Chapter 3: The Weight of Infinity
The explosion was deafening, a wet, concussive boom that sent a shockwave of displaced air rippling through the stagnant, rotting atmosphere of the Prison Realm.
Satoru Gojo's right arm—from the elbow down—ceased to exist.
There was no clean severance, no sharp cut of a blade. The localized spatial collapse he had accidentally triggered simply folded reality in upon itself, taking his radius, ulna, muscle tissue, veins, and pristine white skin, and crushing them into a singularity the size of a marble before detonating outward.
A horrific spray of crimson painted the calcified, grinning skull of a colossal skeleton sitting three yards away. Shards of his own bone shrapnel embedded themselves deep into the squelching, fleshy cubes of the prison's walls.
Gojo staggered backward, the sheer physical force of his own failed experiment knocking him off balance. He fell to his knees on the bed of bones, his breath catching in his throat.
The pain didn't arrive instantly. The human nervous system, even one enhanced by the Six Eyes, needed a fraction of a millisecond to process the catastrophic loss of a limb. But when it hit, it was a blinding, white-hot inferno that threatened to tear his consciousness in half.
He didn't scream. He merely gritted his teeth, a low, feral hiss escaping his lips as he gripped the mangled, violently bleeding stump of his right bicep with his left hand.
"Positive energy. Circulate. Output."
The command was subconscious. The golden, warm hum of Reverse Cursed Technique flared from his core, rushing through the pathways of his body like a swarm of bioluminescent fire ants. It hit the stump of his arm, and the grisly process of cellular regeneration began.
It was a hideous thing to witness. To the Six Eyes, he watched the atomic structure of his own flesh forcefully rewrite itself. Veins sprouted from the open wound like twisting crimson vines, knitting together in mid-air. Muscle fibers extruded, weaving over newly calcified bone that pushed out from the marrow. Tendons snapped into place, and finally, pale skin stretched over the newly formed limb, sealing the horrific injury in a cloud of evaporating, ozone-scented steam.
In less than three seconds, Gojo opened and closed his brand-new, perfectly intact right hand.
He stared at his palm, stained with the drying blood of its predecessor.
"Attempt number... I don't even know anymore," he rasped. His voice was raw, echoing in the pitch-black abyss.
He looked around. The immediate vicinity of his makeshift training ground was a slaughterhouse. The ancient, bleached bones of the Prison Realm's floor were now heavily coated in layers of his own dried, oxidizing blood. There were craters in the skeletons where his limbs had detonated, where spatial anomalies had carved out perfect, spherical chunks of matter.
How long had he been here?
He had stopped counting his heartbeats. It was a futile exercise. A week? A year? A decade? Physical time was a phantom concept here. He only knew time by the number of times he had butchered himself in the pursuit of his new technique. He had blown off his fingers, his hands, his forearms, and twice, he had accidentally collapsed the space too close to his torso, resulting in his lungs being crushed to paste.
The pain of dying, of constantly pushing his body to the absolute brink of annihilation and dragging it back with RCT, was taking a toll that standard exhaustion never could. It was a psychological grinding stone.
The earthly reader, the man who had once panicked over deadlines and paid rent in a mundane world, was completely gone. His name, his face, his old memories—they had been incinerated in the furnace of Satoru Gojo's mind. There was no longer a distinction. The reader's meta-knowledge of the manga was now simply Gojo's absolute foresight. The reader's horror at the blood and gore had been replaced by Gojo's clinical, sociopathic detachment from his own physical vessel.
I am Satoru Gojo. I am the Strongest.
But the strongest was currently sitting in a puddle of his own blood, failing to rewrite the laws of physics.
He wiped his bloodied right hand on the dark fabric of his uniform pants. The clothing, strangely, seemed to reset and repair itself alongside his body, bound to his innate domain's perception of his "self."
He leaned his back against a massive, curved ribcage and closed his eyes. The Six Eyes continued to feed him the ambient data of the Prison Realm—the pulsating meat walls, the stagnant cursed energy—but he ignored it. He retreated entirely into the theater of his own mind.
"Why did it collapse?" he muttered to himself, reviewing the mental playback of the explosion.
He had been trying to expand the millimeter of spatial stasis—his theoretical Limitless: Absolute Zero—to cover his entire forearm. He had perfectly balanced the cursed energy input, arresting the dynamic division of the Limitless and forcing the space into a static, unchanging lock.
