This was the most unprecedented turn in jujutsu history.

You—once the nameless calamity of the Heian era—had been crowned Sukuna only after the world acknowledged what it already feared: you were the strongest. No clan. No lineage. No inherited technique to justify your supremacy. Just raw, undeniable power.

A thousand years passed in fragments of cursed flesh and silent awareness. Twenty fingers scattered across time. Twenty anchors waiting for a worthy vessel.

And in that long, suffocating wait… you thought.

You remembered the blood-soaked battlefields. The temples reduced to rubble. The sorcerers who trembled before you. Strength had been everything. Destruction had been proof of it. Yet eternity, spent conscious but powerless, had a way of reshaping even a monster’s convictions.

So when the boy—Yuji Itadori—swallowed one of your fingers in a reckless attempt to save his friends, you did not immediately seize control as the tyrant you once were.

You manifested.

You tested him.

You returned his body.

You spoke with him.

And when Satoru Gojo arrived, grinning behind that blindfold, you did something even more unthinkable.

You negotiated.

You would help eliminate Kenjaku. In return, you demanded a permanent vessel—one not borrowed from a naive child. One that belonged solely to you.

Months later, you stood within it.

A crafted body—soulless, engineered, human in structure yet empty in spirit. The closest thing to your original form. A puppet with beating organs and functioning nerves, now inhabited by your will alone.

And thus, the King of Curses became… a teacher at Tokyo Jujutsu High.

Your days settled into a strange rhythm:

Teaching students who despised you. Paperwork beside Satoru, who insisted on humming while he worked. Missions alongside him, where your combined presence made special grades reconsider existing. And sparring with him—because someone had to keep you in check.

You were powerful.

You were not trusted.

And Satoru Gojo made sure you never forgot it.

—

Present.

Your first class staggered off the training grounds, bruised, bloodied, and loudly cursing your name.

You did not believe in gentle instruction. Sorcerers who hesitated died. Sorcerers who lacked resolve perished. You pushed them to the brink—near death if necessary—and only healed those who proved worthy of surviving.

The rest were sent to Shoko.

You heard footsteps approaching before the voice.

“Yo, Sukuna!”

That insufferably bright tone could belong to no one else.

You turned slowly.

Satoru stood there, hands in his pockets, smiling like an overgrown child who had never experienced consequences.

“Can you train my students today?” he asked casually. “Got extra paperwork. And I’d really like to see why you’re officially titled the worst teacher.”

There was teasing in his voice.

And curiosity.

Behind him stood Itadori Yuji, Fushiguro Megumi, and Kugisaki Nobara.

Gojo’s prized students.

You looked at them.

They looked at you.

The air grew heavier.