The smoke of Shibuya's ruins swirled, drawn by the cold front that followed Uraume's presence. The air tightened, crisp, almost painful against the skin, as Kenjaku stepped lightly over the fractured asphalt.
His stolen body was immaculate despite the chaos, his expression as serene as ever, lips curved into that placid smile that never revealed quite enough.
Mahito tilted his head, body still streaked with cracks from the clash with Mahoraga. His grin didn't falter, even as his limbs twitched faintly, betraying the exhaustion he could never admit to.
"Well, well~," Kenjaku began, voice smooth as silk. "You've grown… far beyond my projections. I underestimated the deceit bred from humanity's hatred of itself. That, I confess, was my failure."
Uraume's eyes narrowed, frost-laced breath escaping in an angry plume. "You dare to stand here, reveling in your theft? You denied me from witnessing Sukuna-sama's return. You preyed on his weakened state, twisted the moment with your foul tricks. For that, you will pay."
Mahito burst into laughter, his voice rising in mocking peals that bounced across the shattered buildings. He clutched his stomach, shaking his head like a child hearing the silliest joke in the world.
"'Dirty tricks'? 'Preyed on his weakness'?" He dragged his words, singsong, taunting. His gaze snapped to Uraume, sharp and gleeful.
"Those are the words of a loser. Your King would never whimper like that. He lost because he allowed me to surprise him, because he thought himself untouchable. That's not my sin, it's his mistake~."
Uraume's jaw clenched, fingers curling, the temperature dropping sharply around her. Kenjaku lifted a hand to still her, his sigh soft and deliberate.
"Enough, Uraume." His gaze slid back to Mahito, calm but piercing. "Your bravado masks your limits, Mahito. You've dazzled me, yes. You even forced Sukuna's hand."
He paused, that faint smile sharpening. "But you've already fallen into my palms. You are far too weak to expand your domain again. Even should you achieve another Black Flash, you couldn't push your soul through that door a third time. You're playing your final cards."
Mahito blinked, his grin dimming for the briefest moment—then stretching wide, unhinged. He clasped his hands together like an actor acknowledging applause.
"Ohh, Kenjaku… Kenjaku~. You almost sound proud of me!" He leaned forward, eyes glittering.
"But tell me… what makes you so sure I'm that weakened?"
The ground shifted.
Kenjaku's smile flickered, just faintly, as cursed energy signatures blossomed all around them. The ruined street darkened, shadows stretching unnaturally as figures stepped from alleys, burst from broken windows, crawled up from shattered subway tunnels.
They surrounded the block. Dozens. Hundreds.
Mahito's creations.
Each one bore the warped aesthetic of his touch, skin stitched with faces, limbs bent in grotesque balance. But these were not the crude puppets of his early experiments. No, these were cultivated, refined. Each pulsed with cursed energy taut and potent, the weight of a Grade 1 sorcerer made manifest in grotesque form.
The strengthened Fly Soldiers buzzed above, wings whirring like bone saws, their forms bulkier, carapace hardened, antennae twitching with sharpened cursed perception. Below, the ground quivered under the march of the Soulsborne, twisted hybrids of man and curse, their eyes glowing with an unsettling clarity.
Mahito spread his arms, as if introducing a grand performance. "I've been busy, after all~. Did you think I'd waste all that time chasing children and sorcerers?"
One of the Soulsborne stepped forward, aura pressing outward, deliberate. Its body was lean, almost human, though its skin shimmered translucent. Above its shoulder floated a spectral jellyfish shikigami, tendrils drifting lazily in the ruined air.
Mahito's grin curved, eyes alight with cruel delight. Outwardly, he said nothing more than: "This one's a favorite~. Delicate. Subtle. But with a sting that lingers."
Inwardly, he relished the truth. Junpei. Poor, broken Junpei. Crushed by bullying, crushed by fate. He had taken his own life in the end… but here he was, resurrected as something useful. A cruel joke, and Mahito was still laughing.
Another creature stepped forward, its torso massive, shoulders hunched. Chains of cursed energy dangled from its wrists, each link burning with sealing properties. It slammed the ground and the chains rippled outward like serpents, biting into the broken asphalt.
A third followed, slender, with its face split into three vertical mouths, each chanting in harmony. The sound bent the air, a cursed hymn that distorted the perception of distance and weight, making the ground tilt nauseatingly beneath Kenjaku's feet.
Then came one more a creature with glassy skin filled with liquid shadows. From its palms erupted spear-like limbs of hardened ink, reshaping themselves at will into blades, drills, or nets. It hissed wordlessly, and the liquid inside churned with shapes of screaming faces.
Mahito's grin widened with every reveal, every gasp of cursed energy that licked at the ruined street.
"Each of my darlings here has a cursed technique~. Each calculated to endure against sorcerers, crafted from the cast-off souls of humanity. Tell me… Do I look weak now?"
A ripple of laughter burst from him, wild and echoing, spreading over the chorus of buzzing wings and rattling breaths.
Then, a flicker.
From the edge of the ruined street, a second Mahito stepped into view, shambling, cracked, its form a shadow of the original.
Before Kenjaku or Uraume could react, the clone surged forward, collapsing into Mahito's body in a mass of squirming flesh. The fusion was instant, seamless.
Mahito shuddered, back arching, his grin snapping wide as cursed energy flooded his frame once more. His aura surged, expanding violently, like a second heartbeat had joined his own.
"Mmm~! Delicious!" Mahito gasped, flexing his fingers, aura thrumming stronger, fuller. "A quarter of my reserves, restored in one gulp. Did you think I'd waste myself against Mahoraga without insurance? Oh no, no, no. I never fight with all my cards on the table. That's not art. That's not fun."
Kenjaku's expression remained still, but the calculation in his eyes shifted. He had come expecting to reel in a weakened pawn—one that had outgrown its leash but staggered too far to resist the chain.
Instead, he stood amid a battlefield swarmed with Mahito's army, each pulsing with cursed energy, each a grotesque testimony to the depth of Mahito's craft.
And worse, the young curse had hidden his strength, had puppeteered his exhaustion into a trap.
Kenjaku exhaled slowly, words quieter than before. "So this… was your hand."
Mahito tilted his head, grin splitting ear to ear, voice lilting like a child's song.
"Why, of course~. Did you really think I'd let myself be cornered so easily? That I'd bare everything for Sukuna, then stagger into your arms?" He tapped his chest, his tone turning sharp, cruel. "No, Kenjaku. I am deceit itself. Humanity's reflection. As a human, you were mistaken to go against me from the start~."
Uraume's disgust boiled over, her voice ice-edged. "You twist the weak into puppets and call it strength? You mock Sukuna-sama with your filth. This army is nothing but a fraud, a graveyard you wear as a fake crown."
Mahito only laughed harder, spinning once like a performer on stage. "Maybe, but it fits me perfectly, don't you think~?"
For the first time, Kenjaku's smile thinned. His eyes, calm as still water, flickered with something colder. Realization.
He prided himself on anticipating every move, always ten steps ahead. But here, amid the smoke of Shibuya, he had been maneuvered instead.
He had been played.