For two seconds, his arm had been encased in a diamond-hard shell of frozen reality.
And then, the universe had noticed the anomaly.
"The Limitless is an assertion of a mathematical impossibility onto reality," Gojo theorized aloud, his brilliant mind rapidly calculating the failure point. "I bring the concept of infinity into the finite world. The world tolerates my neutral Infinity because it's a dynamic equation. It's an asymptote. It approaches zero, but it never reaches it. The universe can process an object infinitely slowing down."
He opened his glowing blue eyes, staring into the dark.
"But Absolute Zero is different. It's not an asymptote. It is a hard stop. It is the freezing of space-time coordinates. When I locked the space around my arm, I completely severed that space from the world's axis. I created a void in the universe's continuity."
He raised his newly regenerated hand, flexing the fingers.
"The universe abhors a void. The moment the spatial tension wavered by even a fraction of a percent, the surrounding, natural space violently rushed in to crush the anomaly, taking my arm with it. It's the same principle as Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue, but inverted and uncontrolled."
It was a problem of authority.
Sukuna's World-Cutting Slash worked because Sukuna essentially acted as an admin executing a command on the server of reality. He targeted a coordinate and deleted what was inside it.
To counter it, Gojo was trying to make the coordinate undeletable. He was trying to take the space around his body and say, 'This space no longer belongs to the world. It belongs to me. You cannot alter it.'
"A Domain without a barrier," Gojo whispered, the realization sending a cold thrill down his spine.
His eyes widened as the pieces began to snap together.
A Domain Expansion was the supreme art of jujutsu because it painted the user's innate domain onto the real world, trapping the opponent within a space where the user's rules were absolute. But a traditional Domain Expansion expanded outward. It created a separate pocket dimension layered over reality.
If Gojo cast Unlimited Void, he was vulnerable to domain clashes. If Sukuna used Malevolent Shrine, the open-barrier nature of Sukuna's domain would paint over Gojo's closed barrier from the outside, destroying it. That was canon. That was how the battle of Shinjuku began.
"But what if I don't expand the domain outward?" Gojo murmured, standing up, his boots crunching on the bloody bones. "What if I condense it inward?"
He began to pace, the intense, manic energy of a breakthrough vibrating in his chest.
"Domain Amplification wraps the user in a thin veil of their domain to neutralize an opponent's technique. But it forces me to turn off my innate technique. It's a defensive shield, but it leaves me unarmed. That's useless."
He stopped, his glowing blue eyes locking onto the dark horizon of the Prison Realm.
"I don't need Domain Amplification. I need a localized, passive, closed-barrier Domain Expansion that occupies the exact physical volume of my body and the millimeter of space above my skin. A Domain that doesn't target the enemy, but targets me. A Domain where the sure-hit effect isn't an attack..."
He brought his hands together, not in the one-handed sign of Unlimited Void, but pressing his palms flat against each other in a gesture of intense concentration.
"...but absolute spatial stasis. Limitless: Absolute Zero."
The theory was sound. It was terrifyingly, brutally sound.
If he could compress his innate domain into a skin-tight suit, he wouldn't be fighting the universe's natural laws—he would be rewriting them within a legally recognized jujutsu parameter. Sukuna's slash could target the "world" all it wanted. But the space occupying Satoru Gojo's body would no longer be part of the "world." It would be a sovereign territory, governed by the frozen, unbreakable rules of Absolute Zero. The slash would hit the boundary of his internal domain and simply cease to exist, unable to divide a space that refused the concept of division.
It was the ultimate defense. An impenetrable, invincible armor that even a space-cleaving dismantle could not bypass.
"The ultimate defense," Gojo laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "And the price of failure is blowing myself to bloody pieces until I get it right."
He separated his hands. The manic energy faded, replaced by a cold, suffocating dread.
The theory was one thing. The execution was an entirely different nightmare.
To achieve a microscopic, skin-tight Domain Expansion, he had to perform a feat of cursed energy manipulation that made Black Flash look like a parlor trick. He had to perfectly balance his immense cursed energy output, compress his expansive innate domain into a hyper-dense layer, and maintain the precise mathematical equation of Absolute Zero, all while simultaneously running Reverse Cursed Technique to keep his brain from literally melting under the processing load.
