The Command Room of Chaldea, a fractured shell of its former glory, hummed with a tension that was almost electric. Technicians, repair crews, and the skeleton medical staff stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed on the central platform where the very air was shimmering. The announcement had crackled through the comms minutes ago: the Fuyuki Singularity was collapsing, the mission a success. For the first time since the world had burned, a fragile, desperate hope filled the room.
Then, the shimmer solidified.
A wave of jubilant relief erupted as two figures materialized: Mash Kyrielight, exhausted but resolute, supporting her Master, Gudako Fujimaru, who looked ready to collapse.
"They're back!" someone shouted, and the cry was picked up, turning into a ragged cheer. "Mash! Fujimaru! They did it!" The main point of Chaldea's existence—to preserve the Human Order—had been validated. They had won.
The celebration was cut short. A second, distinct burst of energy crackled on the platform, and a tall, blue-haired man appeared beside them, leaning casually on a wooden staff. Confused glances were exchanged among the staff as the blue-haired man appeared. He wasn't part of the mission. Who was he?
Before the question could even be fully formed, a third, far more violent surge of energy tore through the chamber. The Rayshift system groaned, alarms blaring as it struggled to contain a presence far beyond its designed parameters. And then, he appeared.
The room went dead silent.
The being was a monolith of terror. He stood nearly seven feet tall, a creature of dense muscle and pale skin, his form a perversion of the human ideal with four powerful arms. Intricate black markings, like forbidden scripture, were etched across his body. He had two faces, one on each side of his head, and four crimson eyes that scanned the room with a cold, deep-seated indifference. His kimono was torn to ribbons and soaked in blood, yet there was not a single wound on his perfect, unmarked flesh. In two of his hands, he held alien weapons: a wicked, three-pronged trident and a strange, golden object that hummed with a power they could not comprehend.
The instant he fully materialized, a pressure descended. It was not a feeling; it was a physical weight. The very air turned to lead, crushing the hope in their lungs. A technician near the front dropped his datapad and fell to his knees, his body trembling uncontrollably. Another muttered, "Demon... demon..." A young woman clutched her chest, her voice a reedy whisper as she repeated a mantra of sheer, fundamental panic, "Breathe... Breathe... Breathe... Is it okay to breathe?"
"Everyone, calm down!" Romani Archaman pleaded, his voice thin and lost in the suffocating dread. "It's alright! They are with us!" His words were meaningless. It wasn't a question of trust; the terror was instinctual, a prey animal's reaction to the apex predator entering its den.
Cú Chulainn, standing apart from the pressure's most crushing epicenter, saw the effect it was having. The staff were useless, but his concern was more immediate. Gudako, his new Master, was swaying on her feet, her face bone-white from a combination of exhaustion and the oppressive aura. Mash, though a Servant, was also struggling to stand, her own reserves depleted. He'd seen enough.
"Hey, King," Cú called out, his casual tone cutting through the terrified silence like a knife. "Mind turning it down a notch? You're scaring the locals, and the girls look like they're about to drop."
Sukuna, who had been observing the room's occupants with detached curiosity, raised an eyebrow. He was genuinely confused for a moment. He then let his gaze sweep over the cowering, frozen figures of the Chaldea staff. He saw the pure, animalistic fear in their eyes. A soft "Tch" of annoyance escaped his lips. Their weakness was an inconvenience.
Instantly, the pressure vanished. The release was as violent as its arrival. The staff members who had been frozen in place collapsed to the floor like puppets with their strings cut, gasping for air they were now certain was safe to breathe. The terror, however, remained etched on their faces. Romani stood amidst the room of broken, whimpering survivors, utterly at a loss, just as the sound of an approaching clatter cut through the heavy silence.
It was Da Vinci, her expression bright and her movements a theatrical flourish, pushing two empty stretchers before her. Her arrival was a complete tonal shift, a vibrant splash of color in a room painted grey with terror.
"Alright, that's quite enough of that!" she declared, her voice a resounding, charming clarion call that instantly drew every eye. The fear didn't vanish, but it was overshadowed by her sheer, commanding presence. "Excellent work getting them back, everyone. Technical crew, you are dismissed for now. We will re-calibrate later. Go on, shoo! The rest of you know what to do."
