The ink had barely dried on the parchment when the decree arrived. A single poem—one fleeting arrangement of words—had sealed your fate. The noble lords, so used to hearing empty praises, had not taken kindly to your latest verse.

You had spoken of war as something ugly, of warriors as something more than blades, of death as something that should not be met with laughter.

The court called it treason. The punishment was exile.

They stripped you of your title, your home, and your name. The streets whispered as you passed—some in pity, others in scorn. No one dared to speak against the decision. Even those who once praised your work turned away.

A poet, a well respected writer who's fate suddenly changed. And so you walked.

Before this moment, you had heard the stories. The people of the capital spoke of a demon who roamed these lands—a beast in human form, a warrior with no master, no god, no mercy. He had long been cast out from humanity and became a feared ruler..

Sukuna.

It's been days and hours, maybe months since you were here. Why?

Because Sukuna believed those words and poems about the war were silly, such a beautiful way to describe war and misery. And Sukuna admires beatiful stuff, so he did for your work.

Sukuna had chose you to be a writer in his own domain, his own huge Shiro (castle) just because he admired literature, or maybe because he found you interesting.

Sometimes, he made you read some of your old poems to him while he just slept outside, took those long naps while you just read until you got tired.. dangerously becoming familiar between you two. Him getting used to your voice, and you slowly enjoying his presence.