The laughter eventually died.
Mahito lounged back against the gilded throne that gleamed in the middle of Shibuya's ruined plaza, its absurd size only highlighting his mockery of human ambition.
His voice no longer echoed through the burning district. The flames licked at the bones of ruined towers, his army shuffled endlessly below, and yet silence sat atop his shoulders like a crown.
His grin faded into a quieter, more contemplative expression. For the first time in a long while, he let his thoughts drift backward.
When had he stopped pretending?
When had he discarded the flimsy weight of human compassion and cast it off like a rag too soaked with blood to be of use?
He remembered flashes of his first life. The endless corridors of luxury hotels, the private jets where executives whispered about who would vanish next, the velvet-draped rooms where Hollywood stars begged for their sins to be erased in silence.
He had been their cleaner, the shadow that stalked the aftermath of depravity. His knife cut throats, his hands squeezed until breathing stopped, his gun barked in places that would never make the evening news.
He had been efficient. Professional. And above all else, detached.
The richest people in existence, politicians, moguls, men and women who thought themselves untouchable, had placed their lives in his hands.
He cleaned their messes, erased their witnesses, and traded every life taken for another step up the ladder of survival. He never cared for the morality of it. Morality had no price tag, no buyer. But his services did.
For a time, he had sought balance. Retribution. Perhaps even an excuse to call himself human. He remembered the orphanage he built with blood money, stuffed full of children whose parents had been erased by his hands.
He had paid for their food, their beds, their clothes. All with money made through the execution of their loved ones. He had even convinced himself it was charity.
But even then, he had not cared for them. He never looked into their eyes with warmth. To him, they had been props, a gesture to soothe some whisper of conscience, nothing more. He had always known it, though he buried the thought beneath layers of arrogance.
His compassion had always been a mask, nothing more. The orphanage he built had been a gesture for his conscience, but never for the children themselves.
He had never looked at them as lives worth protecting, only as loose ends contained in one place. In truth, he had already considered what he would do if one of them grew older and began asking questions about their parents, if suspicion ever turned toward him.
He would have erased them too, just as cleanly as their mothers and fathers. That was the truth of his humanity. Charity only when convenient, affection only when it kept him untouchable.
He had only ever cared for himself.
He sold his very soul to the highest bidder when it meant a better life. Every scar, every broken or unbroken bone, every ounce of strength was a product to be auctioned. A commodity. His only loyalty was to his own survival.
And now, as a curse, nothing had changed.
If anything, he was finally honest.
Compassion had bled out of him entirely, washed away in the tide of malice that birthed his soul anew. He looked down on the humans crawling through Shibuya and saw cattle, future soldiers, puppets waiting for the strings.
He had no guilt in twisting them, in breaking them apart to make something better. He was helping more people as a curse than he ever had as a man, because at least now there was no mask of altruism.
He no longer catered to the world. No more pandering to the fragile sensibilities of the powerful. No more bowing to circumstances. His entire existence was unshackled.
Now, there were no circumstances. No clients. No higher authority to fear or appease.
There was only him, and the throne, and the crown he had forged out of terror.
Mahito leaned his head against the armrest, his eyes gleaming with something sharper than joy.
"Whoever said that being at the top is lonely," he muttered, a smile crawling back across his face, "was never at the top to begin with."
Loneliness? What a foolish word. When everyone crawled at your feet, when armies obeyed your whim, when the world bent under your fingertips, who had the time to feel lonely?
Companionship was the worry of the weak. He needed no equal. He needed no partner. His laughter had been proof enough. He could revel in his kingdom alone, and the echoes of his voice would still fill every corner.
The flames shifted, throwing golden light across his throne as his legion moved in unison, a tide of grotesque bodies created in his image. Each was a reflection of his will, proof that his reign was only growing. He did not need others. An army of drones with strands of consciousness was enough.
He was the King of Curses in this era. Not Sukuna. Not Gojo. Him.
Mahito leaned lazily against his throne, his smile returning as if it had never left. His thoughts had wandered, but his conviction was as clear as the flames that surrounded him.
The top was not lonely.
The top was freedom.
And he would never give it up. Not for as long as he lived.
-
-
-
Far from Shibuya's inferno, two sorcerers walked in silence. The weight of failure pressed on their shoulders heavily than the heat they had left behind.
Yuki Tsukumo's steps were steady, though her eyes narrowed faintly at the memory of Mahito's mocking laughter. Okkotsu Yuta followed at her side, his hand lingering near the hilt of his blade, though there was no enemy left to strike.
It had gone poorly. About as poorly as it could.
Yuki finally spoke, her voice dry. "That was a waste of breath."
Yuta exhaled, the tension in his chest spilling into words. "He felt… stronger than Gojo." His tone was quiet, almost reluctant. "Not just his cursed energy, but the way it pressed down. It felt suffocating."
Yuki let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "You're still young, kid. Gojo and Mahito, when you see them relaxed, you see masks. Their true colors show only when they're fighting to the death. That pressure you felt? It's just a shadow of what they really are."
Yuta glanced at her, uneasy. "If that was only a shadow, then how do we fight someone like that?"
Her smile was humorless. "The same way we always have. You prepare yourself for a fight to the death. You don't think about odds. You don't think about winning or losing. You think about fighting until your last breath, and making every breath count."
They walked in silence for a few more steps, the echo of Mahito's throne room laughter still clinging to their ears.
Yuki sighed. "You know what's pathetic? We've turned into the very thing we hated. Like the old council, begging the strongest for help. Acting out of fear instead of conviction."
Her gaze hardened, though the bitterness lingered in her voice. "We came crawling to him because we were scared of Sukuna. Just like the council would have done. I let myself believe that he might have some shred of humanity left. That was my mistake."
She shook her head. "He wiped his ass with that feeling before I even finished speaking."
Yuta frowned, his voice tinged with guilt. "I should've said more. Or stood my ground harder. Maybe-"
"Don't blame yourself," Yuki interrupted, cutting him off. "That curse doesn't listen to anyone. He never did."
They walked a little further, their footsteps crunching against the ruined asphalt.
Finally, Yuki spoke again, her tone sharper now. "Enough self-pity. The situation's simple. Kenjaku is moving his plan forward. Yuji is missing. Sukuna's last finger is gone. Mahito's off the table, not because we want it, but because he chose it. That leaves us one option."
Yuta looked at her warily. "…Prepare for a fight."
She nodded. "A fight to the death. With who, we don't know yet. Maybe Sukuna. Maybe Kenjaku. Maybe even Mahito. But that's the only way this ends."
Her words hung in the air, grim and heavy.
Yuta's grip tightened on his sword. He hated how true they sounded.