The Heian era breathes blood and brilliance. Beneath silk robes and golden shrines, curses fester like rot beneath polished wood. The capital glimmers with poetry and politics, but its foundations are cracked—held together by ancient rites and the quiet desperation of sorcerers who battle unseen horrors. Every noble house hides a talisman. Every temple hums with whispered prayers. Every shadow might be a mouth.
Tonight, under the Crimson Moon, everything changes.
Far from the capital, in a village so remote it lacks a name on any map, a woman writhes in agony. Her screams echo through bamboo forests and rice paddies, waking foxes and frightening crows. The midwives—three sisters trained in both medicine and magic—arrive too late. Her body convulses, torn apart from within, as if something ancient claws its way out. Her blood turns black. Her eyes roll back. She dies with her mouth open, as if trying to warn the world.
The child emerges not crying, but silent. The silence is unnatural—thick, suffocating, as if sound itself refuses to exist near him. Temple bells begin to ring in reverse, their tones warped and mournful. The sky—oh, the sky—bleeds red, mourning the arrival of something that should not be.
They name him Ryomen Sukuna.
Not out of reverence. Out of fear.
He has two faces. Four arms. Eyes that do not blink. His skin is pale as bone, yet marked with crimson lines that pulse like veins. When he breathes, the air shivers. When he moves, shadows twist unnaturally. Elders call him a demon. Priests attempt to burn him alive. But the flames bend away from his skin, as if fire itself refuses to touch him.
The village vanishes within a week.
Not destroyed—forgotten. Maps erase it. Travelers walk past it without seeing. The land itself seems to reject memory. Only the shrine remains, built from the bones of those who tried to kill him.
By five, Sukuna sees curses. Not just the ones that haunt homes and forests—but the ones that cling to people's souls. He names them. He speaks to them. They obey.
By seven, he commands them. He sends a plague spirit to devour a corrupt magistrate. He binds a river ghost to protect a village from floods. He is feared, but also worshipped in secret. Mothers leave offerings of rice and blood at the edge of forests. Children whisper his name when they're afraid of the dark.
By ten, he's already killed three wandering sorcerers who attempt to exorcise him. Their bodies are found folded into origami shapes, their blood used to paint protective seals that no longer protect anything.
He doesn't speak until twelve. When he does, both mouths move in unison.
"You call me a curse. But I am the truth you fear."
Clans whisper. Is he a vessel? A god? A mistake? Some say he is the reincarnation of a forgotten wrathful deity. Others believe he is the result of a forbidden ritual—an attempt to create the perfect sorcerer that went horribly right.
The jujutsu elders send assassins. Sukuna sends their heads back in baskets woven from their own hair. One basket arrives still blinking.
He builds a shrine from bones. Not just human—but cursed creatures, ancient yokai, and even the remains of a celestial beast said to guard the northern sky. He carves his name into the heavens with cursed energy so thick it turns birds to ash mid-flight. The stars dim around it, as if afraid to shine too close.
He begins to travel—not to conquer, but to learn. He walks through war-torn provinces, untouched by arrows or blades. He listens to dying men. He watches the rituals of mountain shamans. He studies the language of curses etched into cave walls older than history.
Yet he isn't cruel for cruelty's sake.
He spares children. He feeds the hungry. He teaches those who listen. He heals a blind girl's eyes with a touch, then curses her tongue so she can never speak of it. His mercy is unpredictable lightning that sometimes kisses the earth instead of splitting it.
He meets a boy who cannot walk. Sukuna gives him legs made of cursed energy—stronger than steel, faster than horses. The boy runs for three days straight before collapsing, smiling.
He meets a woman who cannot die. Sukuna gives her death, gentle and final. She thanks him with her last breath.
One day, a wandering monk approaches him. The monk wears no shoes, carries no staff, and speaks with the calm of someone who has already died once.
"You are powerful," the monk says. "But power without purpose is a curse."
Sukuna smiles. Both mouths curl in opposite directions.
"Then let me be the greatest curse this world has ever known."
The monk bows. Not in submission, but in acknowledgment. He walks away, leaving behind a scroll that no one can read—except Sukuna.
That night, the moon turns black. The stars vanish. And somewhere, deep in the mountains, a temple collapses without warning.
The legend begins.