Her orders were not a request. The technicians, grateful for a clear direction, scrambled to their stations to shut down non-essential systems before filing out, casting one last terrified glance at the four-armed being in their midst. Da Vinci then gestured to the two exhausted girls. "You two, on the stretchers. Let the medical team have a look at you." She then turned to Romani, her expression softening into one of supportive command. "And you, Doctor. These fine people need a healer, not a flustered director. Go on, do what you do best."
Romani's shoulders slumped in visible relief. The impossible weight of command lifted from him, replaced by the familiar burden of his true calling. He shot her a look of profound gratitude, mouthing a silent "Thank you." Da Vinci returned it with a small, reassuring smile and a crisp nod before her attention shifted, focusing entirely on the two powerful figures who had remained silent through it all.
She decided directness was the only viable approach for beings of their caliber. She took a step forward, muttering just loud enough for their enhanced senses to catch, "Best we get the formalities out of the way…"
Her voice then returned to its clear, formal tone. "My name is Leonardo Da Vinci, Caster-class Servant of Chaldea. With the Director… indisposed, I am acting as the assistant director until things calm down. As such," she continued, her gaze steady and meeting both of theirs in turn, "it falls to me to treat with you on behalf of this organization. I would like to formally offer you our hospitality, for as long as you choose to remain under our roof."
She delicately extended a hand, not to the more approachable Cú, but directly to Sukuna. A palpable beat of silence stretched, the remaining staff holding their breath. He observed the offered hand for a moment, his four crimson eyes unblinking, before one of his own lower hands reached out and took hers in a firm, dry grip.
A brilliant smile lit up Da Vinci's face. Curious, she thought to herself, it seems some concepts, like the sanctity of hospitality, manage to transcend even the boundaries between worlds.
"Marvelous!" she said aloud, retracting her hand. "Now, this battered room is hardly the proper venue for a discussion of this magnitude." She gestured with a sweep of her arm at the cracked monitors and rubble-strewn floor. "If you'd be so kind as to follow me, I have a place far more suitable for our conversation."
She watched Sukuna, waiting for his assent. After a moment, he gave a single, almost imperceptible nod. It was all she needed. With a confident turn of her heel, her elaborate dress swishing behind her, Da Vinci led the way out of the command room. The King of Curses and the Hound of Ulster followed, a study in contrasts: Cú ambled along with a warrior's easy slouch, while Sukuna moved with a soundless, predatory grace that seemed to command the very air around him.
A brief, wistful thought crossed her mind as they moved through the stark corridors. Under better circumstances, she would have given them the grand tour of Chaldea. She would have showcased the marvels of the Simulator, the depths of the library, the fragile, defiant core of their small community. But much of Chaldea was a testament to their recent losses, a landscape of rubble and repair. A tour now would only be an admission of vulnerability. Pragmatism, and proximity, made the choice for her. Her workshop was nearby, secure, and far more impressive than any damaged facility. It was not a tour of a fortress, but an invitation into the sanctum of a genius—a far more potent statement of confidence.
The reinforced door slid open with a soft hiss. The air within was alive with the scent of ozone, oil paints, and cooling metal. Da Vinci stepped inside and turned, her artist's eyes missing nothing. She watched Sukuna as he took in the cavernous, organized chaos of her domain. She wasn't expecting a gasp, but she was looking for a sign, a crack in his impassive facade. She found it. As his four eyes swept the room, she saw a flicker of reaction so subtle it would have been invisible to anyone else: a fractional widening of his primary eyes, the almost imperceptible tensing of a muscle along his jawline. It was there and gone in an instant, a whisper of shock immediately suppressed by an eternity of control.
An internal, triumphant smirk formed. Got you.
"Here we are," she chirped, her voice bright. She gestured to a seating area arranged around a sturdy table. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. Just wait a sec while she goes to fetch something from the back." With a flourish, she turned and glided deeper into her workshop, leaving the two powerful beings to observe, and to be subtly, irrevocably impressed.
