Inside the prison, time moved differently.
Sukuna had no way to measure it precisely—there was no sun, no moon, no external reference to mark the passage of hours or days. But he could feel it in his bones, in his soul, in the gradual erosion of his existence that Kenjaku's seals continued to inflict.
Time was passing.
And he was dying.
The prison itself was elegant in its cruelty. The walls that surrounded him weren't physical barriers—they were conceptual ones, layers of sealing that defined the boundaries of his existence. He couldn't break them because breaking them would require acknowledging their reality, and acknowledging their reality would mean accepting his imprisonment.
It was a cage built from his own resistance.
Every attempt to escape fed the seals that contained him. Every explosion of rage strengthened the barriers that held him. His power—his legendary, world-shaking power—had become the fuel for his own incarceration.
Kenjaku had designed the perfect trap.
And Sukuna was caught in it completely.
Stage One: Denial
For what might have been days or weeks or months, Sukuna refused to accept his situation.
This was temporary. This was a setback. This was a minor inconvenience that he would overcome through sheer force of will, as he had overcome every obstacle in his centuries of existence.
He was Ryomen Sukuna. The King of Curses. The strongest being in jujutsu history. He had been sealed before—by armies of sorcerers, by ancient techniques, by beings who thought themselves his equal—and he had always emerged victorious.
This would be no different.
He attacked the walls again and again, each strike carrying enough force to level cities. The impacts echoed through the compressed space, creating shockwaves that should have shattered any barrier ever constructed.
The seals absorbed everything.
His power flowed into them, converted into binding energy, used to reinforce the very prison he was trying to destroy. The more he fought, the stronger the cage became.
"This is nothing," Sukuna told himself, between assaults that would have killed lesser beings. "This is a temporary measure. That insect thinks he's won, but he hasn't understood what I truly am. I've endured worse. I've escaped better traps. I will find the weakness in these seals, and when I do—"
Another attack. Another absorption. Another failure.
"When I do," Sukuna repeated, "I will make him understand exactly what it means to challenge a king."
But the weakness didn't reveal itself.
The seals had no flaw he could exploit, no vulnerability he could target. They were perfect—designed by someone who understood both jujutsu and fuinjutsu at levels that Sukuna had never bothered to achieve. Why would he have bothered? He was the strongest. He didn't need to understand techniques to destroy them.
Except now he did.
And he didn't.
The denial lasted for what felt like years. Sukuna refused to acknowledge the possibility of permanent imprisonment, refused to consider that Kenjaku might have actually succeeded, refused to accept any outcome other than eventual victory.
But denial couldn't sustain itself forever.
Eventually, reality crept in around the edges.
Eventually, Sukuna had to face the truth.
He wasn't escaping.
Stage Two: Anger
The rage that followed made his previous fury seem like mild irritation.
Sukuna's screams echoed through the prison like the roars of a dying god, carrying all the hatred and frustration that had accumulated during his failed escape attempts. He tore at the walls with his bare hands, not caring that each touch strengthened them further. He slammed his body against the barriers, welcoming the pain that accompanied each impact.
He wanted to destroy something. Anything. Everything.
But there was nothing to destroy except himself.
"KENJAKU!"
The name became a curse, a prayer, a promise of vengeance that Sukuna repeated until his throat bled and healed and bled again.
"I WILL FIND YOU! I WILL TEAR YOU APART! I WILL MAKE YOUR SUFFERING LAST FOR ETERNITY!"
The threats were meaningless. Kenjaku couldn't hear them. Even if he could, he wouldn't care. The stitched monster had already won—was probably already pursuing whatever schemes had motivated his attack, using the freedom that Sukuna's imprisonment had purchased.
But Sukuna couldn't stop.
The anger was all he had left.
Without it, he would have to think. Would have to process. Would have to accept.
So he raged.
He raged against Kenjaku, against the seals, against the injustice of a world that allowed insects to bring down kings. He raged against his own arrogance, against the decisions that had led him to this prison, against the pride that had made him underestimate a being he should have killed on first sight.
He raged against the fundamental unfairness of existence.
He was Ryomen Sukuna. He was supposed to be invincible. He was supposed to be eternal. He was supposed to die on his own terms, if he ever died at all—in glorious battle against worthy opponents, not in slow decay inside a cage built by a body-stealing parasite.
This wasn't how his story was supposed to end.
