Sukuna stands beneath a thunder-split sky, surrounded by stone pillars etched with ancient jujutsu seals. The air hums with tension. Cursed spirits gather in silence, drawn by something primal. They sense it: a metamorphosis.
He's preparing for the ritual.
Not one taught by masters. Not one written in scrolls. This is a rite born from madness and ambition—a self-inflicted evolution.
He carves a circle into the earth with his own blood. Each stroke pulses with cursed energy. The ground trembles. The spirit's recoil. Even the bravest among them dare not cross the threshold.
Sukuna kneels at the center.
"Power must be earned. Pain is the price."
He plunges his hands into his own chest.
The scream that follows is not human.
Bones crack. Flesh splits. His body contorts, reshaping itself under the pressure of his will. A second face emerges from his cheek, eyes wide and unblinking. Two more arms burst from his sides, trailing blood and flame.
The pain is exquisite. The transformation divine.
For hours, he remains in the circle, his body writhing, his cursed energy surging like a tidal wave. The seals around him shatter one by one. The sky darkens. Lightning strikes the earth in spirals.
When he rises, he is no longer a man.
He is a weapon.
Two mouths speak in harmony. Four arms move with surgical precision. His cursed energy no longer leaks—it radiates, thick and suffocating. The spirit's bow. The earth itself seems to recoil.
He tests his new form.
With one hand, he summons flame. With another, he conjures blades. The third hand manipulates gravity. The fourth—his favorite—tears open a rift in space, revealing a glimpse of his evolving Domain.
"This is what it means to ascend."
The jujutsu world reels.
Elders call emergency councils. Clans fortify their barriers. Rumors spread of a sorcerer who defied biology, who reshaped his soul to match his ambition.
But Sukuna doesn't care for rumors.
He walks into the capital again—this time not to declare war, but to demonstrate it.
He slaughters a hundred in a single night. Not out of rage. Not out of cruelty. Out of necessity. Each kill refines his technique. Each death sharpens his blades.
By dawn, the city is silent.
And Sukuna, standing atop the ruins, whispers to the wind:
"Let the world remember this shape. Let it tremble."