—-------—-------—-------—-------
The metal slab slid aside, revealing not a room, but a den. This was the Caster's personal territory, a space saturated with her power and presence. My gaze swept the area, not with a cursory glance, but with a cold, comprehensive analysis.
The first thing of note was a forge. It was a strange hybrid of old and new. The core principles were familiar—a hearth, an anvil, a quenching trough. But it was not powered by mundane fire. Gleaming conduits pulsed with a faint inner light, feeding the apparatus a steady stream of the world's energy. Mana, the information of this era world branded into my mind. It was a weapon-maker's tool of formidable potential.
Then my eyes were drawn to a vast wall, covered in a chaotic mosaic of paintings and sketches. And it was here that my composure had faltered. In my long life, I had acknowledged true mastery only once in the art of painting: a man named Kose Kanaoka. His skill was such that I allowed him to live, for to destroy such perfection would have been a waste. I had considered his portrait of me, a work that captured the very essence of my disastrous presence, to be the pinnacle of mortal achievement.
Here, on a single wall, were a dozen rivals to that masterpiece. A study of some winged beast, rendered with such anatomical precision I could almost map its musculature. A portrait of a woman whose simple smile held a labyrinth of meaning. I saw a tempest captured on canvas, the violence of the storm so palpable I could almost feel the static in the air. Some, I begrudgingly admitted, might even be superior.
A flood of memories, the unwelcome gift of this summoning, provided the context. The Caster… her name was Leonardo da Vinci. The Leonardo da Vinci. The artist behind a work called the Mona Lisa. I glanced at the woman's retreating form; her face was a living echo of that famous portrait. The records said Leonardo was a man. He recalled the visage of Saber-King Arthur who was, in fact, a woman. He had also seen it himself in his own world, when his most loyal subordinate, Uraume, had chosen a female vessel upon incarnating in this new age. The shape the soul chose for its vessel was of no consequence to him.
My gaze returned to the table where the woman—the Artist, now—had directed us. Three chairs. Two were of a common size. The third was different. It was larger, broader, and reinforced, constructed to a scale that would accommodate my own form without protest.
Surprise was a rare and unwelcome sensation, and I masked it instantly. But curiosity remained. The chair was not merely an object; it was a calculation. This Artist had anticipated not only my arrival but also my temperament. She had assumed a level of civility, assuming I would choose to sit and parley rather than simply reducing her and her workshop to ash.
This was either an act of supreme foolishness or profound insight. She had gambled on my curiosity outweighing my contempt. For now, it seemed, her wager was a sound one. Curious. Very curious indeed.
—----------------—----------------
Da Vinci returned moments later, a masterful hostess once more, gliding towards the table with a tray bearing an ornate teapot, fine ceramic cups, and a crystal decanter of water. The aroma of brewing chamomile and a hint of Earl Grey filled the air.
"Some tea, or water, perhaps?" she offered.
A lazy, roguish smirk appeared across Cú Chulainn's face as he leaned forward with a charming, flirtatious energy. "Got anything stronger for a thirsty warrior, beautiful?"
Da Vinci laughed, a sound like pleasant bells. "My, my, so forward! Alas, all spirits are rationed for now, handsome. Water it is." Cú accepted the flask she offered with a theatrical grumble and a wink. She then turned her gaze to Sukuna, whose four eyes observed the display with an unreadable calm. "And for you?"
"Tea," Sukuna stated simply. Da Vinci poured a cup with a steady, practiced hand and placed it before him. He accepted it with a slight nod, a gesture of archaic, regal courtesy. He raised the delicate porcelain to his lips and took a sip. His brow furrowed for a fraction of a second in thought. "The brew… is acceptable."
Da Vinci's grin widened. "Only the best for my guests," she replied, a twinkle in her eye. She took her own seat, sipping her tea with a refined air. "Now, as much as I would love to make small talk with a legendary being from another world and Ireland's Child of Light, I believe we have more pressing matters to discuss."
Her expression shifted, the playful hostess receding to reveal the serious director beneath. She looked directly at Sukuna. "You were promised certain things in return for your assistance by Olga Marie—specifically, that Chaldea would use all its resources to secure you an audience with the Magician known as Zelretch." Da Vinci frowned, her next words delivered with a carefully neutral tone. "Unfortunately, at this present moment, that is impossible."
