Chapter 85 — The Peak Battle Approaches
"I told you, didn't I? It's just a cursed spirit—nothing to it."
Sheathing his blade, Zen'in Shinsuke watched as Dagon's body dissolved into a swirl of dark smoke, then shrugged lightly.
"Wasn't much of a big shot anyway."
"Gulp…"
Fushiguro Megumi swallowed hard, releasing his Domain. His body sagged with exhaustion, his legs nearly giving out.
But the fatigue couldn't compare to the shock still rippling through his chest.
He had never truly felt his uncle's presence before—never this crushing, suffocating force of absolute superiority.
Now, he finally understood what all those cursed spirits must feel when facing Gojo-sensei.
This is it, he thought. This is what it feels like to stand before a being from another dimension.
Special Grades were one kind of monster.
But his uncle—and Gojo-sensei—were an entirely different species of existence altogether.
"Zen'in-sensei's strength is still as absurd as ever," Nanami muttered.
He couldn't help the note of awe in his voice. Back when he was still a student, Shinsuke had occasionally taken him along on missions—missions that ended quickly, brutally, and always with Shinsuke unscathed.
No cursed spirit, no matter how strong, ever survived his fists or blades.
"You've gotten even more of a freak than before," said Naobito, giving Shinsuke a sideways glance filled with both respect and melancholy.
This man should have been the pride of the Zen'in clan.
But fate had its way of twisting even the best paths into something unpredictable.
"Master! That blade just now—!"
Maki's eyes practically sparkled.
Her admiration for her teacher's strength was one thing—but the weapon he wielded, that majestic blade—was another story entirely. It had to be a Special Grade Cursed Tool, right?
"Stick to your Playful Cloud for now," Shinsuke said lazily. "If you want something like this, go ask your sister to make it for you."
After all, the Playful Cloud she used was already stolen from Toji. Taking another would just be rude.
"Fine… but do you really think Mai could forge something like that?"
Maki frowned, knowing full well her twin's ability.
Her sister's construction technique was impressive—but producing a Special Grade weapon was near impossible for her current skill level.
Before anyone could respond—
"...Dagon. Dead, is he?"
A small, stocky figure emerged from the shadows of the station corridor, draped in a shaggy green cloak.
He moved slowly, face expressionless, until he reached the patch of floor where Dagon had vanished.
Kneeling, he gathered a faint lump of remaining flesh in his palm and watched it dissipate into smoke.
"Then it's my turn," Jogo murmured quietly, his tone calm and eerily detached.
"Hey—hey, wait a damn second."
Naobito's face twitched as he edged closer to Shinsuke.
"This one's different," he muttered. "Way stronger than that octopus freak."
The oppressive cursed energy rolling off Jogo was unmistakable.
Nanami, Maki, and even Naobito instinctively retreated behind Shinsuke—their battered bodies in no shape to fight something like this.
Against this monster, they didn't stand a chance.
Only one person here could face him head-on.
"Even without humans," Jogo said softly, staring at the vanishing smoke, "our souls will still return to the cycle.
We'll meet again, on the wastelands a hundred years from now."
He turned from his fallen comrade's remains and fixed his molten gaze on Shinsuke.
"Dagon was your doing. Hanami too—he was exorcised by you, wasn't he?"
"So what if they were?"
Shinsuke smirked faintly, tilting his head. "What now, firepot head? You here for revenge?"
"Die."
Without another word, Jogo vanished from sight—reappearing right in front of Shinsuke, his flaming hand pressed against the man's abdomen.
A scorching surge of cursed heat began to swell in his palm—
—but before the flames could even ignite, his arm burst apart.
Chunks of flesh spun through the air, sizzling as purple ichor sprayed out like molten sparks.
The attack had failed before it began.
Jogo's body recoiled, his eyes wide in disbelief.
In Shinsuke's hand gleamed a short, reverse-edged dagger, its curved blade still humming from the strike.
None of them had even seen him move.
