"What a disgusting taste."
Ryder frowned slightly and grabbed a bottle of cola from the table, using it like mouthwash.
If he actually believed that invitation to "repair cursed tools," he wouldn't deserve the strength he had today.
If his abilities hadn't been perfectly suited to counter that skull, he'd already be that thing's prisoner by now.
No matter the world, only power was the one true authority.
Ryder was, as he'd always said, lazy. He hated trouble. So he only ever used the simplest methods to solve problems.
The pristine white skull had been completely drained of cursed energy, reduced to pale dust. A breeze drifted through the window, and the dust scattered instantly, vanishing as if it had never existed.
For some reason, though, Ryder's mind felt clearer than before.
As if the souls of those the skull had tortured were now lending him strength.
"Three Grade 1 cursed spirits. Worth the trip to Osaka. It's been a while since I went back."
Grade 1 curses rarely manifested in a small place like Sugisawa. For the sake of Gluttonous Devourer's progress, he didn't mind visiting that mysterious organization's base.
He'd considered the possibility of deception. After all, Grade 1 curses weren't exactly common, and capturing one alive required real skill.
He wasn't sure if they actually had the power or means to do it. But it didn't matter.
If they couldn't produce Grade 1 curses, draining the cursed energy from an entire organization would provide roughly the same progress anyway.
As for their strength or what kind of curse users they had hidden away, he couldn't care less.
Just like Gojo said.
He was invincible.
Ryder leaned back into the sofa, lazy and drowsy as if half-asleep.
His fingers traced over the pendant at his neck.
As if recalling some unpleasant memory, a flash of barely concealed violence flickered in his eyes.
"Zenin family. I hope you don't provoke me."
Meanwhile, Osaka. Beneath a supermarket.
"AHHHH! How dare he!"
A roar erupted from a pitch-black chamber.
The voice carried boundless resentment and a bone-chilling rasp, like two rusted sheets of metal grinding together.
In the darkness, a pale flame ignited, casting ghostly light across the room.
But the flame brought no warmth. Instead, everything grew colder. More sinister.
Within that pallid glow, countless agonized faces surfaced, as if innumerable tortured souls were being burned for all eternity.
Never to find peace.
"What are you raging about now, old man?" A youthful voice drifted through the chamber, laced with mockery.
The moment the words fell, the pale flame surged violently, illuminating everything.
Darkness vanished.
But what emerged was far more horrifying.
Human skins plastered the walls in chaotic patterns. Countless curses intertwined like tangled roots. Piles of severed heads formed small hills. Scattered bones covered the floor in grotesque, artistic arrangements, like a painting straight from hell.
Though the chamber was small, it now seemed as vast as a wasteland.
Atop the tallest mound of heads sat a man cloaked entirely in black, trembling uncontrollably.
Though it was only part of his soul, the pain synchronized perfectly with his main body.
He had long forgotten what pain felt like. Yet now, he trembled not only from the agony of his soul being torn apart.
What he could not accept was this:
He had felt it.
From that ignorant boy.
Fear.
An emotion he had discarded long ago. An emotion he despised.
It had returned.
"My cursed clone was killed!"
"You've got nine bodies. Losing one's no big deal," said a man in a white kimono sitting atop another mound of heads. He wore a fox mask and spoke with the lazy arrogance of a street thug.
White flames flickered around him, proof of his overwhelming power.
"I'll eat him alive! I'll devour him!"
Countless wailing spirits emerged behind the black-robed man, crying out as if recounting their suffering.
His voice came through clenched teeth, like a wounded wolf—violent and mad. The air thickened with killing intent, turning the already sinister space into something resembling the underworld itself.
"Fine by me. As long as he repairs the Kusanagi Sword, you can do whatever you want with him afterward. Though I have to say, it's strange the Zenin family would let a genius like that leave." The fox-masked youth waved his kimono sleeve lazily. Behind the mask, his eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Doesn't matter. Lord Yamata's revival is more important than anything else."
He paused.
"Ryder Zenin. Don't disappoint me."