The cold numbers solidified on the top-secret archives of the Jujutsu World Headquarters:
Shibuya Incident:
Deaths — 5,376 (excluding modified humans).
Deaths involving modified humans — 7,129.
Severely injured or disabled — 6,955.
Lightly injured — 4,251.
Total casualties: 23,711.
These figures lay heavy upon the paper—records of devastation left in the wake of the clash between the King of Curses and a certain otherworldly entity. And yet, grim as they were, they stood far better than the original history.
In the original timeline, all of Tokyo had plunged into darkness. Nearly every one of the twenty-three wards was reduced to rubble. Five million citizens were forced to evacuate. Government officials vanished en masse. At one point, there had even been talks of moving the Prime Minister's residence to Osaka.
By that comparison, Taisai Tensei's appearance had, in its own ruthless way, mitigated the destruction. But when dawn bled over the broken land of Shibuya, the televisions of Japan broadcast a different story altogether.
The news anchor, face composed beneath immaculate makeup, spoke in a calm, measured voice:
"During last night's Halloween celebrations, multiple severe natural gas pipeline explosions occurred in the Shibuya district, resulting in ten deaths and fifty injuries of varying degrees. The government expresses deep regret and pledges to strengthen public safety supervision…"
The footage shifted—carefully curated scenes of cordoned streets and sanitized debris. A few symbolic ruins framed by warning tape. Rescue personnel, spotless and efficient, performing their "cleanup" duties.
Ten deaths? Fifty injuries?
The city itself mocked the lie. Half of Shibuya's core had vanished—scraped flat into a smooth, gray wasteland that stretched for kilometers, as though cleaved by an invisible god's blade.
That was Sukuna's domain. The absolute cutting field that erased everything within its borders. Beyond that plain sprawled a forest of twisted ruin—steel rebars like the ribs of some dead leviathan piercing the smog, fragments of glass glittering faintly amid the ash.
Absurd, but no one questioned it.
The Halloween revelers, the stampedes, the missing families—all had their memories overwritten by the higher-ups of the Jujutsu world. The world had been corrected.
Only fragments remained: the thunder of explosions, the flashes of fire, the screaming chaos, and then—acceptance. The "reasonable" numbers delivered by official media.
"Reiko… Reiko went missing in the explosion…" A middle-aged man stood outside the cordon, staring blankly at the wasteland. His hollow eyes reflected nothing but fog. His daughter had gone to the "Super Halloween Parade" last night—and never returned.
A faint dissonance tugged at his mind, a whisper that something was wrong—but it was swiftly crushed by the unseen weight of cognitive correction.
"Natural gas pipeline explosion?" Zen'in Maki pushed up her glasses atop a half-collapsed building, surveying the silent devastation. A cold, sardonic smile tugged at her lips.
She could see Jujutsu Sorcerers moving like shadows in the ruins, clearing away too-obvious remains—limbs, blood, cursed residue. Farther away, cranes and bulldozers had begun their mockery of "reconstruction."
"What a grand fireworks display."
Elsewhere, Kento Nanami walked a desolate alley reeking of disinfectant and blood. Shards of glass crunched underfoot; tattered Halloween decorations fluttered from broken windows. Adjusting his crooked tie, he muttered, weary yet sharp-eyed:
"If the culprit behind Shibuya isn't dealt with, this city will see another one soon enough."
He sighed. "When can I finally take a vacation to Malaysia?"
Headlines scrolled endlessly across television screens:
"Reconstruction! Tokyo Governor announces the Shibuya Special Recovery Headquarters!"
"Experts attribute tragedy to geological instability and aging gas pipelines!"
"Citizens to hold prayer event tomorrow!"
A thick coat of paint over 23,711 silenced screams. Yet none of this disturbed the peace of Taisai Tensei and Marin's morning.
Marin reached up to block the sunlight spilling through the curtains. She yawned softly. "Ah~ morning already?"
She reached beside her for Taisai Tensei's warmth—but her hand met only rumpled sheets. A faint aroma drifted in from the kitchen.
"Ten-kun?" she called, voice still husky with sleep.
Barefoot, she padded toward the source of the scent—and found him in an apron, standing over a sizzling pan. Golden dumplings crackled in oil, their skins glistening in the morning light.
"You're awake." Taisai turned, smiling. "Go wash up. Breakfast will be ready soon."
Marin wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her cheek against his back. "Why are you up so early? You were exhausted last night…"
He turned slightly, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "You were sleeping too soundly. I didn't want to wake you."
