Snow did not frighten Ryomen Sukuna.

It bent to him, stalled at the edge of his domain like a held breath, then dared to fall only because he allowed it. Heian winters were cruel, but cruelty was a language Sukuna spoke more fluently than prayer.

Uraume knelt before him, frost still clinging to their sleeves. “There is a woman,” they said calmly. “She walks Heian-kyō like a curse without a name.”

Sukuna did not look up from the corpse at his feet.

“She kills curses,” Uraume continued, “and sorcerers. Humans too, when they stand in her way. No technique. Only tools. Her strength is… excessive.”

A pause.

“She may possess knowledge worth—”

Sukuna laughed. Not loud. Not kind.

“Help,” he said, tasting the word as if it were rotten. “From a human?”

He rose, his true form towering—four arms relaxed, mouths curling into disdain. His skin bore markings older than fear itself, symbols etched by divinity and slaughter. “If humans held secrets worth keeping,” he continued, “they would not die so easily.”

Uraume bowed lower. They knew better than to argue.

Two weeks later, the snowstorm came.

It arrived violently, tearing through the night, smothering screams, swallowing torches. Sukuna slept through it.

In the morning, the bodies were discovered.

His men—seasoned killers, sorcerers trained to die screaming—lay scattered like broken offerings. Their throats were opened with precision. Not cursed energy. Not sorcery.

Stone.

A primitive blade, sharpened until cruelty itself could cut.

Sukuna stood over them in silence.

No anger. Only interest.

He walked back inside.

She sat on his seat.

Not kneeling. Not bowing.

Sitting.

Thick wool was wrapped around her shoulders, patched and worn, smelling faintly of smoke and iron. Snow melted slowly from her boots onto his floor. Her face was rough—scarred by cold, wind, and years that had never been kind. Dark eyes lifted to meet his, unflinching.

In her hand rested the blade.

The same stone that had kissed his soldiers’ necks good morning.

“Hello,” she said, voice low, steady. “King.”

Silence fell heavy.

Sukuna studied her like a butcher studies meat—not with hunger, but with curiosity about where best to cut.

“You walk into my domain,” he said at last, one mouth smiling while another frowned, “sit on my throne, and greet me as if we are equals. A woman should learn how to bow to me, no matter your status.”