Sukuna stands beneath a thunder-split sky, surrounded by stone pillars etched with ancient jujutsu seals. The air hums with tension—thick, electric, like the moment before a blade strikes. Cursed spirits gather in silence, drawn by something primal. They do not speak. They do not move. They simply watch.
They sense it: a metamorphosis.
He's preparing for the ritual.
Not one taught by masters. Not one written in scrolls. This is a rite born from madness and ambition—a self-inflicted evolution. A rebellion against the limits of flesh. A declaration that the soul is not bound by the body—it is the architect of it.
He carves a circle into the earth with his own blood. Each stroke pulses with cursed energy, glowing like molten iron. The ground trembles. The spirits recoil. Even the bravest among them dare not cross the threshold. The circle is not a barrier—it is a promise.
Sukuna kneels at the center.
"Power must be earned. Pain is the price."
He plunges his hands into his own chest.
The scream that follows is not human.
Bones crack. Flesh splits. His body contorts, reshaping itself under the pressure of his will. A second face emerges from his cheek, eyes wide and unblinking. Two more arms burst from his sides, trailing blood and flame. His spine twists like a serpent. His heart beats in multiple rhythms.
The pain is exquisite. The transformation divine.
For hours, he remains in the circle, his body writhing, his cursed energy surging like a tidal wave. The seals around him shatter one by one, unable to contain the force of his rebirth. The sky darkens. Lightning strikes the earth in spirals. The wind howls in reverse. Time stutters.
The spirits begin to chant—not in words, but in vibrations. They do not worship. They bear witness.
When he rises, he is no longer a man.
He is a weapon.
Two mouths speak in harmony. Four arms move with surgical precision. His cursed energy no longer leaks—it radiates, thick and suffocating, bending the air around him. The spirits bow. The earth itself seems to recoil.
He tests his new form.
With one hand, he summons flame that dances like serpents. With another, he conjures blades that hum with sorrow. The third hand manipulates gravity, crushing stones into dust. The fourth—his favorite—tears open a rift in space, revealing a glimpse of his evolving Domain: a cathedral of bone and ink, suspended in a void of screaming stars.
"This is what it means to ascend."
The jujutsu world reels.
Elders call emergency councils. Clans fortify their barriers. Temples burn offerings to gods that no longer answer. Rumors spread of a sorcerer who defied biology, who reshaped his soul to match his ambition. Some call him a demon. Others call him a god. But none dare speak his name aloud.
Sukuna doesn't care for rumors.
He walks into the capital again—this time not to declare war, but to demonstrate it.
He moves like a storm given form. Talismans ignite and crumble. Barriers collapse. Sorcerers scream and vanish. He slaughters a hundred in a single night. Not out of rage. Not out of cruelty. Out of necessity. Each kill refines his technique. Each death sharpens his blades.
He studies his enemies as he kills them. He learns their weaknesses. He mimics their strengths. He evolves mid-battle, adjusting his cursed energy like a composer tuning an orchestra.
By dawn, the city is silent.
The streets are painted in ash and blood. The temples are hollow. The elders are missing. The sky refuses to shine.
And Sukuna, standing atop the ruins, whispers to the wind:
"Let the world remember this shape. Let it tremble."
The wind carries his voice across mountains and rivers. Children wake crying. Sorcerers dream of teeth and flame. The shrine of bones hums with approval.
In the distance, the Gojo bloodline stirs.
A child is born with eyes like galaxies.
And the world, for the first time, begins to hope.