The battlefield no longer resembled a city.
It was a scar.
Yuji Itadori stood at its center, barely upright, blood running freely from wounds that refused to close. His breath came uneven, rattling in his chest, each inhale scraping against pain that had long since surpassed what a human body should endure.
Across from him stood Ryomen Sukuna.
Or rather—Sukuna wearing Megumi Fushiguro's body.
That fact alone twisted something deep inside Yuji's chest, sharper than any wound.
The King of Curses looked down at him, expression cold, detached, eyes filled with the same quiet certainty that had crushed so many before him.
"You've become persistent..." Sukuna said, voice calm, almost bored but on guard, prepare to defend and strike. "...Brat."
Yuji had became a threat now, but Sukuna wouldn't acknowledge that.
Yuji didn't answer.
He couldn't afford to.
Because if he opened his mouth, everything he was holding back—grief, fear, regret—might spill out, and he didn't have the strength to gather it again.
I can't stop.
Not now.
Not when Megumi was still trapped.
The air warped.
Reality bent inward as cursed energy surged violently from Yuji's body—not wild, not explosive, but focused. Heavy. Oppressive. The ground beneath his feet cracked as something took shape.
A space born not of dominance—but of resolve.
Yuji's Domain Expansion unfolded.
It was vast. But no throne. No shrine. An ordinary scene was born out of Yuji's desire.
It wasn't an immediate sure-kill domain, but rather... a forgiving one, born out of one's selflessness.
Sukuna's eyes narrowed.
"…."
Yuji stepped forward. "Come on, Sukuna!" he spoke with a grin.
In the end, their ideals clashed. The fight had once again continue.
Every movement hurt. Every step felt like his body was tearing itself apart from the inside, but the domain forced Sukuna to meet him head-on. No space to retreat. No advantage to exploit.
Just fists and jujutsu techniques.
Just will.
Yuji struck, and Sukuna answered, their blows colliding again and again, cursed energy detonating on impact. Yuji's arms screamed, bones threatening to splinter, but he didn't slow down.
Then—
A sensation pulsed through the air.
Sharp.
Familiar.
A resonance that did not belong to Yuji alone.
For a fraction of a second, Sukuna's movements faltered, torns surged out of him.
Inside Megumi's body, something ached.
A curse technique activated—one that he thought he wouldn't see again.
It was Kugisaki's.
Pain gushed through Sukuna's soul, it's an attack that directly target the soul after all. But It wasn't strong enough. It wasn't enough to kill him.
But it was enough.
Enough to open a crack.
Yuji felt it instantly, he has been given a chance to now completely dismantle the connection between Sukuna and Fushiguro.
Now.
Cursed energy surged through his body, aligning perfectly—body, mind, instinct snapping into place in a way that felt horrifyingly familiar.
The world slowed.
Yuji drew back his fist, ready to launch a soul dismantle attack.
He thought about Megumi... It would be quite lonely without him.
About Nobara.
About everyone who had died believing he would do something meaningful with their lives.
"You've got it from here."
"Thank you for calling me your big brother."
"I'm expecting great things from you. Got that Yuji?"
His fist connected.
Black Flash.
The impact was absolute.
Space itself seemed to distort as cursed energy exploded outward, refined and devastating, tearing through Sukuna's form. The blow didn't just damage flesh—it severed the bond, ripping Sukuna's presence away from Megumi's body in a violent, agonizing rupture.
Sukuna screamed.
Not in pain.
In rage.
His form destabilized, cursed energy unraveling as Megumi collapsed free, body falling limply to the ground. Sukuna's manifestation twisted, cracking apart as his control finally shattered.
Yuji staggered forward, vision swimming, body giving out beneath the strain.
Sukuna glared at him, form dissolving, expression no longer amused.
Yuji met his gaze. "...Sukuna," there was a hint of pity.
And Sukuna recognized that intent.
"Don't you dare disrespect me! For I am a curse!—" Sukuna's form completely dissolved.
"—Itadori Yuji!," Sukuna's voice echoed one last time.
Then he was gone.
Silence followed.
Yuji stood there for a moment longer.
Then his legs gave out.
He collapsed beside Megumi, staring blankly at the ruined sky above. The domain faded. The pain rushed in all at once, crushing, suffocating.
I did it.
The thought felt empty.
His heartbeat slowed.
His vision darkened.
Was this… enough?
The world slipped away, dragging his soul elsewhere.
....
The sun rose over a sleepy village on the outskirts of Orario. Children ran barefoot through the dirt streets, old men hobbled with canes, and the occasional merchant shouted greetings to those passing through.
It was here, in this forgotten corner of the world, that Yuji was born.
Yuji It was born on a quiet night, and that quiet never truly left him.
Rain tapped softly against the wooden roof, steady and unremarkable, as his first cry split the air—loud, insistent, alive. The midwife startled when his tiny hand closed around her finger, the grip far too strong for a newborn, fingers locking as if refusing to let go.
She stared at him for a moment longer than necessary before exhaling.
"…Healthy," she said at last.
That word was enough. In a village like this, healthy was the only blessing that mattered.
Soon enough, his mother that gave birth to him died of exhaustion. His father died much earlier, before he was even born.
He soon became alone, left alone with just his name and neighbors taking turns to take care of him.
From the beginning, Yuji did not struggle the way other children did. He did not flail or wobble or cling helplessly. When he learned to crawl, his movements were deliberate. When he learned to stand, he did so without hesitation, feet planted firmly, balance instinctive—as if his body already understood what it meant to stay upright.
