Geto smiled.
The rain came down harder, beating against the wilted flowers and grass, beating against the shattered ruins, beating against the congealed bloodstains. Weeds grew wild. Daisies bloomed defiantly.
Suguru Geto.
Once a classmate of Nanami Kira and Satoru Gojo. Aside from Gojo—Kira excluded—the only student to be classified as a Special Grade sorcerer while still enrolled. His Innate Technique was Cursed Spirit Manipulation: the ability to subjugate any number of Cursed Spirits, with no upper limit.
Also the academy's greatest traitor. After a certain incident, he betrayed the school, slaughtered an entire village, and—filial to the last—killed his own parents. A stain upon the entire jujutsu world.
Wasn't he dead?
That was the first thought in Kira's mind.
The last time he'd seen Geto was a year ago, during the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons—that catastrophic event that shook the jujutsu world to its foundations. Geto had been killed.
Kira could still vaguely recall the atmosphere during the Night Parade. A great many sorcerers had been mobilized:
Satoru Gojo: I will defend the honor of sorcerers—because I am Satoru Gojo.
Yuta Okkotsu: Rika's smile is the one thing I must never betray.
Masamichi Yaga: I will restore this academy's glory. I will not fail in my duty.
Nanami Kira: Clock out by eight and I'll call it a win.
It was during that battle that Geto—attempting to seize the Special Grade Cursed Spirit "Rika" from beside Yuta Okkotsu—was killed by a furious Gojo. Kira had been nearby, diligently slacking off, and had seen everything clearly.
How...?
But Kira had no bandwidth to think about it now. His condition was dire:
His left hand had been cleanly severed—the cut perfectly smooth. Without Reverse Cursed Technique suppressing the wound, the flesh around the stump would have already necrotized. Three ribs broken, snapped by Sukuna's kick. Multiple deep gashes across his abdomen, some deep enough to expose pink viscera. His back was the worst of all—even with cursed energy shielding, the entire surface was a field of dead tissue, crisscrossed with blade marks that cut to bone.
Catastrophic.
He squeezed the Arrow in his pocket.
"Kira, eat the fingers. Only then can you truly become a curse. Sorcerers... humans are all hypocrites. Surely you've seen that by now?"
"...Eating them won't give me diarrhea, will it?"
Kira eyed the rotting, purpled fingers with visible distaste.
"Nanami. I know what your reservations are."
Geto approached under a paper parasol, smiling gently.
"You're afraid of becoming a mindless, soulless beast."
"But don't worry. Apart from Yuji Itadori, you are—"
He tilted his head, meeting Kira's gaze evenly:
"—the second vessel capable of bearing Sukuna's fingers. You already know this."
"The difference between you and Itadori is that you defeated Sukuna in direct combat. He can no longer overtake your body. You are the single most qualified person in the world to carry him."
"At most, your personality shifts slightly—your sense of self remains intact. A greater appetite for thrills, a stronger urge to conquer. Hardly a loss—and in exchange, immense power."
"Doesn't that sound like a good deal?"
Yes. Kira knew this to be true.
Long ago, back in Kyoto, right after he'd defeated Hasegawa Kaede and picked up the fingers from beside her body, he had seen Sukuna's phantom.
That endless mountain of corpses. The rivers pooled from blood. And seated atop the dead—
A face identical to his own.
And the words Sukuna had spoken then:
Eat them. Eat them. Suppressing yourself like this all the time must be so boring.
Sukuna never deigned to lure anyone into swallowing his fingers. He considered it an insult. And any creature that consumed his fingers would simply evolve into a higher, more deranged curse—unable and unworthy of housing his soul.
Only two people had ever been worthy of his enticement: Itadori and Nanami Kira.
Only they qualified as vessels for the descent of the King of Curses.
This was the purpose behind everything Geto and his allies had orchestrated. The so-called King-Selection Battle was a contest to identify the worthy vessel.
If Yuji Itadori emerged victorious, they would crown Sukuna as king.
If Nanami Kira emerged victorious, they would force-feed him Sukuna's fingers—turning him into a curse and usurping the King of Curses' power.
That was why Geto had said:
Whether it's Sukuna or Nanami Kira—whoever survives tonight will lead us Cursed Spirits into a new world.
Kira stared at the ground in silence.