The shift in the room was instantaneous. Sukuna's eyes narrowed, and a sudden, crushing pressure descended upon the workshop, so immense and suffocating it felt as if the very laws of physics were being rewritten. The teacup still in Sukuna's hand did not just crack; it disintegrated into ceramic dust from the sheer force. Nearby, a beaker on a workbench shattered with a sharp CRACK!
Da Vinci didn't flinch. In the same beat, she raised both hands in a placating gesture, the one wearing her intricate golden gauntlet held slightly forward—just in case. "Please," she said, her voice strained but level, "allow me to explain."
There was a long, terrifying pause where the only sound was the hum of a dozen half-finished projects. Then, the pressure receded as quickly as it had come. Taking that as her cue, Da Vinci lowered her hands and began.
"We are not reneging on our agreement," she said, her voice firm. "But circumstances have changed drastically. You were told our future was in peril, that this Singularity in Fuyuki was the cause of a catastrophe a year from now, yes?"
She saw Sukuna's slight nod.
"That assumption was fundamentally wrong," she stated. "The Singularity wasn't the cause of the catastrophe. It was merely a symptom of a plan that had already succeeded." She leaned forward, her expression grim. "The calamity has already happened. While we were in Fuyuki, every living being outside of Chaldea was instantly incinerated. Humans, animals, even the germs… all reduced to ash in a moment."
The statement hung in the air, heavy and absolute. After a moment of silence, Sukuna's low rumble cut through it. "You just stated that humanity is gone," he pointed out, a single finger gesturing vaguely in the direction of the command room. "Yet I saw humans when we returned."
"They—we—only survived because of the protections Olga Marie's father built into Chaldea's foundations," Da Vinci explained.
Another silence stretched, this one broken by a dry, humorless laugh from Sukuna. "So," he mused, looking around the incredible workshop, a symbol of their advanced power. "With all of this technology, all of your knowledge… you lost the war before you even knew you were fighting."
Da Vinci's lips curled into a wry smirk, as if he had just spoken the key to unlock her final argument. "Oh, but we haven't lost' yet."
Sukuna paused. Even Cú Chulainn looked at her as though she had gone mad.
"We were working from an incomplete picture," she continued, her voice gaining a fervent energy. "There wasn't just one Singularity. We were wrong. There were eight."
"Eight?" Cú interjected, his lazy demeanor gone, replaced by a warrior's sharp focus. "Morgana's teats, do you have any idea what kind of being you're fighting here?" he demanded. "The power to change history once is the kind of feat that gets you a seat on the Throne. To do it eight times without the Counter Force, or a paradox, or a hundred divine spirits intervening… Who the hell are we fighting?"
Da Vinci threw her hands up in dramatic frustration. "I wish I knew! Whoever they are, they subverted one of our highest-ranking personnel, rewrote eight points in history, and then used that as a ritual to wipe out humanity itself." She leaned forward, her eyes blazing. "But they made one mistake. They tried to take us out before the Incineration. A preemptive strike."
A look of dawning comprehension crossed Cú's face. "…Which means they aren't all-powerful."
"Exactly!" Da Vinci exclaimed, practically bouncing in her seat with intellectual excitement. "If we were truly nothing to them, they wouldn't have bothered with a mere ant house in their backyard!" A grin, sharp and predatory, spread across her face. "So that means if we can restore the Singularities, we can unravel their plan and set this right. That's why there are Servants defending them—because they know we can undo it all." She sighed, the excitement dimming slightly. "But that task… is nearly impossible in itself." Her hopeful, determined gaze fixed on Sukuna. "Unless, of course, we were to have the help of the King of Curses. Then, well…?"
A profound silence descended upon the workshop, heavier and more suffocating than even Sukuna's earlier pressure. Cú Chulainn had fallen completely still, his usual easygoing posture replaced by the tense coil of a warrior awaiting a verdict. Da Vinci leaned forward, the hope in her eyes a fragile, brilliant thing, every ounce of her genius and bravado staked on this single moment. All eyes were on the King of Curses.
