##The King of a Ruined World**
The following events take place after Chapter 261
The world ended not with a scream, but with a sigh.
Yuji Itadori's consciousness returned like a tide of broken glass, each shard a fresh cut of agony. There was no single point of pain; his entire being was a raw, pulsing wound. The acrid smell of ozone, spent cursed energy, and vaporized concrete filled his lungs with every ragged breath. His right eye was swollen shut, but his left could make out the hellscape through a blurry film of blood and tears.
Shinjuku was gone. In its place was a cratered, smoldering plain, a geological scar under a sky the color of a day-old bruise. The skeletal remains of skyscrapers clawed at the heavens, monuments to a battle that had shattered the very city.
And standing amidst the ruin, back turned, was the victor.
Ryomen Sukuna adjusted the tattered remains of Megumi's school jacket, a gesture of casual, contemptuous ownership. He stretched, the muscles in Megumi's body rippling with an easy, terrifying power. The fight had been many things—exhilarating, brutal, a masterpiece of violence—but in the end, it had been… predictable.
"Is that all?" Sukuna's voice, a distorted echo of Megumi's, cut through the silence. It wasn't loud. It didn't need to be. It carried across the ruins with the weight of absolute finality. "The combined might of this era. The legacy of the Gojo clan. The last gambit of the monkeys. It was a mildly diverting spectacle, I suppose."
He turned slowly, his four eyes scanning the devastation with an expression of profound boredom. They passed over the still form of Yuta Okkotsu, one arm twisted at a sickening angle, the ghostly shroud of Rika flickering weakly over him like a dying candle flame. They passed over Maki Zenin, who leaned heavily on the broken hilt of her sword, her breath coming in sharp, wet gasps, her unparalleled body pushed far beyond its limits.
Finally, those cruel eyes landed on Yuji.
"But a spectacle is all it was." Sukuna began to walk toward him, his steps crunching on the gravel. Each footfall was a hammer blow to Yuji's spirit. "There was no weight to it. No meaning. You fought for your friends, for your world, for your 'justice'. And look where it got you."
He stopped, looming over Yuji. The shadow he cast felt like a tombstone.
"You wanted to give people a 'proper death'?" Sukuna mused, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "How noble. How utterly dull. You never understood. Death only has meaning if it amuses me. Theirs did. Yours, however, will be forgettable."
Yuji tried to move. To push himself up. To summon one last grain of cursed energy, one final ounce of strength to spit in this monster's face. His muscles screamed in protest, then fell silent, utterly spent. He could only lie there. A worm on the hook. A cog that had shattered in the machine.
Sukuna's smirk widened. He had won. Truly, completely won. The age of Satoru Gojo was a forgotten memory. The King of Curses was the king of everything.
"Well then," Sukuna said, his tone shifting to one of mundane finality. He straightened up and looked toward the horizon, beyond the sea of ruin. "I'll kill everyone here. And then… I think I'll make my way over to the U.S. or whatever. See what kind of entertainment a fresh continent holds."
He looked back down at Yuji, his expression one of utter, devastating dismissal.
"Itadori Yuji… you can watch. From right there."
The decree hung in the air. A death sentence for the world. A life sentence of helpless witnessing for Yuji.
But as Sukuna took a breath, ready to begin his global reign with their immediate execution, a flicker of something wrong passed through his senses.
It was subtle. A vibration in the air that wasn't there a second before. A pressure change. The immense, world-ending cursed energy that had been released in their battle wasn't dissipating into the atmosphere as it should. It was… coalescing. Condensing. Being drawn *away*.
Sukuna's triumphant posture faltered. His head cocked to the side, the boredom on his face replaced by a flicker of animal alertness. His four eyes narrowed, scanning not the physical ruins, but the metaphysical air around them.
The hair on the back of Yuji's neck stood up. The silence was no longer the silence of defeat. It was the silence of a held breath. The silence before the other shoe drops.
Across the battlefield, the mangled, headless corpse of Kenjaku began to steam. Not from heat, but from something else. Intricate, glowing cursed scripts—far more complex than any Idle Transfiguration—snaked out from the body like roots, burning themselves into the scorched earth. They began to pulse with a slow, hungry rhythm.
Sukuna's eyes went wide. It wasn't with fear. It was with the pure, unadulterated rage of a master who just realized he'd been a pawn in someone else's game.
The sky began to darken. Not with clouds.
But with a web.