"Kira. Eat them. Don't make us do it for you."
Jogo's deep voice rumbled. His enormous pupil gleamed with something faintly unhinged:
"Humans are arrogant, sycophantic creatures. They preach righteousness and virtue, but it's nothing but window dressing. Only Cursed Spirits deserve to be masters of this world."
"I know you still sympathize with hu—"
"Fine. I'll do it."
"..."
Kira nodded, his expression earnest. "I have just one question."
He pressed his remaining hand against his severed stump, quietly circulating Reverse Cursed Technique, and locked eyes with Jogo:
"In your line of work... do you get weekends off?"
Jogo's solemn expression froze. He tilted his head. His enormous eye flickered with confusion as he seriously considered the question.
After a long pause, he ventured:
"I... suppose so?"
"Not bad. I'm in."
Kira nodded. He reached into his coat lining and produced the fingers. Thirteen dark-red fingers arranged in a row, looking for all the world like sausages grilled until they split. Slowly, slowly—
He tossed them off the edge of the staircase.
This was the summit, a hundred meters up. The fingers scattered on the wind, tumbling toward the abyss, picking up speed, shrinking to specks on the horizon.
"Sorry about that. Butterfingers."
Kira's expression didn't flicker.
Jogo's face shifted. His pupil dilated. The volcano atop his head flared hotter.
In the next instant, he shattered the stairs beneath his feet and vanished, wind howling in his wake, rocketing toward the falling fingers.
Kira seized the opening. A coin arced toward Geto and detonated on impact.
He vaulted the railing and jumped, Killer Queen materializing beside him, arms wrapping around Kira's body, cradling his head.
Mahito moved to pursue—and a tiny, battered tank smashed through his left leg. Sheer Heart Attack, scarred from head to treads.
Kira had left it behind.
He and Killer Queen tumbled down the mountainside. Tree branches, jutting rocks, the uneven cliff face—they tore across Kira's cheeks, slashed across his body.
His consciousness was fading. His cursed energy guttering out.
Every impact against the cliff wall threatened to shatter his organs. Blood poured from wounds that hadn't yet closed. The injuries Reverse Cursed Technique had been holding in check burst open again, worse than before.
A branch raked across his abdomen, opening a wide gash that connected with the existing wounds, forming a single cavernous hole. His intestines nearly spilled free, soft and slack.
His consciousness was fading.
They fell faster and faster. Blood trailed behind them down the mountain, and from a distance, it looked like a crimson dragon winding its way down from the peak.
Kira had chosen his trajectory well. A stream waited below—but from this height, hitting water was no different from hitting concrete.
He gathered his last reserves of cursed energy across his back, forming a thin barrier, and slammed into the mountain creek.
Boom!
Like a bomb dropping. The water erupted upward, atomizing into mist, hanging for one suspended second before falling back down with the fine rain.
Splash. Splash.
Blood spread slowly from the center of the pool, expanding outward like a drop of red ink in water.
Nanami Kira floated on the surface. Every part of his body had gone numb. His head wasn't his head. His feet weren't his feet. Weightless, adrift on the black water—a speck of plankton drifting through the cosmos.
He clutched the Arrow. His eyelids grew heavier.
What tormented him was this: even now, he felt no despair.
The Arrow wouldn't go in.
Because he knew that piercing himself with the Arrow would save him. The Arrow was his hope—but the Arrow could only bestow its power in a state of absolute despair...
He could never pierce himself with the Arrow.
It was a paradox.
—
But he had given everything.
He had done his best. He'd thrown himself off the mountain. He'd never abandoned hope. He believed in his great luck, believed that fate stood on his side.
He'd killed Sukuna. He'd killed Todo. He'd killed Gakuganji... He'd killed so many.
Everyone who tried to destroy his peaceful life.
He had no concept of the value of life. For his dream, he could abandon anything, sever any attachment. He suppressed his instincts, striving to make himself happy, striving toward a stable, ordinary existence.
Years ago, when Nanami Kira was still a child, he too had wondered about the meaning of his life, fantasized about what he'd become when he grew up.
Every day he trimmed his fingernails. Every day he straightened his clothes, carefully buttoned every button, knotted his tie, went to work without fuss, kept his nature in check.
Nanami Kira was not a person who enjoyed effort. He considered effort pointless—a waste of energy.
