Two and a half hours later.
The once-quiet streets of Tokyo were reduced to a barren wasteland of shattered stone.
Deep, geometric fissures from repeated Dismantle slashes ran across the asphalt, and the multi-story buildings lining both sides of the avenue had collapsed into massive piles of rubble.
Only one figure remained standing amid the destruction.
Yuji and Choso had long since fled during the chaotic clash between Sukuna and Kashimo.
Sukuna sat atop a ruined concrete slab, brushing a speck of dust from his sleeve.
Beside him lay Kashimo, his body crisscrossed with deep, intersecting slash marks that carved his frame into neat, square blocks.
The ancient thunder god had expended his life force in a flash of lightning, yet he had failed to satisfy the King of Curses.
A low, rushing wind whistled overhead as a massive, pale flying curse cut through the dark clouds above the city.
The moment the creature hovered over the intersection, a figure draped in traditional white robes leaped down without hesitation.
Thud.
Uraume hit the pavement, dropping to one knee before the concrete slab, head bowed low.
“Lord Sukuna!
I am late.
Please grant me your punishment!”
The moment Sukuna’s awakening echoed through the barrier, Uraume had moved across the country at maximum speed.
Yet, the physical distance had delayed the arrival.
Hearing the familiar, submissive voice, Sukuna’s irritation eased slightly.
“Rise, Uraume,” Sukuna waved a hand dismissively.
“There is nothing to punish.”
“Thank you for your mercy, my Lord,” Uraume murmured, rising with absolute reverence.
Reaching into a silk pouch at the waist, Uraume carefully extracted three dark, wax-sealed fingers and held them up with both hands.
“I have retrieved three of your fingers, Lord Sukuna.
Please accept them.”
Uraume’s head dropped again, a trace of guilt touching the servant’s voice.
“I must apologize…
despite my efforts, I could not locate the final finger.
I have failed you.”
Sukuna took the three fingers, tossing them into his mouth one by one and swallowing them whole.
“It matters little.
The last finger is undoubtedly held by Satoru Gojo as a safeguard.
You would not have found it regardless.”
As the three fingers integrated into his core, another figure descended lightly from the back of the flying curse, landing on a nearby pile of brick.
“Well, well.
Long time no see, Sukuna.”
Kenjaku stood with his hands tucked into his wide sleeves, a calm, pleasant smile resting on his face.
Uraume’s head snapped toward the intruder, eyes flashing with cold anger.
“Watch your tongue!
Show proper respect to Lord Sukuna!”
Sukuna didn’t spare Uraume’s outburst a thought, looking at Kenjaku with a neutral, unreadable gaze.
“Kenjaku,” Sukuna said coldly. You are reading on g.com, the official source.
“What brings you here?”
Kenjaku’s smile widened slightly.
“Pure curiosity.
I didn’t expect you to switch hosts so early.
I assumed you would wait for a more opportunistic moment.”
The comment touched a raw nerve.
Sukuna’s face darkened, his jaw tightening as he gestured toward his current features.
“Do you recognize this host?
Name’s Julian Iglesias.”
Kenjaku studied Julian’s face for a long moment, sifting through centuries of recorded sorcerer records and modern vessel files before shaking his head.
“No.
I have no record of any sorcerer or vessel by that name.”
Despite the obvious anomaly, Kenjaku didn’t press for details.
Sukuna was not a creature who tolerated probing questions, and if the King of Curses wished to elaborate, he would do so on his own terms.
Sukuna stood up from the stone slab, clearly in no mood for idle chatter.
Uraume immediately knelt back down, head bowed to the stone.
“Lord Sukuna…
the Bath is not yet fully prepared.
I beg for your forgiveness!”
The Bath was a meticulous, ancient ritual designed to submerge a vessel in concentrated cursed fluid, suppressing the host’s lingering soul, refining the ancient spirit’s dominance, and solidifying control over the physical frame.