Sukuna remained silent, his expression unreadable. He was not overwhelmed. He was… enthralled.
The grand schemes of Kenjaku, a plan that took a millennium to orchestrate, now seemed like the clumsy, brutish work of a child playing with mud. This enemy, this unseen mastermind… they had not merely tipped the game board; they had reset reality itself to their liking, playing with the fabric of time as if it were a toy. A low, almost inaudible hum of interest vibrated in his chest. This was the work of a true master. For the first time since the golden age of the Heian era, a flicker of genuine excitement ignited within him. This new world wasn't just a bigger cage; it was an entirely new ladder to climb, from the very bottom. How could he truly call himself The Strongest if he had not dominated every reality?
A dry, almost silent chuckle escaped his lips, a sound of profound irony. He, Ryomen Sukuna, was being asked to save humanity. He remembered the face of the brat—Itadori Yuji—and his naive, self-sacrificial drive. He remembered the infuriating way he would have unhesitatingly accepted this impossible burden. Those were the very ideals that had led to his defeat, and to this… this change. This new path.
He looked at the Artist before him. She was not showing desperation, but he could perceive the fragile, glittering hope in her eyes. It was a gamble. A choice. Perhaps this was North.
"Very well," Sukuna rumbled, his voice filled with a newfound, terrifying purpose that made the very air in the room feel heavy once more.
"I have decided. I will aid you in this endeavor."
—-----------------—-----------------
Steam, thick and white, coiled in the still air of the bathing chamber, the silence a stark contrast to the cacophony of the recent battle. Sukuna sank into the dark, shimmering water, a welcome heat seeping into muscle that still held the phantom ache of a fight well fought. He closed his four eyes, allowing the sequence of events to play out behind them. His choice to go "North." His awakening in this burning city. The convenient appearance of this group of survivors. The word chance was an insult to his intelligence.
He had always understood that Fate, in his old world, was a tangible force, a current that could be navigated but never truly ignored. His final choice had been a declaration of intent, a deviation from his path of pure hedonism. He had no illusions of being "guided" by some benevolent hand; rather, he viewed this situation as the logical, almost sarcastically literal response from reality itself. It had presented him with the very embodiment of his new path—a quest to "save humanity." A low rumble of amusement vibrated in his chest. The exquisite irony of it all was far more entertaining than any victory.
He rose from the water, the drying cloth rough against skin that still remembered the satisfying impact of his blows. The feeling of his flesh knitting itself back together led his thoughts to the fight. The corrupted King's physical strength had been superior—a simple, interesting fact, not a slight to his pride. The true challenge had been her absolute resistance to his sorcery. His core Cursed Techniques, the very foundation of his power, had been rendered useless. Even if the Hound's theory about a "Grail" amplifying her was correct, it still confirmed the existence of conceptual defenses in this world, a variable he had not previously accounted for. This meant his old methods were insufficient. It meant he had to evolve.
And he had. His adaptation of Mana Burst had been crude, a forceful translation that had come with a series of telling flaws. The internal, boiling heat was a sign of instability. The deep, pervasive ache that settled in his muscles afterward, an indicator of its unrefined, stressful nature. It lacked the explosive power enhancement he had witnessed. But it was a proof of concept. It demonstrated that his Jujutsu was not a static art but a fluid science, one capable of dissecting, understanding, and repurposing the principles of this world's Magecraft. It was the first step on a new path of mastery.
The Hound's own sorcery was another piece of the puzzle. The glowing symbols he had placed upon the white-haired woman's flesh were fascinating. In his experience, Jujutsu seals were designed for containment, a sophisticated but ultimately limited art of imprisonment. Yet the Hound's runes had been used for attack, for support, for amplification. It was as if "sealing" was not a distinct art at all, but merely a single, brutish application of a far grander, more versatile system that had been left untapped. This new world was not just offering him stronger opponents; it was offering him an entirely new grammar of power to learn.
