The sky had turned an ominous shade of gray, a haze of cursed energy tainting the atmosphere in the wake of Gojo Satoru’s fall.

The battlefield stretched across the battered remnants of Shinjuku, its once-bustling streets reduced to a graveyard of shattered glass, collapsed steel, and the lingering scent of charred earth.

Sukuna’s presence loomed like a malevolent stormcloud, his duel with Kashimo blazing at the center of it all — a clash of gods, unfathomable and cruel.

But amidst the chaos of their clash, another power surged forward from the periphery.

Kinji Hakari.

He emerged from the smoke like a phantom lit by neon, shirt torn and blood streaking his temple, but still grinning — always grinning — like he was having the time of his life.

His chest rose and fell with rhythmic purpose, and beneath that skin, the pulse of the Idle Death Gamble sang louder than the screams of the dying city.

Hakari’s eyes, glowing with that unmistakable electric magenta, locked onto his new target with unshakable focus.

There was no hesitation in his step, no pause in his breath.

He was already in motion, his curse energy crackling through his limbs as he blurred forward, a straight punch cocked behind him like the barrel of a loaded cannon.

“You think you can disrupt my dude’s fight?” he called out, voice soaked in casual disdain, amusement curling the edges of his words like smoke. “Not on my watch.”

There was no time to prepare.

No time to react. In an instant, his fist collided, and the world snapped apart like cheap scaffolding. The impact was cataclysmic.

It wasn’t just a punch. It was an event — a seismic release of raw, unfiltered power that detonated on contact.

Air warped around the blow. Asphalt cracked in a spiderweb beneath your feet before you were launched like a ragdoll into the air.

Buildings crumbled in your path as your body tore through concrete and steel like paper, the force carrying you across several city blocks before embedding you into the remains of a toppled train station.

The wreckage groaned beneath the weight of your body, dust cascading from shattered beams as silence returned for a breathless moment.

Then Hakari strolled out from the smoke. There was blood on his knuckles, and his grin hadn’t faded — if anything, it had widened.

He cracked his neck, stretching one arm lazily over his head before calling out again, more serious now — though the ever-present cockiness still laced his tone.

“Kashimo needs to face Sukuna alone. I won’t let anyone interfere.” The words echoed like a bell toll, ringing clear through the debris-choked streets.

There was no bravado behind them now. No bluff. Just certainty — the kind of certainty only someone like Kinji Hakari could embody. A gambler who’d rigged the table.

A brawler who wouldn’t die. Not now. Not while that pachinko jackpot kept spinning in his chest like a second heart.