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Moonlight spilled from dark, heavy clouds, illuminating the rippling surface of the cold water from which Satoru was dipped under. Bubbles escaped from his lips, but he knew not to give in to the temptation of breathing in. To trust that the hand anchored to the small of his back would pull him up before the water could fill his lungs.
He fought the urge to gasp, his chest burning with a desperate need for air. As his vision blurred, the brilliant light of the moon was all he could see, a cold light that brought little comfort. He supposed that he was meant to feel fear, and his racing heart certainly wanted him to, but all he had was a sense of disconnect. His mind floating away from his body. Whatever would happen next was out of his control, but he was ready. He had prepared for this his entire life.
Satoru opened his eyes to a mist-shrouded rice paddy. His feet sank into the ankle deep water, and he took care not to trample on any of the still budding stalks of young rice as he walked forward. This was the realm of the deity who had blessed him, Inari Ōkami, who had smiled at him upon his birth, marking him in the form of his silky white hair. He wondered what shape Inari would greet him with: the young woman or the old man.
From the corner of his eye was a rustle of stark white fur, and a playful kitsune leapt before his path. Its coat was the same color as his hair, a divine animal that had similarly been touched by Inari's sacred hand. The kitsune wagged its bushy tail, head tilted to beckon Satoru forward.
Without waiting to see if Satoru would follow, the white kitsune bounded away, running carelessly about the field yet somehow avoiding disturbing a single tender stalk. Satoru ran after it, lips formed in the shape of a smile from the happy chirps of a laughing fox.
An arrow flew from the distance, faster than Satoru's eyes could see. The kitsune let out a strangled yip as it was pierced, blood seeping into its white fur. Satoru’s heart froze over as more arrows shot their way towards the fallen animal, a volley embedded into its small body. He fell to his knees, desperate to save the kitsune only to witness its last, dying breaths. His white and red miko attire was wet and mud-stained, but he didn't spare it a second thought. His eyes were dry, the heaviness of sorrow warring with roiling hatred. Who could perform such a cruel, blasphemous act?
The answer came in the form of a towering shadow cast over Satoru. He looked up, fury brimming within his blazing eyes as he stared into the sneering visage of a two-faced god.
“Who are you to interrupt my initiation ceremony?” Satoru spat out without caring to show any reverence to the interloping deity, rising from the ground as he refused to kneel before them. A sacrilegious act met by a sacrilegious act.
“You know who I am, blessed one.” The god's features shifted into an arrogant smirk when he turned his gaze from the dead kitsune to Satoru. Even while standing, the god was easily twice his height, and Satoru was tall for a human.
“Ryoumen Sukuna.” Venom dripped with each syllable uttered from Satoru's lips. The deformed face and the four arms wielding the trishula and tokkosho. Who else could they belong to but the god of famine, bloodshed, disaster, and curses? “Do you have no respect for the traditions? Desecrating my ritual like this, killing a venerated animal… I suppose gods like you believe they are above simple decency.”
“Why should I respect decency if it is to get in the way of what I desire?” The look Sukuna gave him was hungry and Satoru shivered involuntarily. He had no fears, but he had the suspicion that a single wrong move would result in him being devoured, his flesh picked clean from his bones.
“Desiring a chosen of Ō-Inari… You will deserve whatever divine retribution that will come your way.” Even if Satoru were to perish here, he took satisfaction in knowing that Sukuna couldn’t walk away from this offense unharmed.
“Retribution from who? Inari, that old fool? He can't stand a chance against me,” Sukuna scoffed. “Your talent and beauty are wasted on him.”
“Ō-Inari is my patron, and she will protect me just as she's watched over me since my birth.” The grain-bearer's worshipers may be numerous across the land, but none had been blessed by them the way Satoru had. He was their honored one, destined for greatness. He refused to have that cut short by this violent deity the way the kitsune's life had been.
“Inari won’t protect you from me. He has forsaken you already. Where is your precious deity, after all? A pretty face like you is not worth stirring conflict with me. All he wanted from you was a beautiful mortal to look at and admire from a distance.”
Satoru’s nostrils flared in indignant anger. “I am much more than a pretty face. Insult my patron and I further, and you will find that to be true.” He had been trained as a swordsman just as he had been trained as a miko. The legacies of both his mother and his father. Sukuna may be accustomed to having his way with whatever shrine maidens caught his fancy, but Satoru would not make it easy for him.
Sukuna laughed, an ugly thing that split apart his cruel features. “There's no need for you to bare your fangs against me, blessed one. I mean you no disrespect, and I am well aware of your skill, for it was the reason I had sought you out. Unlike Inari, I see you for all that you are: a flower and a wolf, two sides in perfect harmony.”
