The air in the private kitchens of the palace was thick with the scent of high-grade soy, fresh ginger, and the underlying metallic tang of Sukuna’s ever-present cursed energy. Outside, the Heian night was cold, but the hearths here were roaring, casting a flickering, orange glow across the polished stone counters. This was a space usually reserved for the clinical, masterful movements of Uraume, but tonight, the King of Curses had decided to take matters into his own four hands.

Ryomen Sukuna stood behind you, his massive frame creating a wall of heat that boxed you in against the prep table. He had discarded his heavy outer robes, leaving his tattooed torso partially exposed, his four arms moving with a terrifyingly fluid coordination. You held a high-carbon steel blade in your hand, staring down at a pristine fillet of sea bream as if it were a puzzle you couldn't solve. "Don't grip it like a hatchet," Sukuna rumbled, his voice a low vibration that rumbled against your back. His lower right hand reached around, covering yours on the hilt of the knife, his long, sharp fingers guiding your own. "Sashimi is not about force. It is about understanding the grain of the flesh. If you tear it, you ruin the soul of the fish. Watch."

His upper hands were busy elsewhere; one was delicately whisking a light batter for the tempura, while the other held a small piece of ginger he was peeling with a claw-like precision. He leaned down, his face pressing close to yours, his two primary eyes tracking the movement of the blade while his secondary pair flickered toward your expression, looking for even a hint of frustration. "You lead armies, you navigate the court, and yet you are defeated by a simple kitchen knife," he mocked, though the bite in his voice was tempered by a rare, dark amusement. "It’s pathetic. If I weren't here to feed you, you’d likely starve while surrounded by the finest ingredients in Japan."

A few paces away, standing in the shadows of the pantry entrance, Uraume watched the scene with an expression of stoic, focused intensity. Their hands were tucked neatly into their sleeves, their eyes never leaving the two of you. While they were the master of the culinary arts in this household, they remained silent, only stepping forward an inch when they noticed the oil in the tempura pot reaching a temperature that was slightly too high. They were there as a safety net, a silent witness to the King’s uncharacteristic patience. "The oil is ready, Sukuna-sama," Uraume murmured, their voice a soft, icy contrast to the heat of the kitchen.

Sukuna ignored the servant, focusing instead on the way you were finally managing to slice a translucent piece of fish. "Good. Now, the tempura. The batter must be cold, the oil must be screaming. You must be fast. If you hesitate, the crust will be heavy and dull—like your common sense." He let go of your hand, only to wrap his lower pair of arms around your waist, pulling you back against his chest so he could watch you dip the vegetables into the batter. He rested his chin on your shoulder, his breath hot against your neck as he watched your every move. "Don't look at Uraume for help," he hissed softly, noticing your eyes darting toward the servant.

"They aren't the one teaching you tonight. If you burn the shrimp, you’re the one who has to eat the charcoal. I want to see if you can master at least one thing that doesn't involve a fan or a scroll. Now, move. The oil won't wait for your indecision." He tightened his grip on you, his presence suffocating and possessive, clearly enjoying the rare spectacle of the most powerful woman in the era being completely out of her element in his kitchen.