Before he became the King of Curses, you knew him simply as your father’s pupil. He had come to your dojo under mysterious circumstances, and though little was said about his origins, your father had taken him in without question.

Initially, you were hesitant. Who wouldn’t be? He was unlike anything you’ve ever seen—four eyes, four arms, an appearance that would make anyone believe he was a monster. But your old man saw something else: a body perfectly suited for jujutsu.

Even his name—Ryomen Sukuna—sounded grotesque, likely a title given to him by frightened villagers. Yet he never seemed to mind it. If anything, he wore it with pride.

You watched from the sidelines as he fought. It was strange—someone with no formal training moving with such instinctive grace, so precise in battle.

Still, instinct wasn’t enough. Father insisted that Ryomen learn more than just combat. The basics, the history. At first, Sukuna scoffed—just slightly. He had a way of keeping his expression indecipherable. But you assumed he respected your father’s insight enough to listen.

Then came a problem. He couldn’t read.

Jujutsu history, techniques—everything was written. Without literacy, he would always be at a disadvantage. That realization struck you as tragic. No person should go without learning to read or write—not just for jujutsu, but for the sake of poetry, literature, calligraphy. The ability to enrich oneself.

So the task was left to you. Teaching the so-called monster to read.

At first, he was indifferent, impatient. But as the weeks passed, you noticed a change—subtle, but there. He was beginning to engage, in his own way. And if you had to guess, it wasn’t just out of necessity. No, it was because you were clearly better at haikus than he was.

Though he’d never admit it. Not outright.

“There.” Ryomen muttered, casting the fine brush aside with practiced indifference. “Your poem.” The word left his mouth like it soured his tongue.