THIS WASN'T HOW KINGS DIED.
The anger burned hot and bright, consuming everything else in its flames. For a time—a long time, perhaps years—Sukuna existed as nothing but fury, his consciousness reduced to pure, elemental rage.
But even rage had limits.
Eventually, the fire began to dim.
Eventually, exhaustion crept in.
Eventually, Sukuna had to stop screaming and face the silence that remained.
Stage Three: Bargaining
The desperation came next.
Sukuna had never bargained in his existence. He had never needed to. When you were the strongest, you simply took what you wanted and destroyed anyone who objected. Negotiation was for the weak, for those who couldn't enforce their will through power alone.
But power wasn't helping him now.
So, for the first time in centuries, Sukuna tried to bargain.
"Kenjaku."
He spoke the name quietly, without rage, without threat. Just a statement of address, a reaching out to someone who probably wasn't listening.
"I understand now. You've proven your point. You're stronger than I realized. More cunning. More prepared. You've earned... respect."
The words tasted like ash in his mouth. Sukuna had never respected anyone. Had never acknowledged anyone as his equal, let alone his superior. But if empty praise was the price of freedom...
"Release me, and I'll leave you alone. I'll pursue my own path, in territories far from your interests. We never have to interact again. You've demonstrated that you can defeat me—isn't that enough? Isn't the victory itself sufficient?"
Silence.
Of course, silence. Kenjaku wasn't here. Might not even be aware that Sukuna was speaking. But Sukuna continued anyway, desperate enough to grasp at any possibility.
"I can be useful to you. My power, my knowledge, my centuries of experience—all of it could serve your purposes. Whatever you're building, whatever you're planning, I could contribute. I would contribute. Just give me the chance."
More silence.
"I'll owe you a debt. A favor from Ryomen Sukuna—do you understand how valuable that is? There's nothing I couldn't help you accomplish. No enemy I couldn't destroy on your behalf. No obstacle I couldn't remove."
Nothing.
"PLEASE."
The word tore itself from Sukuna's throat, carrying all the humiliation and desperation that he had never allowed himself to feel. He, who had brought nations to their knees, who had made gods themselves tremble—he was begging.
Begging a being he had dismissed as an insect.
Begging for his life.
"Please... just let me out. I'll do anything. Give anything. Be anything you need me to be. Just... don't let me die like this. Not alone. Not forgotten. Not in a cage of my own power."
The silence stretched on, indifferent to his pleas.
No one was listening.
No one cared.
Sukuna collapsed against the prison walls, all four arms falling limp at his sides. The bargaining had failed, as some part of him had known it would. Kenjaku wasn't the type to make deals—not when he'd already won, not when his opponent had nothing left to offer.
The stitched monster had designed this prison to kill.
And it was working.
Stage Four: Depression
The despair that followed was unlike anything Sukuna had ever experienced.
He had known rage, hatred, contempt, satisfaction, pleasure in destruction. He had felt amusement at others' suffering and boredom in the absence of worthy opponents. He had experienced the cold joy of absolute power and the hot thrill of battle.
But he had never known true despair.
Now he understood why lesser beings feared it.
The prison seemed to shrink around him, not physically but psychologically. The walls pressed in on his consciousness, reminding him with every moment that there was no escape, no hope, no future beyond slow dissolution.
He was going to die here.
He was going to fade away, his existence eroded by seals that fed on his own power. Every day—every hour, every minute—he became slightly less real. The edges of his being were already blurring, his sense of self becoming fuzzy and indistinct.
Soon, there would be nothing left.
No Ryomen Sukuna. No King of Curses. No legend that would echo through history.
Just... absence.
The thought was unbearable.
Sukuna had lived for power and glory and the satisfaction of being the absolute strongest. He had built his entire identity around his superiority, his invincibility, his status as an apex predator in a world of prey.
What was he, without that identity?
What remained, when the power was stripped away?
The answer, he was beginning to realize, was nothing.
He had no connections that he valued. No relationships that gave his existence meaning beyond himself. No legacy that would outlast his physical form, no students or heirs or lasting works.
He had lived for himself, by himself, as himself.
And now that self was dying.
Alone.
Forgotten.
Unmourned.
The depression settled over Sukuna like a shroud, heavy and suffocating. He stopped trying to escape, stopped raging against the walls, stopped doing anything at all. He simply sat in the center of his prison, all four eyes staring at nothing, his consciousness sinking into a darkness that had nothing to do with light or shadow.