And he had to do it subconsciously. If it wasn't passive—if he had to actively think about it like a normal Domain Expansion—it would be useless. Sukuna's slash was too fast. The defense had to be intrinsic, replacing his neutral Infinity.
Gojo looked down at the puddle of his own blood.
"How much of myself am I going to have to destroy to build this?" he asked the silence.
The silence, as always, offered no answer.
But the memory of Megumi did.
The Six Eyes flashed, projecting the image of Megumi Fushiguro perfectly into Gojo's mind. The dark hair, the serious, brooding eyes that hid a fiercely compassionate soul. The boy he had bought from Toji Fushiguro. The boy he had raised. The boy whose body was currently hijacked by a prehistoric monster, his soul repeatedly crushed beneath the weight of an adaptation wheel.
Gojo felt a violent, physical ache in his chest. It wasn't the pain of a severed limb. It was the crushing, suffocating weight of love and failure.
"Sensei…"
He remembered Yuji Itadori's broken face. He remembered the blood on Nobara Kugisaki's face. He remembered Kento Nanami's burned, half-destroyed torso.
He remembered his own canon death. The smug satisfaction on Sukuna's face as the strongest sorcerer of the modern era fell like a puppet with its strings cut.
"As much as it takes," Gojo answered himself, his voice dropping an octave, losing all traces of humanity. It was the voice of a god stepping off his pedestal and descending into the forge. "I will break every bone in my body a million times over. I will drown in my own blood. I will tear my soul apart and stitch it back together until the seams are indestructible."
He stepped away from the bloody skeleton, moving to a clean patch of the macabre floor. He sat down, crossing his legs, assuming the lotus position.
He didn't need sleep. He didn't need food. He had an infinite battery and a time chamber where centuries could pass in the blink of an eye.
"Let's go," Gojo murmured.
He closed his eyes.
Attempt number one hundred thousand.
He began by mapping his innate domain. Normally, he would visualize the infinite cosmos, the sprawling, overwhelming void of information that comprised Unlimited Void. He saw the galaxies of data, the endless expanse of nothingness that overwhelmed his victims.
Now, he had to take that infinite cosmos and crush it down.
He visualized a star collapsing into a black hole. He drew the boundaries of his domain inward, pulling them from the horizon, past his arms, past his skin, until the 'barrier' of his domain rested exactly one millimeter above his epidermis.
The pressure was instantaneous and horrific.
Cursed energy was not meant to be compressed this densely without a release valve. His body began to tremble. Sweat—a biological impossibility in the stasis of the Prison Realm, born entirely of psychic stress—broke out across his forehead.
The Six Eyes whirred, processing the hyper-dense layer of cursed energy encasing his body. He was glowing. Not just the soft blue of standard cursed energy, but a blinding, terrifyingly intense indigo light that cast harsh, deep shadows across the fleshy walls of the prison.
"Now, apply the rule. Absolute Zero. Freeze the coordinates."
He injected the mathematical concept of spatial stasis into the condensed domain.
The reaction was catastrophic.
The millimeter of space above his skin didn't just freeze; it shattered. The conflict between the immense pressure of his condensed domain and the unyielding law of reality created a localized singularity centered directly on his chest.
Gojo didn't even have time to gasp.
His sternum caved in with the sound of a falling redwood. His ribcage splintered into a hundred jagged pieces, driving directly into his lungs and heart. Blood erupted from his mouth in a geyser, painting his chin and his white hair crimson. The spatial pressure crushed his internal organs into a horrific, pulpy mass.
He fell backward onto the bones, his body convulsing violently as he drowned in his own blood.
He was dying. If he had been outside the Prison Realm, he would have been dead in three seconds.
"RCT! MAXIMUM OUTPUT!"
The golden light exploded from his gut, battling the encroaching darkness of death. It was a race against his own fading consciousness. He forced the positive energy into his heart, physically rebuilding the myocardium while it was still trying to pump non-existent blood. He dissolved the bone shrapnel in his lungs, reforming the alveoli, knitting the sternum back together in a terrifying, agonizing display of hyper-regeneration.
He gasped, a horrific, wet sound, as his lungs filled with air instead of blood. He rolled onto his side, coughing violently, hacking up thick clots of dark red gore onto the white bones.
He lay there for a long time, staring at the fleshy cubes of the wall, his breath coming in ragged, painful wheezes.