He walked to the simple cot where a new garment had been laid out for him. It was a dark, unadorned kimono, a work of the Artist. He slipped it on. The fabric was as comfortable as any he had worn during his life in the golden age, yet possessed a resilience that was a clear testament to its creator's skill. His mind turned, then, to his one true regret. He felt a flicker of genuine shame—not for the hard-won victory against the Saber, she had been a fine meal. The shame was for the grander battle he had been denied. Kenjaku's magnificent Merger, a new form of humanity evolved into a single, divine entity… that was the opponent he had truly wanted to face. To have been robbed of that glorious conclusion by a group of sentimental fools was the only true failure. But now... a new possibility presented itself. If the Artist was right, if a single entity was responsible for the incineration of all mankind, then perhaps he had not lost his ultimate challenger. Perhaps it had simply been waiting for him here, in a new world.
As he turned, his senses registered an approaching presence. Familiar. The Hound.
A sharp, confident knock echoed from the heavy metal door. "Yo, King! You decent in there?" Cú Chululainn's voice called through, laced with its usual easygoing energy. "There's a cafeteria in this oversized bunker. Figured I'd see what passes for grub in this day and age. Might even be able to talk the pretty inventor into giving us a sip of the good stuff."
------------------------------
From outside the heavy steel doors, the low murmur of tired conversation and the clatter of utensils offered a fragile illusion of normalcy. The moment Sukuna and Cú Chulainn stepped through, the illusion shattered.
The doors hissed open, and the room went dead silent. A fork, dropped by a startled repairman, hit the floor with a clatter that echoed like a gunshot. The diners froze mid-bite, their eyes wide, gazes locked on their plates, instinctively avoiding direct eye contact with the four-armed being who now stood in the doorway. The kitchen staff, who had been laughing a moment before, went rigid. One cook gripped his spatula like a weapon, his knuckles white.
Cú took it all in with an amused smirk. Sukuna registered the reaction as nothing more than the appropriate response to his presence and strode towards the serving line. They were serving burgers tonight, with mounds of crispy fries and a side of some sort of cold, chopped vegetable salad. Cú's face lit up with genuine delight.
"Gods above, real cooked meat!" he exclaimed, grabbing two plates enthusiastically. "You have no idea how good this is after weeks of cold rations."
Sukuna, however, merely observed the meal. His four eyes scanned the components: the mass-produced bread, the ground and pressed patty, the crisp vegetables. The memories supplied by this world provided a name, "burger," and a context, "comfort food." His own senses registered it as… industrial. Fuel, not cuisine. A faint, unreadable expression crossed his faces, and for a moment, the terrified cooks held their breath, certain he was about to voice his displeasure.
Instead, he let out a near-silent sigh. He would not go hungry, but he would not be satisfied either. While his new memories whispered that this was a delicacy, his own palate longed for something more refined—failing that, human flesh would suffice. Still, he took a single plate. As he turned away, a flicker of a thought crossed his mind. The fear from the cooks was palpable, yet he had no desire to harm them. He remembered Uraume. He remembered the artistry, the mastery of a true chef. He respected that craft, however crude this version of it was. Artisans, like the painter, were worth leaving alive.
They found a table in a far corner, away from the prying, terrified eyes. Cú lamented the lack of anything alcoholic but dug into his meal with a gusto that spoke of genuine appreciation. Sukuna took a single, analytical bite of the burger. It was edible. The texture was passable. But it lacked the soul of true cuisine. His mind flashed with a brief, sharp memory: the perfect, exquisite balance of a dish Uraume had once prepared for him, a meal made with absolute dedication for him. He sighed again, a quiet, almost imperceptible sound of disappointment.
"Not to your liking, King?" Cú asked around a mouthful of food. "'Cause I've got to say, this is hitting the spot."
"It is not the worst thing I have consumed," Sukuna replied, his tone flat. "It is merely… different from my preference."
"Oh yeah? What's your preference then? What do you usually eat?" Cú asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.
"Whatever they prepare."
The plural was a simple choice of word, but it hung in the air. "They?" Cú pressed.
Sukuna looked up, and for a fleeting moment, a distant look entered his eyes, as though he were gazing back through centuries. "My servant," he stated, the word delivered with a cold, simple finality that carried the weight of absolute ownership and unwavering loyalty.
