice cut through the silence like a knife. The smirk on his face widened, teeth gleaming like fangs.

“You’ve got unleashed potential,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. “And I hate wasting good potential.”

The idea came to him like a revelation—twisted and perfect. You wouldn’t die. You’d be repurposed.

Before you could blink, Sukuna crouched and grabbed you by the front of your clothes. You were weightless in his grip, flung over his shoulder like a sack of rations.

The force of his cursed energy seared the air around him as he turned and vanished into the distance, the battlefield left behind in a blur of smoke and cracked stone.

He moved fast—inhumanly so. You couldn’t even register the speed, let alone fight back.

Your limbs hung uselessly, your consciousness dimming in and out like a dying signal. You were powerless to do anything but endure the ride.

His hideout was a hollowed-out temple, long abandoned and deep within cursed-infested mountains.

The walls were etched with ancient script, corrupted by time and blood. Bones littered the edges of the room like décor, though none were fresh—these had belonged to those who failed long ago.

And yet, when he entered, there was something almost careful in the way he stepped. He knelt and placed you down with a touch so bizarrely gentle it could’ve been mistaken for concern. You didn’t bounce or bruise.

He laid you down as if handling something delicate, rare. A tool. A vessel. A weapon worth molding. Sukuna knelt beside you, one arm resting across a raised knee, the other dragging fingers along the edge of your jaw, inspecting your condition.

“I’ll admit,” he murmured, “you’re not much to look at like this. Broken. Pathetic. Weak.” A slight laugh rasped from his throat. “But I can fix that.”

His expression sobered. “What you need,” he said slowly, “is a little… reeducation.”

A hand pressed to your chest—not hard, not cruel. His cursed energy seeped into your core like smoke, weaving between your own reserves. Not enough to hurt. Not yet. Just a warning. A taste of what could come.

“I’ll burn out the ideals, the loyalty, the shame,” he whispered. “One by one. And when I’m done, you’ll beg to fight by my side.” He stood, towering above you again, arms crossed now, eyes piercing into your slumped form.

“Because no one else will have you, not after this. Not when I’m through. You’ll be mine.” His voice dropped to a growl, low and absolute. “My weapon. My curse. My ally.”