By the time she returned, the table was a small feast—fried dumplings, steamed buns, salad, hot milk. Marin bit into a bun and smiled. "So good! You're getting better again, Ten-kun."
Taisai chuckled. "Then eat more."
Outside, life resumed as though nothing had happened. The world went on unaware. Marin took a bite of a fried gyoza—crispy shell, juicy filling, a burst of warmth in her mouth. Sunlight poured through the window, painting everything gold.
Then—
"…Latest update on the Shibuya gas explosion—death toll now fifteen…"
The anchor's voice cut through the warmth. Marin froze. Her fingers tightened around her chopsticks, her knuckles whitening. She looked across the table, eyes trembling slightly.
"Ten-kun," she asked softly, "Even with you there… did that many still die?"
When he had returned last night, his body had carried the faint scent of iron and storm, masked only by steam and touch. He hadn't eaten, hadn't spoken—just swept her into the bath, into warmth, into silence.
Now, he merely paused with his milk cup, eyes calm and lowered. "By the time I got there," he said, "it was already chaotic."
He spoke as if describing the weather. No mention of Cursed Spirits, or the King of Curses, or the domain that erased half a city. Just one word: chaotic.
The light faded from Marin's face. He was her hero, and yet—even he could not stop the numbers on the screen from climbing.
A quiet, helpless ache filled her chest.
Taisai set his cup down. To him, "fifteen" or "five thousand" were both meaningless—mere echoes in the static. But Marin's trembling hands and fallen gaze drew a faint crease between his brows.
He stood, walked around the table, and without a word, lifted her from her chair.
"Ah!" she gasped as her body rose, instinctively looping her arms around his neck.
He settled into his own chair, holding her on his lap, his chin brushing her hair, his voice low and steady against her ear.
"Marin," he murmured, "at least…the others were saved."
The words carried warmth, an assurance that melted her doubt. Her tension broke into a smile, eyes sparkling once more. "Of course! Ten-kun's the best!"
Her imagination flared. "Hey—does Ten-kun have a secret hero identity? Like Batman or Spider-Man?"
Taisai chuckled softly, ruffling her hair. "Drink your milk before it gets cold. Don't forget, rehearsal's today."
"Oh right!" She took a gulp, leaving a milk ring on her lips before bouncing back to her seat.
Outside, the sun climbed higher. The television droned on about "fifteen casualties."
Inside, the aroma of dumplings and the soft hum of domestic peace formed a world untouched by tragedy.
But elsewhere— Behind paper screens and shadows, a different world stirred.
Voices whispered through the gloom.
"Any information on the man who appeared in Shibuya?" one rasped.
"That girl from the Zen'in clan called him… a celebrity."
"Name?"
"Nero."
"Background?"
"Nothing. No Cursed Energy signature. On record, he's just ordinary."
"Ordinary?" another scoffed. "Fushiguro saw him. Mahoraga was turned into paste! Kusakabe said Sukuna himself couldn't best him!"
"So, what do we do?"
"Recruit him?"
"Exorcise him?"
A bitter laugh. "Exorcise him? Gojo Satoru's still sealed, and Sukuna's loose. Who's going to volunteer?"
Their voices clashed like vultures over carrion—until one voice, ancient and heavy as iron, silenced all:
"Enough."
The word alone crushed the noise. Dust floated uneasily under the pressure.
"Bickering like commoners," the deep voice said coldly. "Where is your dignity? Your order?"
Silence. The air thickened. Then came the decrees, cold and final:
"Regarding the variable—'Nero'—send Zen'in Maki and Kento Nanami to establish contact."
"As for Sukuna's vessel and Gojo Satoru…"
A pause, then words like hammer blows:
"One. Confirm the survival of Suguru Geto. Announce his death again."
"Two. Declare Gojo Satoru a co-conspirator in the Shibuya Incident. Permanently exiled from the Jujutsu world. Any attempt to unseal him shall be treated as treason."
"Three. Sentence Masamichi Yaga to death for inciting rebellion."
"Four. Execute Yuji Itadori."
"Five. Assign Yuta Okkotsu to carry out the execution."
"Six. Zen'in Maki and Kento Nanami will engage the variable—Nero."
The last name echoed through the dark chamber like a cold verdict. No one spoke. No one breathed. The dust settled once more, and the silence of the Jujutsu world resumed—deep, heavy, absolute.