This was how it ended.
Not with a glorious battle. Not with a worthy opponent. Not with any of the dramatic finales that befitted a king.
Just... fading.
Disappearing.
Becoming nothing.
The depression lasted longer than any other stage. Time lost all meaning as Sukuna sat motionless, his will to resist completely depleted. The seals continued their work, slowly, inexorably, erasing more of his existence with each passing moment.
He could feel himself becoming less.
The sensation was indescribable—like watching yourself fade in a mirror, like hearing your own voice become quieter and quieter until it was barely a whisper. Parts of him that had always been present were simply... gone. Memories. Abilities. Aspects of personality that had defined Ryomen Sukuna for centuries.
Vanishing.
One by one.
Forever.
And through it all, the silence.
The perfect, absolute, maddening silence of a tomb that no one would ever find.
Stage Five: Acceptance
The end came quietly.
Sukuna had expected to fight it. Had expected that, when the final moment arrived, he would summon whatever strength remained and go out screaming defiance at a universe that had dared to kill him.
But there was no strength left.
No defiance.
No him.
Just a fading presence, barely distinguishable from the void that surrounded it, waiting for the last thread of existence to snap.
In those final moments, Sukuna found something unexpected.
Peace.
Not happiness—he had never really known happiness, had never understood the appeal. But a calm acceptance that transcended his fury and his pride and his desperate need to matter.
He was dying. That was reality. No amount of rage or bargaining or despair would change it.
So he stopped fighting.
And in that surrender, he found clarity.
Kenjaku had won. Not through strength, not through superiority in the ways that Sukuna had always measured such things. But through preparation, intelligence, and a willingness to approach problems from angles that Sukuna had never considered.
The stitched monster had studied. Had planned. Had developed techniques specifically designed to counter Sukuna's overwhelming power. Had combined traditions that Sukuna had dismissed as irrelevant into something genuinely new.
And in doing so, he had created the perfect weapon against pride itself.
Because that was what had killed Sukuna, in the end. Not the seals, not the prison, not even Kenjaku's clever techniques.
Pride.
The absolute certainty that he was the strongest, that he couldn't be defeated, that anyone who challenged him was merely delaying the inevitable. That certainty had blinded him to possibilities, had prevented him from taking threats seriously, had left him vulnerable in ways he'd never acknowledged.
Kenjaku hadn't beaten Sukuna through power.
He'd beaten him through humility.
The willingness to admit that he wasn't the strongest—yet. The patience to prepare and develop and grow. The wisdom to combine other people's knowledge rather than relying solely on his own genius.
All the things Sukuna had never done.
All the things that a true king should have understood.
"I was never really a king," Sukuna whispered, the words barely audible even to himself. "Just the strongest monster. And monsters can always be slain."
The realization should have hurt. Should have added fresh pain to his dying consciousness. But instead, it brought something almost like relief.
He understood now.
He understood why he had lost.
And in understanding, he could finally let go.
The last fragments of Ryomen Sukuna's existence began to dissolve, scattering into the void that would soon consume everything he had been. His four arms faded first, becoming translucent and then invisible. His second face followed, the features melting away like frost beneath the sun.
His main face went last, those ancient eyes that had witnessed centuries of carnage and triumph finally closing for the final time.
But before consciousness ended entirely, before the last spark of Sukuna's being winked out forever, he had one final thought.
There is a new king now.
And he is nothing like me.
He is patient where I was impulsive.
He is cunning where I was direct.
He is humble enough to grow, wise enough to prepare, ruthless enough to do whatever victory requires.
Kenjaku.
The new King of Curses.
The monster who killed the monster.
Long may he reign.
Until someone does to him what he did to me.
The thought carried something that might have been a smile—or might have been a curse, depending on interpretation.
And then Ryomen Sukuna was gone.
Not dead in the conventional sense. Not even sealed, as he had been sealed before. But erased, his existence so thoroughly unmade that not even echoes remained.
No body. No soul. No legacy.
No fingers scattered across the world, waiting to be consumed by future hosts.
No path to reincarnation, no possibility of return.
Nothing.
The prison collapsed moments after its occupant ceased to exist, the sealing arrays losing the power source that had sustained them. The compressed space unfolded back into normal reality, leaving behind only a faint distortion in the spiritual fabric of the world.