As Sukuna’s most devoted attendant, Uraume had intended to prepare the ritual in advance.
But Sukuna’s sudden, premature host transfer had caught everyone off guard.
Sukuna waved a hand dismissively.
“It is of no consequence.
I have no intention of keeping this body.”
Incarnating into a new host carried heavy risks—soul wear, biological rejection, and internal energy friction.
The difficulty multiplied exponentially with every successive host transfer.
Yet, for a entity of Sukuna’s caliber, those limitations were merely minor inconveniences to be forced through by sheer volume of power.
He had zero interest in remaining inside Julian’s fragile, technique-less frame.
His primary objective remained Megumi Fushiguro and the Ten Shadows Technique.
Sukuna looked at Kenjaku.
“Where is Megumi Fushiguro?
Take me to him.”
Kenjaku’s eyes glinted with sharp understanding.
He instantly recognized what Sukuna was planning.
A dark, wicked smile spread across the monk’s face.
“Why hunt him down across the city when we can make him come to us?”
Moments later, inside a quiet medical ward on the outskirts of the district.
Sukuna stepped through the doorway, his eyes falling upon a young woman lying motionless in a hospital bed.
Before he could examine her further, the woman’s eyelids fluttered open.
She sat up smoothly, her eyes sweeping across Kenjaku and Uraume before locking straight onto Sukuna.
She leaped out of the bed, launching herself across the room toward Sukuna.
“Sukuna!
You actually came for me!”
Uraume’s hand moved instantly, a sharp burst of frost blooming in the air to block her path.
“Insolent pest!
Stand back from Lord Sukuna!”
The distinct signature of the woman’s energy stirred a memory in the back of Sukuna’s mind.
He raised a hand, stopping Uraume’s attack, and looked down at the woman.
“Ah.
It’s you, Yorozu.”
Like Sukuna, the soul occupying the body was an ancient sorcerer from the Heian era, reincarnated into this age through Kenjaku’s binding vows.
Even though Sukuna was currently wearing Julian’s face and frame, Yorozu had recognized his soul’s essence the instant she opened her eyes.
“To think you recognized me instantly in this face,” Sukuna remarked, his tone flat.
“Impressive.”
Yorozu clutched her hands against her chest, her face flushed with unhinged adoration.
“How could I ever mistake your soul?
It’s love!
Absolute, eternal love!”
Sukuna let out a low, tired exhale.
Centuries had passed, but time had done nothing to cure this woman’s insanity.
He turned his gaze toward Kenjaku, silently demanding an explanation for why he had been brought to Yorozu’s hospital room.
Kenjaku stepped forward, his tone smooth and calculating.
“Sukuna, you may not be aware, but the host Yorozu currently occupies happens to be Tsumiki Fushiguro—Megumi Fushiguro’s elder sister.
The very person he cherishes above all else.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrowed, a cold, cruel understanding dawning in his mind.
To minimize the soul resistance during an forced incarnation transfer, the target host’s mind needed to be broken—shattered by absolute despair.
If Megumi Fushiguro were to discover that his beloved sister had been erased, her body stolen by an ancient monster, his spirit would sink into irreversible darkness.
At that point, taking control of his frame would be as easy as stepping through an open door.
Yorozu, accessing her host’s memories, quickly pieced together their conversation.
She turned her burning gaze back toward Sukuna, her posture aggressive yet eager.
“I can call my little ‘brother’ over here whenever you want, Sukuna,” Yorozu purred, taking a step closer.
“But what do I get in return?”
Sukuna scratched his head in mild irritation.
“Anything you want.
Defeat me in battle, and I will grant whatever condition you name.”
It was a blatant brush-off.
Sukuna had zero intention of yielding, nor did he believe Yorozu possessed the strength to force his hand.
Yet, to Yorozu’s twisted mind, the statement sounded like a divine promise.
Her eyes burned with terrifying intensity as she clasped her hands together.
“Then…
when I win, we get married!”