Keitaro stood alone in the center of the sacred chamber, the last Sukuna finger floating above his open palm.
It pulsed violently, screaming with the last vestiges of that bastard's soul, writhing with spite, hatred, and the cursed ego of a king who refused to die quietly.
Well, it wasn't like Sukuna had a choice. Today, he would die, whether he liked it or not.
There was no choice in it.
Keitaro had quintupled his efforts. Over the last 8 months, he'd been hunting down those fingers—and so far, he had found 18. This finger would be number 19. Hm, odd. He couldn't find the 20th finger.
Oh well. Not like a 5% Sukuna is something anyone should be worried about.
He sighed to himself. Well, time to get to work.
Holding the finger, he closed his eyes, fingers weaving together in a blur of practiced motion. Hand seals—thirty-seven in total—laced with cursed energy and natural energy alike: his signature blend. The room grew heavy, the seal array beneath him glowing with harsh crimson light, his hair flickering from the pressure.
Then—
Snap.
His hand closed.
The finger collapsed in on itself. Not just disintegrating—unraveling, like a thread being pulled from reality.
Keitaro felt it: the soul inside cracking, unraveling, being atomized and rewritten by the metaphysical poison of his energy.
And then—
Gone.
There was no explosion. No dramatic flash. No last-minute threat.
Only silence.
Sukuna... was truly, finally, completely destroyed. Soul and all.
Hm. He didn't get that 20th finger, though. Oh well. He'd continue searching.
Elsewhere.
In a forgotten shrine drenched in decay and silence, Kenjaku lurched forward, coughing violently—blood spilling from his mouth in thick, congealed globs. His hands trembled. Veins bulged across his skin like writhing black roots.
Then he screamed.
It wasn't pain. It was something far, far worse.
He collapsed to his knees, gasping for air. Fuck, his guts hadn't felt like this since Jin... no comment.
Fuck... it hurt.
The binding vow he had made with Sukuna—shattered. The spiritual anchor that tethered his soul into that stolen body? Collapsed.
But that wasn't all.
With Sukuna's soul gone, every binding vow Kenjaku had made with the ancient sorcerers—the ones he manipulated, coerced, enslaved, devoured—broke in unison.
One by one, like glass shattering in his mind.
Keitaro had destroyed every singular relic he found that contained a soul. He was doing great.
And then, their souls came.
They remembered.
The stolen consciousnesses he thought silenced, buried beneath layers of possession and control—woke up.
And they were screaming.
Kenjaku fell, clutching his skull as dozens—hundreds—of minds pressed inward on his own, howling with agony and rage. His mouth stretched open unnaturally as they began to speak through him, all at once.
"You butchered my clan—"
"You stole my son's body—"
"My sister's soul—give it back!"
"I saw what you did—"
"You lied about my fade, you fuck."
Kenjaku convulsed, eyes rolling back as his cursed energy began to burn him from the inside out. He tried to force them out. To control them.
But control no longer belonged to him.
They were unmaking him.
Piece by piece, his ego was shredded into ribbons.
And then came the worst part—
They started remembering his thoughts.
Everything. His smug superiority. His centuries of planning. Every humiliation he inflicted. Every time he laughed at their suffering. The twisted joy he took in playing god.
They saw it all.
And then they shared it.
Not just with themselves—but with every lingering soul. Every broken fragment. Every cursed life.
Kenjaku could feel their hatred.
Then, he felt the curse energy of every single victim he had body-hopped over the years—people whose existence was supposed to be erased by time. They were done.
They were ready to tear his ass a new asshole.
And the worst part about it all?
He couldn't scream anymore.
His vocal cords were commandeered by the dead.
They sang in his throat. A chorus of hatred, trapped in a living tomb.
And worse still?
He couldn't die.
His brain remained flooded with knowledge of cursed energy—everything. How to apply it. How to stack barrierless domains. How to mimic a curse technique with energy alone.
Yet, while he had all that wisdom... he couldn't speak. Nor feel.
He had a mouth—yet couldn't scream.
He had skin—yet couldn't feel.
He had eyes—yet couldn't see.
He had ears—yet couldn't hear.
All of his senses were being overloaded. Knowing everything was fun... but this?
This was torture.
This was the price of every broken vow.
And he would remain like this.
Forever.
Till the last sun explodes. Even when the universe dies and the stars go cold.
Kenjaku would still be there.
Alive, in the worst way possible.
Meanwhile.
Keitaro, now standing atop the central shrine, exhaled slowly.
He ran his fingers through a final sequence of hand seals, weaving together the last of the energy from his internal reserves. The runes etched into the earth shimmered beneath him.
This one was a simple seal, comparatively—but crucial.
A nationwide curse detection relay, linked to every city, every school, every known battleground.
It wouldn't prevent all deaths. But it would give people time.
And time meant survival.
That was enough.
The seal activated with a low hum, casting a faint gold ripple across the air. Done. One more thing off the checklist.
"Okay," Keitaro murmured to himself, glancing at the time. "That's the Sukuna problem handled, national security improved, and spiritual GPS up and running."
He blinked.
"...Oh shit. My wife's about to give birth."
And with that, the man who just destroyed the most dangerous curse in history vanished in a flash of teleportation, cursing under his breath and fumbling for his phone.
Fatherhood awaited.
And nothing was more terrifying than that.