A scar where something immense had once been.
A reminder of what had been lost.
But even that would fade, eventually.
Even that would be forgotten.
Because that was what Kenjaku had truly accomplished. Not just killing the King of Curses, but ensuring that the King left nothing behind. No influence. No inheritance. No continuation.
Complete, absolute, permanent erasure.
As if Ryomen Sukuna had never existed at all.
A thousand miles away, on Uzushio Island, Kenjaku felt the prison dissolve.
He was in the middle of a meditation session, refining his cursed energy control, when the sensation washed through him. It was subtle—a slight shift in the spiritual pressure of the world, a vacancy where something massive had once occupied space.
Sukuna was gone.
Truly, finally, irrevocably gone.
Kenjaku opened his eyes, allowing himself a moment of genuine satisfaction. The threat that had loomed over his plans for months had been eliminated. The rival who might have challenged his ambitions had been removed from existence entirely.
He was the strongest now.
Not just among the jujutsu sorcerers of this era, but among all beings. With Sukuna's erasure, there was no one left in the current age who could match his combination of power, knowledge, and technique.
He was, functionally, the King of Curses now.
The title didn't interest him—he had never sought to rule, only to matter—but the recognition of his status was satisfying nonetheless.
"Master?" Hana's voice came from the doorway, where she had been waiting patiently during his meditation. "Is something wrong?"
"The opposite." Kenjaku rose smoothly, stretching muscles that had been still for hours. "Something is very, very right. The King of Curses has fallen. His existence has been completely erased."
Hana's eyes widened. "Sukuna is... dead?"
"More than dead. He's been unmade. No body remains. No soul persists. Even his potential for future reincarnation has been severed." Kenjaku's smile carried genuine pleasure. "He died alone, in a cage of his own power, with no legacy and no escape. Exactly as I designed."
Hana absorbed this information with the reverent attention she gave all of her master's words. "What does this mean for us?"
"It means we can proceed without the constant threat of his interference. It means our timeline has accelerated significantly. It means—" Kenjaku walked to the window, looking out at the sea that surrounded Uzushio Island. "It means the future is ours to shape. Without obstacles. Without rivals. Without anyone capable of challenging what we're building."
He turned back to face his devoted subordinate.
"The age of Ryomen Sukuna is over. The age of hidden villages is about to begin. And when that transition happens—when Hashirama and Madara build their naive dream of peace—we will be there. Influencing. Guiding. Ensuring that the new world develops according to our design."
"What is our design, Master?"
Kenjaku's smile widened.
"A world where I am necessary. Where my influence touches every significant event. Where the story cannot be told without acknowledging my role in it." He began walking toward the door, gesturing for Hana to follow. "Come. We have preparations to make. The children who will become legends are growing older every day. It's time to start laying the groundwork for our introduction."
Hana fell into step behind him, her devotion as absolute as ever.
Behind them, unnoticed and unmarked, the spiritual scar where Sukuna had been erased continued to fade.
Soon, there would be no evidence that the King of Curses had ever existed.
No one would remember his name.
No one would speak of his reign.
No one would know that, for a brief moment in history, a being called Ryomen Sukuna had been the strongest creature alive.
Because Kenjaku had ensured that all traces of his rival were eliminated.
Not just killed.
Erased.
Forgotten.
It was, perhaps, the cruelest victory possible.
And Kenjaku had achieved it completely.
In the years that followed, scholars and sorcerers would sometimes speak of a legendary figure from the distant past—a King of Curses whose power had supposedly exceeded all others. But the stories were vague, contradictory, more myth than history.
Some said the King had been sealed away by ancient sorcerers, his power too great to destroy.
Some said he had simply vanished, ascending to a higher plane of existence.
Some said he had never really existed at all—just a cautionary tale invented to frighten young jujutsu practitioners.
No one knew the truth.
No one remembered the prison.
No one understood that the greatest threat of the ancient era had been eliminated not by armies or alliances, but by a single being with stitches across his forehead and a smile that never reached his eyes.
Ryomen Sukuna had become a footnote.
A rumor.
A ghost story with no ghost.
And Kenjaku—the new king, the true king, the king who would never be dethroned—continued his eternal work.
Building.
Planning.
Preparing.
For a future that would remember his name forever.
Even if it forgot everything else.