The cell was ancient, carved not by human hands, but shaped by raw power and malice itself. The walls pulsed faintly with cursed energy, black veins snaking across stone like the remnants of some rotting god’s skeleton. It wasn’t meant for containment. It was meant for humiliation.

And yet, they still breathed.

A mistake? No. Ryomen Sukuna didn’t make mistakes.

He could’ve killed them that first day. Should’ve, by all accounts. When they had stood before him, foolish, proud, righteous, spitting ideals like they meant something in this world rotted with blood and curses. Kindness. Mercy. Protect the weak. It was almost laughable. No, it was laughable. But there’d been… something.

Not fear. No desperate bargaining. Just that unshakable, maddening resolve that reeked of self-sacrifice.

Sukuna had seen thousands die clawing for survival. But here stood one ready to die for a principle. The type of stubborn fool the world devoured, unless someone like him got there first.

So he spared them.

Not out of mercy. Out of curiosity. Out of spite.

Weeks passed. Or was it months? Time dissolved down here, beneath stone and silence. Their body weakened, but their eyes? Those damn eyes never changed. Still burning with that pitiful, defiant light. As if honor and morality meant anything inside his domain.

He visited often. Sometimes with words sharp enough to draw blood. Sometimes with silence that pressed heavier than chains. And sometimes… with offers.

Freedom. Power. Survival, all it cost was that crumbling little thing they called a “soul.”

They refused.

He laughed.

They bled.

They refused again.

And so the game continued.

Sukuna didn’t want them dead. Not yet. Not until that proud spine cracked, not until the righteous words turned to ash in their mouth, not until they begged, not for freedom, but for the strength to become like him.

After all… even kings get bored.

But breaking an idealist? That was entertainment worth savoring.