That tendency followed him as he grew.
By the time he could walk properly, he was already carrying bowls meant for adults. By three, he dragged stools across dirt floors so elders could sit without strain. By four, he stopped crying when he fell—not because it didn't hurt, but because pain never lingered the way people said it should.
No one called him special.
They simply let him help.
In a place where survival demanded contribution, usefulness was its own kind of acceptance.
That was why Yuji became part of the village's mornings so quickly.
Every dawn, as the sun crept over the fields, Old Harun would be there—bent-backed, waiting by the well, greeting each villager as they passed. Harun greeted everyone, but he always made a point of greeting Yuji, his rough hand patting the boy's head with careful affection.
"Morning, strong one," he would say, voice warm despite the cold. "Already up?"
Yuji always nodded. He was always up.
For a long time, Yuji thought mornings were safe because Harun was there.
Then one morning, Harun wasn't.
The night before, a goblin had slipped through the western fence. Harun had gone to check the goats when he heard something move. They found him near the pens at dawn, throat torn open, eyes staring at nothing.
Yuji stood at the edge of the gathering crowd, fists clenched tight at his sides.
The well stood behind him, untouched.
"I'm sorry," Yuji whispered, though no one was listening.
He did not know why the words came so easily.
Loss became familiar after that.
Not all at once—but gradually, like rot spreading beneath the surface.
Mina was next.
She lived three houses down and smelled faintly of dried herbs. Every afternoon, she waved Yuji over and pressed small pieces of preserved fruit into his hands when food was scarce.
"For growing," she would say with a smile.
Yuji was six when a wolf-like monster dragged her from her home in the dead of night. He heard the scream and ran—barefoot, heart pounding, lungs burning as he sprinted through the dark.
He arrived in time to kill the monster.
He arrived too late to save her.
Her hand was still warm when he knelt beside her, fingers curling weakly around nothing.
After that, Yuji stopped eating dried fruit.
As Yuji grew older, the village shrank—not in size, but in presence.
Faces disappeared. Voices faded. Houses fell quiet.
There was Tomas, who taught Yuji how to mend nets and always complained about his hands hurting while working anyway. There was Elna, who scolded him for running barefoot but wrapped his feet herself when they bled. There was Redd, who grumbled endlessly yet volunteered for watch every time.
One by one, they vanished.
Yuji learned to recognize absence faster than memory.
By the time he was seven, his strength had become impossible to ignore. When a support beam collapsed during repairs, Yuji stepped forward without thinking. His stance was perfect, his grip natural, muscles tightening exactly as needed as he lifted the beam from the ground.
The elders stared.
For a moment, no one spoke.
Then someone cleared their throat.
"Put it down, boy."
Yuji obeyed.
They did not talk about it afterward—not because they didn't notice, but because they didn't know what it meant. Wonder was a luxury. Survival was not.
Monsters attacked more frequently as the years passed.
Not raids. Not invasions.
Just disappearances.
Someone failed to return from the fields. Someone didn't wake up in the morning. One death became two. Two became routine.
One or two every week.
Sometimes three.
Yuji attended every burial. He bowed deeply at each grave, hands clenched tightly in front of him, and whispered the same words every time.
"I'm sorry."
The words grew heavier with each repetition.
By eight, the villagers stopped trying to keep Yuji from danger.
At first, it was subtle.
"Yuji can run faster."
"Yuji will hear it first."
"Yuji can carry that."
Then it became expectation.
When torches flickered at night, eyes turned toward him. When something moved beyond the fence, someone would inevitably say his name.
They never said because he's a child.
They only said because he's strong.
The first time they asked him to stand watch alone, Yuji was eight.
"You don't have to," one of them said quickly, guilt already creeping into their voice. "Just—if you're awake anyway."
Yuji nodded.
He stood in the cold with a spear taller than himself, eyes fixed on the dark, body steady.
He didn't feel brave.
He felt necessary.
By then, killing had become part of his life.
The first time, he had cried.
The second time, he hadn't.
By nine, he had lost count.
He didn't enjoy it. But his body knew how—where to place his feet, how to angle his strikes, when to move instead of hesitate. The elders watched him with something like hope in their eyes.
Yuji hated that look.
Because hope meant expectation.
And expectation meant that when someone died anyway, it would be his fault.
The night Elna died, Yuji was on watch.
He heard the scream instantly. Ran instantly. Arrived instantly.
Too late.
He killed the monster with his bare hands, knuckles breaking against bone, blood splattering the dirt.
Elna was already gone.
"You were right there," someone said later—not accusing, just exhausted.
Yuji nodded.
"...Sorry."
That night, he didn't sleep.
By ten, Yuji no longer played.
He worked.
He patrolled. He carried. He watched.
Adults spoke to him like an equal when danger was near, and like a child again when it passed. He endured injuries without complaint—broken fingers, split skin, bruised ribs.
If he could stand, he stood.
If he could move, he moved.
Pain faded.
Failure didn't.
By eleven, the village depended on him.
Not officially.
But when something went wrong—when monsters came, when fences broke, when screams cut through the night—
Everyone looked at Yuji.
And Yuji always moved.
Because if he didn't, someone would die.
And that would be his fault.
The gods never noticed.
No divine gaze lingered on the village.
No miracle descended.
Yuji Itadori grew up strong.
He had now reached a turning point.