The pain was a physical entity, a demon sitting on his chest, laughing at his hubris.
"Too dense," Gojo whispered, wiping the blood from his mouth with a trembling hand. "I made the barrier too thick. The universe reacted like I was trying to spawn a black hole."
He slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. He didn't take a break. He didn't allow himself a moment of respite. Rest was a luxury of the mortal world.
Attempt number one hundred thousand and one.
He closed his eyes. He condensed the domain again, but this time, he thinned the barrier. He made it infinitesimally thin, a membrane of reality so fragile it barely existed, yet so conceptually absolute it could not be bypassed.
He applied the rule. Absolute Zero.
His left leg, from the knee down, imploded.
The scream of spatial collapse was followed immediately by the sickening crunch of bone and the tearing of flesh.
Gojo hissed through his teeth, the golden light of RCT flaring immediately. He watched with a grim, detached fascination as his tibia and fibula re-extruded from the bloody stump, the muscles wrapping around them like a gruesome biology time-lapse.
"The rule was applied unevenly," he noted, his voice perfectly calm despite the sheer agony coursing through his nervous system. "The stasis held on the thigh, but the gradient shifted at the knee joint. Spatial consistency is required."
He stood up, testing his newly formed leg. It held his weight perfectly.
He sat back down.
Attempt number one hundred thousand and two.
His left shoulder detonated, taking a chunk of his collarbone with it.
He healed it.
Attempt number two hundred thousand.
He successfully encased his entire right arm in the stasis domain for five seconds. He stared at it. The air around the arm didn't shimmer; it was dead. It was visually distinct from his normal Infinity. It looked as though his arm had been cut out of a photograph and pasted onto the background of reality. It was fundamentally separate from the universe.
He smiled. And then, his concentration slipped by a fraction of a microsecond.
The arm didn't just explode; it twisted into a grotesque, helical spiral before violently tearing itself off his torso.
The blood loss was massive. He nearly passed out before the RCT could stem the arterial spray. When he finally regrew the arm, he found himself panting, his forehead resting against the cool, calcified surface of a giant skull.
"I'm treating this like a technique," Gojo murmured into the dark, his hyper-active brain dissecting the flaw. "I'm treating it like Blue or Red. I'm actively channeling it."
He lifted his head, his glowing blue eyes staring into the abyss.
"But the neutral Limitless isn't actively channeled. I tied it to my subconscious. I tasked the Six Eyes to automatically sort threats by mass, speed, and cursed energy, and to apply the Infinity only when necessary. It's a filter."
He ran a bloodstained hand through his stark white hair.
"Absolute Zero can't be a filter. It's an armor. It has to be absolute. Which means I can't rely on the Six Eyes to calculate when to turn it on. Sukuna's slash doesn't have a travel time; it just appears. If I wait for the Six Eyes to detect the spark of cursed energy, I'm already dead."
He had to leave the Absolute Zero domain on constantly. 24/7. Just like his Infinity.
But maintaining a hyper-condensed, spatial-stasis Domain Expansion perpetually was a biological and spiritual impossibility. It would require him to constantly fight the crushing pressure of the universe. Even with an infinite cursed energy battery, the processing power required by his brain would outpace his RCT. His brain would literally cook itself inside his skull in a matter of hours.
"How do I make it passive without frying my brain?"
He thought of the Culling Games. He thought of Kinji Hakari.
Hakari's domain, Idle Death Gamble, provided infinite cursed energy and automatic, reflexive RCT when he hit a jackpot. Hakari didn't have to think about healing; his body just did it because it was overflowing with positive energy.
"I need to rewrite the circuitry of my brain," Gojo realized, a terrifying, insane smile spreading across his face.
If he wanted to run a passive Domain Expansion, he couldn't just use RCT to heal the burnt-out neurons. He had to use RCT to permanently alter the structure of his own brain, expanding its processing capacity, forcing a physical evolution of his frontal lobe and his cursed energy pathways.
He had to destroy his own brain, carefully and methodically, and rebuild it stronger, over and over again, until it could handle the perpetual load of the Absolute Zero domain.
It was a form of self-mutilation so extreme, so inherently dangerous, that Shoko Ieiri would have vomited if she heard the theory. One wrong move, one microsecond lapse in RCT application, and he would lobotomize himself permanently. He would become a drooling, braindead vegetable trapped in the Prison Realm for eternity.