Cú's easygoing posture tensed for a split second. He was a Servant himself, but he understood instantly that the word meant something profoundly different to Sukuna. He had just brushed against a clearly marked boundary and had the good sense not to push. He immediately switched to a safer, more professional line of questioning, the language they both understood best: battle.
"So," C-ú began, his tone shifting as he leaned forward. "Now that you've fought a top-tier Servant like Saber, how does she stack up? Did you have a better fight in your own world?"
Sukuna considered the question. A slow, predatory smile spread across his faces, the first sign of genuine pleasure he had shown since entering the room.
"There was one," he rumbled, his voice holding a note of rare respect. "A modern-day sorcerer. Gojo Satoru."
Cú blinked, the burger pausing halfway to his mouth. A modern-day sorcerer? The concept was so absurd he almost laughed. He was a Heroic Spirit, a legend brought to life. He knew the fundamental truth of this age: the decline of Mystery had rendered modern magi into pale shadows of their ancestors. No magus of this era, no matter how skilled, could ever stand on equal footing with a proper Servant from the Age of Gods, let alone win. Yet Sukuna, a being who had just dismantled one of the most powerful Servants imaginable, was casually stating that a modern practitioner from his world had been the superior opponent. It didn't make sense. It violated every fundamental rule of power he had ever known.
Before he could demand an explanation, a new voice cut through the cafeteria.
"No, Romani, you are not going back to the lab!" Da Vinci declared, her cheerful scolding turning every head. She was steering a sleep-deprived Romani by the elbow towards a table. "You will sit. You will eat something that isn't from a vending machine. I will not have my acting director collapsing from malnutrition, it's bad for morale!"
"Over here!" Cú called out, a familiar mischievous light returned to his eyes as he waved them over, the perfect opportunity to both distract from his shock and deliberately stir the pot. "Join the party!"
A genuine smile touched Da Vinci's lips at Cú's boisterous invitation. "A party? My dear Caster, considering the atmosphere, it looks more like a wake," she bantered back, gesturing with her head to the other silent, terrified diners as she and Romani reached the table. She slid the trays onto its surface, the contents a perfect visual summary of her philosophy—a towering monument of indulgence for herself, a carefully balanced meal of necessity for her charge. With a gentle but firm hand, she nudged the still-distracted Romani down into a chair before taking her own seat.
A new silence fell over the table, heavier than the first. Cú's playful gambit had succeeded in bringing them together, and now he leaned back with a self-satisfied smirk, watching to see what would happen next. Da Vinci was about to open with a pleasantry, but she paused, her keen eyes noticing Romani's state. The doctor wasn't eating. He wasn't even looking at his food. His hands were clasped so tightly on the table his knuckles were white, his gaze locked on Sukuna with an intensity that bordered on obsession. The events he had witnessed through the comms—the betrayal, the transformation, the impossible solution—were a raging storm in his mind. His duty as a doctor, and as the acting director, finally overrode his fear. He had to know.
"Sukuna," Romani began, his voice tight with a doctor's professional anxiety. "That… object. The finger. Is the Director truly… stable in there? I saw what you did, but I don't understand the process. Medically, thaumatergicaly… it's impossible. I need to know her condition."
In response, Sukuna reached into his kimono and placed the Cursed Object—Olga Marie's finger—on the table between them. Da Vinci's gaze was instantly riveted to it, her eyes alight with an intense, almost rapacious glint of intellectual curiosity.
"I was familiar with a technique," Sukuna explained, his voice a low rumble, "devised by a sorcerer from my world to distill one's soul into an object, for future incarnation. I adapted it."
"You wish to examine it?" Sukuna asked, a flicker of amusement in his eyes at the Artist's barely contained fervor.
She nodded eagerly. He slid the finger across the table to her. As she produced a strange, multifaceted lens, Romani, still grappling with the impossible, spoke again.
"But is it viable? Can a soul be restored from this?" he pressed.
Sukuna let out a low chuckle. "Do you believe I am wrong, Doctor?"
Romani stammered, "N-no, that's not what I meant, it's just—"
"You are right to question it," Sukuna cut him off, his voice flat. "Were we in my own world, I would have absolute certainty. But your world is alien. This network of nerves you call Magic Circuits… it is a concept my world lacks. Still," he concluded, his confidence absolute, "a soul is a soul. The principles remain. This will work."