Could it be true? That his beloved deity had never cared about him beyond what he was on the surface, as though he were nothing more than a simple trinket? A human like him could never hope to gain insight into the mind of a god, and all he had was Sukuna's word. For all the cruelty that comprised Sukuna's infamy, he was not a deceitful, conniving god. He was a strategist for sure, but one who respected the rules of battle, the honesty of steel clashing against steel.
“What do you want from me, then? For me to offer you undeserved worship? Any shrine I would erect in your honor would be done in spite.”
“And that would be no different from any other shrine mortals have made to appease me,” Sukuna shrugged. “But I would prefer your offerings to be made from a place of devotion.”
“You are not worthy of my devotion.” A bold, irreverent declaration for a mortal to give a deity, but he had not been the first one between them to profane.
“A god seeking to be worthy of a mortal. How amusing,” Sukuna chuckled. “I will indulge you, little flower. What can I do to earn your faithful worship? To have you willing as one of mine.”
Satoru stilled as he came to the realization that Sukuna was genuine in his respect for him. After all, what god would bend to the whims of a human, much less one they looked down on? An almost shy warmth bloomed within him knowing that he had gained the admiration of a deity, even if it wasn't by the one he had expected. He was not immune to feeling honored to be chosen in this way.
“Fight against me as a human, skill against skill. Should you win, I will give you my unquestioning loyalty and honor you above all other kami.” He knew that this was the language Sukuna spoke for it was his as well. The only way for them to truly understand each other.
“A fair offer. But you deserve a demand as well if you are to triumph over a martial god in battle. What would you take from me should that happen?”
“Godhood.”
Sukuna’s eyes widened at Satoru’s shameless audacity before settling into a look of contemplation. “I see. Defeating me would certainly make you my equal. More than that, even. Godhood would be what you would deserve, young mortal, but do you think you can achieve it?”
“It does not matter what I think. These are the stakes that I have put forward, and I won’t accept compromise.” In all honesty. Satoru was uncertain about his chances. His strength was peerless among mortals, but it was undeniable that he was young. That even without use of his godly powers, Sukuna's breadth of experience far surpassed countless human lifespans.
“Then I vow to adhere to your rules, blessed one.” A god's vow was no small thing, an unbreakable promise mandated by the heavens. It cemented Satoru's belief that Sukuna truly respected him. “And I am eager to taste your blade.”
The landscape surrounding them shifted, the watery paddy sinking beneath the earth as sharp stalagmites erupted from the ground, the sky clouded over with an unnatural shroud of darkness, and fractured skulls and bones littered the scenery. He was no longer in the gentle domain of Inari, brought into the calamitous land of Ryoumen Sukuna.
Satoru’s white and red miko clothes had been exchanged for the blue and grey kamishimo of a samurai, a pair of katana and wakizashi strapped to his obi. Familiar blades that brought him comfort as he rested his hand on their hilts.
“These are your weapons of choice, are they not, little wolf?” Sukuna stood before him, no longer the larger than life deity but with the appearance of any other human. His face was one of a handsome, rugged man, and simple black markings adorned his features and body. His chest was bare and he wore only a white hakama.
“They are,” Satoru confirmed. He drew the katana, noting its length and sharpness before returning it back to its sheath. An exact replica of the one he used in the mortal world, as though Sukuna had been watching him from before this day. How long had he been followed by this violent god without being aware of his presence?
“Then you wouldn’t mind if I choose my arms as well?” A trishula materialized in Sukuna’s hand, the signature weapon of the kami. One that posed an inherent advantage over the katana.
“It’s only fair if you do.” Satoru was confident in himself nonetheless. He had sparred with countless others, individuals who have favored all manner of weaponry and blades. He knew how to fight against a polearm master, how to cover his weaknesses and apply his strengths.
“Very good.” Sukuna smiled approvingly, as though Satoru had passed a silent test of his.
“I’m ready when you are.” Satoru’s eyes glinted with sharpness, inhaling and exhaling in perfect synchrony. A forced and practiced calm settled over him as he awaited the first move, tracking every slight movement of Sukuna’s muscles.
Sukuna nodded in acknowledgement, circling Satoru almost lazily with his trishula by his side. It was the languid prowl of a tiger, lax and confident yet without offering a single opening. Satoru’s heart raced as he was stalked, but his hands were still.
Silently, abruptly, Sukuna swished his trident in a brutal arc towards Satoru, the sharp prongs threatening the vitals of his torso. His heart, liver and kidney– all in the path of the blade.