But Satoru Gojo was not bound by the fears of mortal men. He was the anomaly.
He reached up and pressed his fingers against his temples.
"Okay, Six Eyes," he whispered. "Let's do some neurosurgery."
He didn't start with the domain. He started with the brain.
He directed a microscopic, needle-thin beam of raw, destructive cursed energy directly into his own prefrontal cortex. He targeted the specific neural pathways responsible for cursed energy regulation and spatial calculation.
He fired.
The pain was not like a severed limb. It was a profound, existential agony. A sudden, terrifying loss of self. For a split second, Satoru Gojo forgot his own name. The world tilted, his vision blurred into a kaleidoscope of meaningless colors, and his motor functions ceased. He slumped sideways, his body going completely limp.
But the subconscious command remained.
Before the brain damage could become permanent, a massive surge of golden RCT flooded his skull. It didn't just repair the destroyed neural pathways; it forced them to regrow thicker, more complex, capable of handling a marginally higher load of cursed energy processing.
Gojo gasped, his eyes snapping open. He convulsed, vomit rising in his throat, but his empty stomach offered nothing. He lay on the bones, trembling violently, a thin stream of blood leaking from his nose and ears.
"One," he choked out, his vision slowly swimming back into focus.
He pushed himself back into a sitting position. He wiped the blood from his face.
He raised his fingers to his temples again.
He fired the needle of cursed energy. He destroyed a slightly larger portion of his brain.
The darkness claimed him. The golden light dragged him back.
"Two."
He fired again.
"Three."
In the absolute isolation of the Prison Realm, the concept of humanity was entirely stripped away. The earthly reader who had reincarnated into this godlike vessel finally, truly understood the horrific isolation of Satoru Gojo.
To be the strongest meant to constantly walk the tightrope over the abyss, knowing that no one could catch you if you fell. But now, he wasn't just walking the tightrope; he was setting it on fire, cutting the strands, and forcing himself to learn how to fly before he hit the bottom.
He destroyed his brain. He healed his brain.
Attempt number five hundred thousand.
The blood flow from his nose, eyes, and ears was constant now. His pristine uniform was soaked in it. The white hair was stained a deep, rusty crimson. The skeletal wasteland around him looked like the epicenter of a massacre.
He didn't stop.
Attempt number one million.
He lost track of the timeline. He didn't know if he had been in the box for a month or a century. He only knew the cycle. Pain. Darkness. Light. Evolution.
His mind was becoming something entirely alien. The sheer processing power he was forcefully carving into his own gray matter was elevating his perception of cursed energy to a tier that not even Sukuna possessed. He could see the "sparks" of cursed techniques before they even formed in the gut. He could see the microscopic indentations that mass left on the fabric of space-time.
He was achieving true enlightenment, not through a near-death experience, but through millions of agonizing, self-inflicted deaths.
Attempt number two million.
Gojo lowered his hands from his temples.
He sat perfectly still. He was covered in blood, his clothes ragged and torn from the countless localized spatial explosions he had endured during the physical testing phase. He looked like a demon dragged from the deepest pit of hell.
But his eyes…
The Six Eyes were no longer just glowing. They were completely, terrifyingly serene. They were the eyes of a Buddha who had conquered suffering by completely absorbing it. The chaotic, overwhelming flood of atomic information that had nearly driven him mad upon his arrival in the box was now a calm, perfectly organized stream of data.
He had done it. His brain had been structurally and magically rewritten. He now possessed the passive processing capacity to maintain a hyper-condensed Domain Expansion indefinitely.
"Let's see the culmination," Gojo whispered, his voice smooth, devoid of pain, echoing with a chilling authority.
He didn't move his hands. He didn't form a hand sign.
He simply breathed out.
The air within the Prison Realm violently shuddered. The pulsating, fleshy cubes of the walls seemed to recoil, the giant pythons of veins shrinking back as if terrified of the entity residing within them.
Domain Expansion: Limitless: Absolute Zero.
It was entirely invisible to the naked eye. But to the Six Eyes, it was the most beautiful, terrifying thing in existence.
Exactly one millimeter above his skin, tracing the exact contours of his body, a perfect, unbreakable barrier of frozen space formed. It did not hum. It did not glow. It was an absolute void in the universe's continuity.