Looking down at Jogo, Zen'in Shinsuke grinned darkly.
"Ready to go meet your dead friends?"
"—Shhht!"
In an instant, Jogo blurred backward, putting more than ten meters between them. His severed arm regrew in a flash, molten rock sealing the wound as he raised his guard.
That strike—he hadn't even seen it coming.
One blink, and his arm was gone.
I can't let him get close, he thought sharply.
Every report he'd gathered said the same thing: no cursed energy, but godlike physical power.
An unstoppable close-combat monster.
The only chance of survival was to keep him at range.
Jogo's palms came together, gathering an immense surge of cursed energy. The heat rolling off his hands warped the air itself.
He would burn everything—leave nothing but ash.
Then—
Thump. Thump.
Everyone froze.
For just a heartbeat, an unholy, suffocating pressure swept through Shibuya.
Jogo stopped cold. His single eye widened.
"That presence… Sukuna!"
Then he frowned, focusing. "No… not him directly—his finger."
Realization struck like lightning.
The original plan flashed through his mind, and he immediately abandoned his attack, spinning away toward the source of that sinister aura.
Shinsuke watched him go without moving.
"…Smart move," he murmured.
Jogo's retreat wasn't cowardice—it was calculation.
A cursed spirit who could prioritize the greater plan over his own pride.
If he'd been born human, he might've gone far, Shinsuke thought. Too bad he's already doomed.
"Uncle! What was that just now!?"
Megumi's voice trembled slightly. Everyone had felt it—the monstrous, malevolent energy that had briefly brushed against their souls.
This Shibuya Incident had spiraled far beyond expectations.
They hadn't even managed to free Gojo yet, and now this.
"Ah, that?" Shinsuke twisted his neck with a lazy pop, a knowing smile curving his lips.
"That was Sukuna."
The name alone chilled the air.
He looked back at the group.
"Listen up. Tell every sorcerer still active in the area to fall back at least five hundred meters. Now. The real fight's about to start."
"What about the civilians?" Nanami asked grimly.
"There are still people hiding in the buildings. If we all withdraw—"
"What can we do?" Shinsuke interrupted, shrugging.
"They'll have to fend for themselves. You think Sukuna gives a damn about human lives?"
His tone was flat, mercilessly practical.
Sukuna's appearance wasn't part of any plan, and he certainly wouldn't be bound by the fragile pact he made with Itadori.
"Go," he said. "Better they die than all of you join them."
Nanami exhaled slowly. "He's right. This is beyond our control now."
Even if he wanted to protect everyone, there was no logic in throwing away more lives.
Their priority was survival—and preparing for whatever came next.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm not staying to get turned into barbecue," Naobito grumbled, clutching his injured arm. "Seventy-one years I've had this hand—might still be able to reattach it."
"Cheh."
Maki snorted but followed. She hated to admit it, but staying would only get in Shinsuke's way.
"Master… please win," she muttered under her breath as she left with the others, helping organize the retreat.
Within minutes, the surrounding sorcerers began pulling back, clearing several city blocks.
---
Meanwhile, Jogo arrived at the source of Sukuna's aura—
and found two young women crouched beside an unconscious Itadori Yūji… feeding him spicy chicken feet.
"Die," Jogo said simply, raising his hand.
A torrent of fire erupted.
Nana and Mimiko barely had time to react—Nana yanked Mimiko close, phone in hand, activating her projection technique as flames engulfed them.
Jogo didn't bother checking if they lived. His gaze was locked on Itadori.
The marks on the boy's face—the faint cursed tattoos—were fading away.
He remembered what "Getō Suguru" had told him:
"As Sukuna's vessel, the boy has limits. A single finger takes time to absorb. Force him past that threshold—and Sukuna will seize the body himself."
A slow, burning grin spread across Jogo's molten face.
Reaching into his tattered cloak, he pulled out a small cloth pouch—ten blackened, mummified fingers hanging from the drawstring.
"Perfect," he rasped. "Let's see the King of Curses wake up again."