The battlefield is quiet.
Raizan is gone. The earth is scorched. The sky hangs heavy with cursed residue. The wind refuses to blow. The trees do not mourn. The silence is not peace—it's aftermath.
Sukuna stands alone.
His body is whole. His power unmatched. His Domain perfected. But something feels wrong.
He returns to Malevolent Shrine.
The temple floats in a void of crimson mist, its walls etched with victories, its halls echoing with silence. The air hums with cursed energy, thick and suffocating. The architecture is impossible—altars suspended in midair, staircases that lead nowhere, murals that shift when unobserved.
He sits on the throne.
It's massive. Ornate. Built from bone and obsidian. It was meant to symbolize his supremacy. A monument to his dominion over death, over fear, over fate.
But now, it feels cold.
Empty.
Sukuna leans forward, elbows on knees.
"I've killed gods," he mutters. "Crushed clans. Bent the world."
He looks around.
No followers. No rivals. No purpose.
The cult he revived obeys without question. The cursed spirits he commands tremble at his presence. Even the jujutsu sorcerers speak his name with dread.
But none of it satisfies him.
He remembers Rinzen's final words. Raizan's dying breath. Gojo's challenge.
You were remembered because you were more.
He scoffs.
"Sentiment."
But the thought lingers.
He conjures illusions—memories of battles, of blood, of triumph. They flicker across the temple walls. He watches himself slaughter, conquer, dominate. The images are vivid. The screams are real. The victories are endless.
And yet… he feels nothing.
He summons the child he spared—the cursed girl with trembling hands and defiant eyes. She appears in the illusion, staring up at him.
"Why did you save me?" she asks.
He doesn't answer.
He doesn't know.
The throne creaks beneath him. The Domain pulses, unstable. His cursed energy surges, then falters. The walls tremble. The mist thickens.
He's evolving.
Again.
But not in strength.
In awareness.
"What am I?" he asks the void. "A curse? A god? A mistake?"
No answer.
Just silence.
He stands.
The throne crumbles behind him. The sound is soft, final. He walks through the temple, past murals of his own face, past altars built in his name. He reaches the edge of the Domain and looks out into the void.
There is no horizon. No stars. Just red mist and memory.
"If this is power," he says, "then it's not enough."
He clenches his fists.
"I need more. Not strength. Not fear. Meaning."
The Domain flickers.
The walls dim. The air shifts.
And for the first time in centuries, Ryomen Sukuna feels something unfamiliar.
Longing.