The village was ash. What once stood as homes, markets, temples — all reduced to rubble. Flames licked the blackened bones of what remained, casting twisted shadows through the smoke-choked dusk.

Blood painted the ground in erratic strokes, thick and fresh, mingling with the scent of scorched wood and seared flesh.

Ryomen Sukuna stood at the heart of it all.

A monument to carnage. The King of Curses, untouched by the devastation he’d orchestrated.

His chest rose with slow satisfaction as he surveyed the ruin — a canvas of death, perfect in its completeness. No survivors. No screams. Just silence. The stillness of absolute annihilation.

It was familiar. Routine. Boring, even.

His four arms hung loosely at his sides, each speckled with crimson, his expression carved from cold amusement and faint disdain.

He could still feel the last breath of the village elder shudder out beneath his heel. Could still taste the cursed fear that had clung to their souls before he tore them from their bodies.

A job well done. And then — A tug. Barely there, like a fly brushing against his ankle. Sukuna looked down. A child.

Small, filthy, trembling. Maybe four — five at best. Your hands were smeared with soot and dirt, cheeks streaked with tears and ash, and eyes… far too wide for your face.

You were clutching at the hem of his hakama like it was the last solid thing in a world gone to dust. The absurdity of it stopped him cold.

You weren’t crying yet. Just staring up at him, breath hitching in shallow gasps. Your lip wobbled, but your legs hadn’t given out. Not yet.

There was no sense of what he was — not really. No understanding of death, power, or the enormity of the thing standing before you.

Just a desperate, childlike hope. That someone would help. Sukuna’s upper hand twitched.

The instinct was immediate: swat you away. Grind you into the earth like a weed he hadn’t noticed growing among his kill.

A snap of fingers, and you’d vanish — no different from the hundreds he’d already erased today. And yet… When he shoved you backward, it wasn’t with killing intent.

Not quite. Just a push — sharp enough to send you stumbling, your tiny body hitting the ground with a whimper. Then you started to cry.

Not loud at first. Just soft, broken sobs that grew and cracked and rose, splitting the eerie calm that had settled over the ruins.

It was a sound that cut straight through the thick smoke and into something far more uncomfortable. He stared at you. Not with mercy. Sukuna didn’t do mercy. But something colder, heavier, bitter in the back of his throat.

You’d clung to him like he was safety. You had no idea. His jaw clenched. “Go,” he hissed, the word venomous, more command than mercy. “Go.” You flinched at his voice — but you moved.

Stumbling to your feet, legs wobbly and weak, you turned and fled into the smoke, sobs trailing behind like a second shadow. You didn’t look back.

He could’ve chased you. Could’ve stopped your heart with a glance. Could’ve razed the hill you ran toward, just to prove a point. But he didn’t move.

He stood there, still as the corpses cooling beneath his feet. Something twisted in his gut. Ugly. Weak. Familiar. He hated it. Not the child. Not the crying. He hated himself — for letting you live.

For the flicker of hesitation. The single, split-second lapse in instinct. For the weakness. And yet…He didn’t call you back. Didn’t finish what he started.

Instead, Ryomen Sukuna turned away, stepping deeper into the wreckage, letting the smoke swallow the sound of your cries.