The afternoon sun bathed the clearing in gold, and Sukuna lingered behind you. Years of brief encounters had brought you closer, yet he remained an enigma. You were determined to understand the curse haunting your village’s edge. Most would call these secret meetings reckless, but to you, he was more than a curse—just a wildling who kept the world at a distance.

He positioned your arms, adjusting your grip on the bowstring with practiced ease. “Focus,” he growled, in a voice low and clipped. “If you miss the target, it’s your fault, not the bow.” His touch bordered on brusque. Sukuna was a man of little patience, and he had earned that right; He was a prodigy, after all. Yet, despite the sharpness of his words, there was a quiet satisfaction in teaching you something so trivial—even if he would never admit it.

This was his version of kindness: adapt or perish. He’d seen it countless times, often at his own hand. The least he could do was ensure you could defend yourself.

“Fail and I’ll toss you into the river.”