Inside that millimeter, Satoru Gojo was the sovereign god. Outside that millimeter, the universe existed. But the two could never, ever touch.
To test it, Gojo raised his right hand. He formed the sign for Cursed Technique Lapse: Blue.
Normally, generating a sphere of destructive gravity point-blank would violently interact with his neutral Infinity, requiring careful calibration.
He spawned the Blue sphere directly against his own chest.
The magnetic, crushing force of the vacuum tried to pull his body into the singularity. It exerted enough gravitational pressure to crush a skyscraper into a golf ball.
The Blue sphere ground against the invisible millimeter of Absolute Zero.
Nothing happened.
The gravitational pull hit the stasis barrier and simply... stopped. It couldn't pull the space, because the space was locked. It couldn't bypass the barrier, because the barrier was a closed-domain boundary. The sheer destructive force of Gojo's own technique was completely, utterly nullified without him having to expend a single ounce of conscious effort or defensive cursed energy.
He dispelled the Blue.
A slow, genuine smile spread across his bloodstained face. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated triumph.
"You cut the world, Sukuna," Gojo said softly, staring at his hands. "But I am no longer part of your world."
He had achieved the impossible. He had created a perfect, flawless counter to the World-Cutting Slash. If Sukuna targeted the coordinates that Gojo occupied, the slash would hit the Absolute Zero domain and fail to divide the space. It would be like trying to cut a diamond with a wet paper towel.
The relief that washed over him was staggering. The suffocating anxiety of his canon fate—the image of his bisected torso lying in the dirt—finally evaporated. He had broken the script. He had rewritten his destiny.
But the work was not done.
Defending against the World-Cutting Slash was only half the battle. If he simply blocked Sukuna's attacks, it would be a stalemate. Sukuna still had Mahoraga. Sukuna still had the Ten Shadows. He had an open-barrier domain that would ruthlessly bombard Gojo's students if he couldn't kill the King of Curses fast enough.
"If Absolute Zero is the shield," Gojo mused, pushing himself up to his feet, "then I need a sword that cannot be adapted to."
He looked around the skeletal wasteland. He had spent perceived centuries mastering the ultimate defense. He felt no fatigue, no hunger. His battery was still perfectly full.
He wiped the dried blood from his face, his white hair falling perfectly back into place as the passive domain instantly cleaned him, filtering out the grime and blood on a sub-atomic level.
"Mahoraga adapts to phenomena," Gojo analyzed, beginning to pace again, his movements fluid, carrying a new, terrifying grace. "If I hit it with Blue, it adapts to pulling forces. If I hit it with Red, it adapts to pushing forces. If I hit it with Limitless entirely, it adapts to the concept of spatial division."
In canon, Gojo had destroyed Mahoraga with an improvised, massive Hollow Purple. But it had been a gamble. A desperate, chaotic move that had nearly killed him in the process.
He didn't want a gamble. He wanted an execution.
"To kill Mahoraga before it can adapt, I have to hit it with a phenomenon that it cannot process. An attack that doesn't just damage, but completely erases the concept of its existence."
He raised his hands, looking at his palms.
"Hollow Purple is imaginary mass. It erases matter. But what if I apply the principles of my new internal domain to an offensive technique?"
His mind, operating at its newly evolved, terrifyingly efficient capacity, immediately began to run the calculations.
"If Absolute Zero freezes space to create an unbreakable shield... what happens if I create a localized sphere of Absolute Zero, and then violently force it to expand?"
The theory was devastating. If he locked a pocket of space into an unchangeable state, and then forcefully expanded that locked space, it wouldn't just push matter out of the way. It would shatter the surrounding reality. It would create a localized spatial tear, an area where the universe itself was completely broken and had to instantly delete anything within the tear to correct the anomaly.
"A spatial deletion," Gojo whispered, his eyes widening. "Not imaginary mass. But actual, conceptual deletion. Mahoraga can't adapt to it, because there is no 'phenomenon' to adapt to. The space it occupies simply ceases to exist."
It was a technique that would make Hollow Purple look like a child's toy.
"Alright," Gojo said, his voice ringing out in the absolute dark of the Prison Realm. "Let's build a new gun."
He didn't know how much time he had left before the seal was broken. It could be days in the outside world. It could be minutes.
But as he stood in the center of the macabre wasteland, glowing with an ethereal, godlike power, Satoru Gojo was no longer afraid of the dark.