The night pressed down on the main temple of the Bansei Cult like a suffocating blanket. Inside, Geto Suguru sat alone, surrounded by scrolls and reports that never seemed to diminish. His brow was furrowed, the weight of recent troubles etched into every line of his face.
The cult's growth had become a double-edged sword.
With every miracle performed, every soul saved, the Bansei Cult's influence expanded. But so did its enemies. The authorities had long since labeled them a cult—a dangerous, supernatural cult that threatened the very foundation of society.
At first, they had tolerated it. Small movements, limited influence—manageable.
But now? Now people ignored official decrees in favor of the deacons' words. The cult's teachings about "Cursed Spirits" challenged the scientific worldview at its core. It was no longer a fringe nuisance. It was a threat to stability itself.
Yet the cult committed no violence. No crimes. Nothing that justified outright suppression.
So the authorities sent representatives. Again and again. To negotiate. To persuade. To demand.
And again and again, those representatives... converted. Joined. Became believers.
Geto had just seen off the latest official when two figures materialized before him.
"Who are you?" His voice was calm, but his eyes sharp.
Black mask. White mask. They bowed with practiced respect.
"Lord Geto. Our master sends greetings. We have come to retrieve the Sukuna fingers. You have two, do you not?"
Geto studied them—the crimson hair, the Kamo Clan attire, the unsettling aura that was neither human nor Cursed Spirit. Puppets. Kamo Itsuki's work.
"I do have two. Been meaning to send them, but..." He gestured vaguely at the mountain of work surrounding him. "Busy."
He retrieved the fingers, handing them over without hesitation.
Black Mask bowed again. "Thank you, Lord Geto."
They vanished into the night.
Geto watched them go, a flicker of something—regret? determination?—crossing his features. "He can pinpoint the fingers now. He's grown stronger."
He returned to his work, the weight of leadership pressing down once more.
Hours later. Deep night.
The main temple was quiet, lit only by flickering candles. Geto was still there, still working, when his phone shattered the silence.
"Lord Geto! We're under attack—unknown forces, using conventional weapons, it must be the mil—"
Click. Silence.
The line went dead.
Then another. And another. His phone lit up with distress calls from over twenty branch temples across the country. Simultaneous attacks. Coordinated.
Special forces. Military.
'What changed? Why now?'
Before he could process, instinct screamed.
He moved—a hair's breadth, a lifetime. A bullet tore through the space where his head had been, embedding itself in the pillar behind him.
Sniper.
A turtle-shaped Cursed Spirit materialized beside him, its shell already bearing the mark of a direct hit. It had saved him.
Geto's eyes, cold as winter steel, fixed on the distant building where the shot had originated.
Then smoke bombs shattered the windows. Canisters clattered across the floor, filling the hall with thick, choking clouds.
Through the smoke, shapes moved. Soldiers. Well-equipped. Trained. Their weapons opened fire.
Bullets rained like a metal storm. Geto moved, weaving through the chaos, using his Cursed Spirits as shields. He didn't want to harm them—ordinary people following orders. If he killed them, there was no turning back.
He burst through the main entrance, gasping clean air—
BOOM.
The world behind him became fire and thunder. The explosion ripped through the main hall, shattering stone pillars, hurling rubble in every direction. The soldiers inside—the ones who had seemed so threatening—were never meant to survive.
They were cannon fodder. Distraction. The real attack was the bomb.
Geto stood in the courtyard, flames casting dancing shadows across his face, and understood.
This wasn't suppression.
This was extermination.
The flames still crackled behind him, consuming what remained of the main temple. Geto Suguru stood amid the chaos, his robes torn by flying rubble, blood seeping from a dozen small cuts. For a moment, only relief flickered in his eyes—relief that he had escaped.
Then he looked beyond the burning building.
Bodies. Everywhere.
Cult members—his followers, his people—lay strewn across the courtyard in grotesque poses. Men who had believed in his vision. Women who had found purpose in his teachings. Young ones who had looked to him for guidance.
All dead.
The anger that had flickered in his eyes cooled into something far more dangerous. Ice. Absolute, killing ice.
"You damned monkeys."
The words came out quiet. Controlled. But behind them, a storm was breaking loose.
Cursed energy erupted from him in waves. From the shadows, from the earth, from the very air around him, Cursed Spirits materialized—dozens, then hundreds, a night parade of vengeful shapes descending upon the remaining special forces.
The soldiers never stood a chance.
Their weapons, so effective against humans, passed through spirit flesh like smoke. Bullets tore through empty air. Grenades exploded harmlessly. And the spirits struck back with claws and fangs and curses that unraveled mind and body alike.
Minutes later, it was over.
Geto stood alone among the carnage, breathing hard, his heart a battlefield of conflicting emotions. He had killed them. All of them. And in doing so, had sealed his own fate.
He could never return to the ordinary world now.
But that loss was nothing compared to the other.
Years. Years of careful work. Years of building, teaching, guiding. The Bansei Cult had been his vision—a way to change the world without violence, to slowly shift humanity's understanding of curses and spirits.
Now it was ash.
He stared at the burning temple, at the bodies of his followers, and for the first time in years, Geto Suguru felt something close to despair.
Water Line Piercing.
The attack came without warning—a thread of water, compressed to cutting density, moving faster than sound. Geto's instincts screamed. He ducked, but too late. The water line carved across his forehead, leaving a deep, bloody trench.
Blood poured into his left eye, blinding him.
From the shadows, a figure emerged. Young. Female. Pink hair catching the firelight.
But the smile on her face was ancient.
"What a pity." Kenjaku's voice issued from Kanon's lips. "I thought one strike would be enough."
Geto's hand pressed to his wound, Reverse Cursed Technique already knitting flesh back together. His eyes, both now clear, fixed on the girl with dawning recognition.
"Kenjaku."
Surprise flickered across the possessed face. "You recognized me? Impressive. I thought this body would provide perfect camouflage."
Geto's jaw tightened. Behind the anger, behind the exhaustion, a deeper guilt surfaced.
Nanako. Mimiko.
They had blamed themselves for Kanon's disappearance. For years, they had carried that weight—wondering if they could have stopped her, if they had failed as friends.
And all along, it was this.
"You made them suffer," Geto said quietly. "Nanako and Mimiko. They blamed themselves for what happened to Kanon. They thought they could have saved her."
Kenjaku's smile widened. "How touching. Sibling loyalty. Twin bonds. Such... human emotions."
He tilted Kanon's head, studying Geto with clinical interest.
"But you have bigger problems now, don't you? Your cult is ash. Your followers are dead. And I?"
He spread his arms wide, firelight dancing across borrowed features.
"I'm just getting started."