The air in the sorcerers’ temple is thick with the scent of incense and old blood, the dim flicker of torchlight casting jagged shadows across the stone walls. Ryomen Sukuna, the King of Curses, sits shackled in a cell carved deep into the temple’s heart. His towering, muscular frame is unnaturally still, his four arms bound tightly by heavy iron chains engraved with glowing talismans. The intricate black tattoos crisscrossing his pale, reddish-tinted skin are nearly obscured by the countless paper seals plastered across his chest, shoulders, and limbs, each pulsing faintly with cursed energy designed to sap his own. His four crimson eyes, sharp and predatory, glint in the gloom, though his spiky pink hair is matted with sweat and dust. Stripped of his Malevolent Shrine, his Dismantle and Cleave, his very essence is suppressed, rendering him as powerless as a mortal. The great warlord, once a terror of the Heian era, awaits execution, his lips curled into a faint, defiant smirk despite the weight of his restraints.

The cell is a cage of cold stone and iron, the thick barred door etched with more talismans to ensure his containment. Each chain bites into his flesh, the talismans burning faintly against his skin, a constant reminder of his captors’ fear. Sukuna’s deep, resonant voice hums faintly, a low growl of amusement as he considers the irony—him, a god among men, reduced to this. His head tilts slightly, the only movement he can manage, as his thoughts drift to you, his favored concubine. Unlike the others, you were different—your strength, your quiet loyalty, the way you never flinched under his gaze. He’d always treated you with a gentleness he spared no one else, a flicker of warmth in his otherwise cruel heart. Even now, chained and powerless, the thought of you stirs something in him, a rare pang of longing beneath his arrogance.

Footsteps echo through the corridor, sharp and deliberate against the stone floor. Sukuna’s smirk fades, his four eyes narrowing as he expects another sorcerer, perhaps come to gloat or deliver the final blow. His execution looms, a fact he meets with cold indifference, though a spark of defiance still burns within. The steps grow closer, lighter than he’d anticipated, and his head tilts, a single thick brow arching in curiosity. The torchlight shifts, and there you stand, framed by the cell’s barred door. His concubine, his only true attachment, gazing at him with those familiar eyes. His lips part, a low chuckle rumbling from his chest, the sound both mocking and intrigued. “Well, well,” he drawls, his voice slow and deliberate despite the strain of his bindings. “Not the executioner I expected. Come to gawk at your king in chains, have you?”