Tokyo hums with cursed energy.
Not the kind that screams. The kind that whispers—low, constant, buried beneath concrete and neon. Sukuna feels it through Yuji's skin. The city is alive with fear, grief, and secrets. Every alley holds a memory. Every rooftop echoes with regret. The curses here don't roar. They wait.
He follows the scent.
Late one night, while Yuji sleeps, Sukuna slips into a dream deeper than memory. The boy's mind is quiet—exhausted from training, dulled by sorrow. Sukuna steps past it, descending into corridors of bone and ink, past doors sealed with forgotten sigils. He's not in Yuji's mind anymore.
He's in his own.
The walls pulse with cursed energy. Murals flicker—scenes of battles long erased from history, faces of enemies long devoured. The air tastes like blood and incense. At the end of the corridor, a door opens.
He steps into a chamber beneath Tokyo—real, ancient, hidden from the jujutsu order. The ceiling is low. The walls are covered in murals of his face, his shrine, his battles. Candles flicker. Incense burns. And they kneel.
His cult.
They are few now. Emaciated. Eyes hollow. Skin marked with failed seals and fading tattoos. But their devotion is intact. They chant his name in a language no longer spoken. They offer blood. Teeth. Memories.
Sukuna watches them with mild disgust.
"You survived," he says. "Barely."
The high priest crawls forward, robes tattered, voice trembling. His hands shake as he lifts a scroll written in ash.
"We preserved your relics, my lord. We await your return."
Sukuna steps past him, examining the altar. His severed fingers—replicas, not real—rest in glass cases. Scrolls detail his techniques, his battles, his philosophy. Some are accurate. Most are laughable. One scroll claims he wept during battle. Another calls him a misunderstood prophet.
"You worship a shadow," he says. "I am the storm."
He raises a hand. Cursed energy floods the chamber. The weaker cultists collapse. The stronger ones scream. The high priest bleeds from the eyes but continues chanting. The walls tremble. The candles flicker out.
Sukuna pauses.
There's value here. Not in their faith—but in their desperation. They are broken. Moldable. Hungry.
"You want purpose?" he asks. "I'll give you one."
He carves a new sigil into the altar—a command, not a blessing. The stone glows red. The air thickens. The cultists bow lower, their foreheads touching the blood-soaked floor.
They will become his eyes. His hands. His pawns.
"Find my fingers. Spread my name. And if you fail…"
He gestures to the wall. A cursed spirit slithers out—one of his own design. Its body is made of teeth and silence. It devours the weakest cultist whole, leaving behind only a scream that doesn't echo.
"That will be your reward."
The high priest bows lower.
"We serve."
Sukuna turns to leave.
Back in Yuji's body, he wakes with a jolt. His hand twitches. His mouth tastes of ash. His heart skips once, then steadies.
Yuji doesn't notice. He's too busy worrying about the next mission. Another cursed spirit. Another life to save. Another burden to carry.
Sukuna smiles.
"Let the boy play hero. I have work to do."