But for the sake of a peaceful life, he gave everything he had.
As he himself once said: Precisely because life is ordinary, one must live it with care—meticulously, and without compromise.
Was there truly such a thing as absolute despair in this world?
A glass of warm milk before bed. Eight hours of sleep every night. Eating on schedule...
And yet he couldn't protect even these insignificant things—these quiet routines.
More hair on the pillow each morning. His favorite sandwich disappearing from the convenience store. His nails growing too long again. Watching ordinary, taken-for-granted things vanish one by one. Watching a peaceful, uneventful life crumble before his eyes, piece by piece.
These small despairs, stacked together, were what truly broke a person.
And the most despairing thing of all:
Still hoping. Refusing to go numb.
Splash.
Kira felt someone haul him from the water and hurl him onto the bank.
He hit the ground. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He lay crumpled in the mud as the downpour hammered against him.
"Kira-kun~ You really don't know what's good for you."
Mahito cocked his head, the stitched seams of his face stretching into a delighted grin. "So naughty~"
He tossed what he'd been holding. It landed beside Kira.
It was Junpei. His eyes were hollow. His entire body trembled.
"He's your friend, isn't he? If you keep misbehaving~"
Mahito clapped his hands cheerfully. He pressed his right palm down on the top of Junpei's head.
Rrrip. Junpei's anguished features ballooned grotesquely. His body convulsed and swelled, rupturing through his own clothing, becoming a massive, writhing larva of flesh.
Kira watched in silence. He saw the tears at the corners of Junpei's eyes.
"—This is what happens."
Mahito beamed, like a child who'd found a new toy.
"Mahito. Stay on task."
Geto's voice. He descended the stairs.
"Feed him the fingers."
"Kira-kun."
A cool, clear voice. A girl crouched beside him, tilting her head, long lashes casting downward shadows.
"What's that you're holding?"
The Arrow was taken from his hand. Gone forever.
He could never pierce himself with it now. The last sliver of hope in his heart shattered.
True despair.
"Kira-kun."
"You killed another one of me up on the mountain, you know. I can be hurt too. Every avatar that dies—I feel pain and fear."
Hoshino Ei smiled gently, like a summer breeze, like the sea beneath the stars.
She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Her long white hair was pure as snow, flawless as snow.
"This is my last avatar. Once this one dies, I'm finished for good."
But to Nanami Kira, she was hideous. Revolting.
"Feed him the fingers, Hoshino Ei. Hurry—before he wakes up, we need to move."
She held the Arrow in one hand, its dark-gold shaft gleaming with a faint light.
In her other hand, Sukuna's fingers—putrid and lifeless.
She reached out slowly, drawing closer to Kira. In the depths of his despairing gaze, she slowly—
Drove the Arrow into his chest.
"You're insane! Stop!"
"What are you doing?! Hoshino Ei! Stop!"
Blood surged. The Arrow stood embedded in his chest. Kira's consciousness dimmed further. In the instant before his eyes closed—
He saw Hoshino Ei smile. A faint, quiet smile. Like a summer breeze. Like the sea beneath the stars.
"This is my last life, you know. You've killed me so many times."
She whispered in his ear: "After I die—become a god."
"Kira-kun."
A wall of fire erupted behind her—Jogo, furious, his inferno engulfing Hoshino Ei. She laughed inside the flames:
"I love you, Kira-kun."
Kira stared blankly as Hoshino Ei burned to ash before his eyes. Everything connected in his mind.
She had known the Arrow's secret all along. She had always known that the one who held the Arrow could never despair.
She had deliberately sided with the Cursed Spirits. Everything she had done was to drive him into a corner.
Then take the Arrow. Shatter his last hope.
And pierce him herself.
"That lunatic! That insane woman!"
Jogo, howling.
"Come on, Jogo, don't be mad. Maybe Nanami Kira's not even dead?"
Mahito, speaking.
"Well. This is unfortunate. A miscalculation. Modify Kira's corpse—no sense wasting material."
Geto's voice.
So loud. So loud. Shut up...
Consciousness slipped away. Nanami Kira closed his eyes in exhaustion.
And then—black power, as if it meant to overturn the entire world—
Bloomed from his chest.
There was no sun today. The sky was overcast. He was the only black sun.