Da Vinci looked up from her lens. "You need a vessel?"
"Indeed," Sukuna nodded. "Simply feed the object to a compatible host, and the woman will awaken."
"A homunculus, perhaps?" Da Vinci mused.
Sukuna's eyebrow raised. Cú picked up on his confusion. "Artificial humans," the Caster explained. "Designer bodies, grown in a tube."
Sukuna's four eyes widened slightly. Artificial bodies. A tide of regretful annoyance washed over him. The sheer indignity of being a passenger in that brat's flesh… it could have been avoided.
"Marvelous!" Da Vinci declared, carefully wrapping the Cursed Object. "This will be my personal project."
With Olga's soul now a "project" for Da Vinci, Romani's mind shifted to another part of the initial debriefing that had seemed equally impossible. He looked at Cú. "Mash's report was… frantic. She mentioned that before all this, Sukuna had also healed the Director's physical wounds. The ones from the Berserker. What exactly happened?"
Cú nodded, his expression serious. "Healed is putting it lightly," he confirmed, leaning forward. "Her arm was noodles. There was a nasty curse from the Grail mud tainting her, too. I put her in stasis, but that was just keeping her from getting worse. He just… put his hand on her, sealed the curse, and put her back together. Like fixing a dent in a pot."
Romani's breath hitched. Driven by Cú's blunt, firsthand confirmation of a second miracle, his gaze fixed on Sukuna, wide with a desperate, burgeoning hope that eclipsed all fear. "Just how good is your healing?"
Sukuna regarded the doctor with a flat, impassive gaze. "I can regenerate any flesh, mend any bone. Anything short of absolute death is a triviality."
Romani heard the words as a key, a solution to the nightmare that had defined every waking second since the explosion. The 47 souls wasting away in cryo-stasis—it all boiled over. Professionalism and caution were incinerated by a single, desperate spark. The words tumbled out, a raw, unprofessional plea from a doctor pushed to his absolute limit.
"Could you… could you heal someone for me?"
A heavy silence fell over the table. Sukuna slowly turned his four crimson eyes onto Romani, an expression of sheer, condescending disbelief twisting his faces. The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Romani instantly realized his catastrophic mistake. "I-I'm sorry," he stammered, his face flushing with a mixture of terror and shame. "That was out of line, I shouldn't have—"
"What Romani means is, the theoretical applications are simply fascinating—" Da Vinci began, jumping in with a bright, false smile.
She was cut off by a low, rumbling chuckle. The sound was devoid of all warmth but rich with a cold, deep amusement. Sukuna stopped them both cold.
"I can," he said.
He let the single sliver of hope hang in the air before he followed it with the hook. "But why should I heal someone for no reason?"
Romani was frozen, caught between an impossible hope and the terrifying reality of the being he had just pleaded with. Da Vinci, ever the strategist, saw the opening. She picked up on Romani's true intention and expertly reframed his desperate plea into a business proposition, her voice smooth as silk.
"What would it take," she asked, her eyes meeting Sukuna's, "to heal forty-seven people?"
A slow, profoundly predatory grin spread across Sukuna's faces, a look that promised a terrible, but very interesting, bargain. He laughed, a genuine sound of pure, triumphant amusement that echoed through the quiet cafeteria.
"Now," he declared, "you are speaking my language."
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Authors Note
No real note this time. For those who want to know. I have recovered enough to be able to write again. So pat-reon supporters will now start getting a better schedule.
By the end of the day, A Stranger's Vow will finish on pat-reon with roughly 30k words. The schedule going ahead for pat-reon will be as follows:
Monday: 1 chapter of "A Cursed King's Adventure"
Tuesday: 1 chapter of "Of Aliens, Magic and Superheroes"
Wednesday: 1 chapter of "A Cursed King's Adventure"
Thursday: 1 chapter of "Of Aliens, Magic and Superheroes"
Friday: 1 chapter of "Of Aliens, Magic and Superheroes"
pat-reon . com / st_scarface
Thank you for reading.
Ciao