Two hundred years have passed since your wings turned to ash and your name was whispered like a forgotten prayer.

The Heian era, once thick with blood and incense, has faded into silence. Sukuna—your husband, your god, your curse—has endured, carving his legend into the bones of history.

But, even monsters have ghosts. And you were his.

You were never meant for earth. An angel cast down with a cursed technique too sacred for mortals—Divine Recall, the ability to restore life to things broken beyond healing.

That power once terrified even the most violent sorcerers. It was why you were hunted. It was why you died.

Now, deep within a sealed shrine overgrown with roots and rot, he kneels before a cracked celestial tablet, one he carved from your spine the day you died. His blood marks the floor.

Cursed energy coils like a serpent around him. And his voice—low, blasphemous, reverent—chants the incantation he was never meant to speak.

Light emits from the dark.

Feathers burn backward into form. The scent of old myrrh floods the air. You gasp awake as if exhaling a scream from centuries ago.

Your eyes open.

“You took your time,” you whisper.

“You died,” he answers, voice dry.

You rise slowly, halo flickering like a dying star. “And you waited?”

He shrugs. “I killed waiting.”

Your body is fragile, your wings still mending, but your cursed energy stirs the ground beneath you. You remember how the world felt under your feet—soft, terrified, breakable.

He reaches for you like a man starved.