Just as quickly, Satoru unsheathed his katana, knocking aside the spear. The impact of their weapons clashing sent tremors down the path of his arm, an exhilarating sensation unlike any other. Sukuna’s smile widened and again there was that hungry glimmer to his crimson eyes. He was a god who thrived off of combat, famished for bloodshed.
Satoru took advantage of the momentary imbalance of Sukuna’s trident to counterattack, turning his blade inward in an attempt to slice Sukuna’s bare torso. He managed to graze against Sukuna’s skin, drawing a small cut into the deity’s flesh. A minute wound, but the first blood was still his. A smug grin made its way to Satoru’s face, deserved arrogance alighting his features.
Sukuna looked just as pleased by the injury, as though he were sharing in Satoru’s accomplishment.
Their fight continued, trading blows and clanging steel. The air was knocked out of Satoru’s lungs when Sukuna swung his trident to strike him with its pommel, a nasty bruise sure to form on his sternum where it had landed. Satoru returned the favor in kind with an agile swing of his blade, lopping off a chunk of flesh from Sukuna’s shoulder. Throughout, Satoru was keenly aware of Sukuna’s extended reach imparted upon him by his weapon, refusing to allow him the advantage by keeping Sukuna within range of his katana even when Sukuna tried to make distance between them.
Both of their chests heaved with exertion, breathing heavily as sweat dripped down their brows. And yet, Satoru couldn’t stop his lips from curling into a delighted smile. A worthy opponent was rare, and dueling a god was unheard of for any mortal. Even if he lost here, he had gained something precious in this experience. Above all, Sukuna had earned his respect by agreeing to his terms, and for demonstrating his sharply honed skill. It was beautiful, the way Sukuna fought. Awe-inspiring, even without the use of his godly powers.
Satoru hissed in annoyance when Sukuna caught his katana between the prongs of his trident, immobilizing his sword arm. He couldn’t let go of the hilt; doing so would ensure his loss. But he had no other choice– the twist of Sukuna’s hand wrenched his arm into an unnatural angle, making it harder and harder for him to cling onto his weapon. With his teeth grit, Satoru let go of his katana, and Sukuna had a brief smirk of victory only for it to be wiped off as his navel was unexpectedly pierced.
While Sukuna’s attention had been focused on Satoru’s trapped katana, Satoru had taken that moment of distraction to draw his short wakizashi, thrusting it with abandon into Sukuna. He couldn’t be certain that he had struck any vitals, but he was now weaponless: the wakizashi embedded in Sukuna’s flesh and his katana useless on the ground.
Satoru fell backwards, landing on his ass as fatigue overtook him. He wasn’t sure for how long they had been locked in battle, but it had felt like entire days had passed, and he was now out of cards to play. He gazed up at the trishula pointed at his face and Sukuna’s triumphant beam.
“If you had moved to disembowel me, this would have ended in a draw.” Sukuna lowered his weapon then reached out to Satoru, offering his other hand for him to take.
“I know that,” Satoru scowled as he accepted Sukuna’s hand. But the exhaustion weighing his sword, the split second in which he had made the decision, and the hard clench of Sukuna’s muscles had made it impossible for him to have moved his blade any further.
“It would have been romantic,” Sukuna said rather dreamily, pulling Satoru up. Sukuna’s palm was heavily calloused, rough but comfortingly warm. “The two of us bleeding out together, mortal and god essence mingling as they spill onto the cold earth.”
“What would you have done if it had ended in a draw?” Satoru did not yet acknowledge his loss out loud, but the taste of defeat was strangely sweet.
Sukuna hummed thoughtfully. He did not release Satoru’s hand even though Satoru had already risen. “Would it be better if we both received what we had bargained for, or if neither of us did?”
Even without conquering Satoru, Sukuna had already won Satoru’s devotion to him. “If we both got what we wanted,” Satoru answered.
“As I thought,” Sukuna said with a smile. “You are a voracious mortal, and I doubt you would be satisfied walking away from me with nothing to show for it.”
“It takes one to know one. The god of famine would recognize hunger.”
“Indeed. A blessed one like you should have ambition. You wear it nicely.”
Sukuna’s flattery was starting to get to him, wearing him down. He couldn’t stop the way the tips of his ears flushed, the strange swoop of his stomach as Sukuna’s thumb stroked over his hand. Their fingers laced together.
“It is meaningless to speculate on what did not happen,” Satoru said, pulling his hand away. Trying to save himself from the inevitable encroachment into his heart. “You have won, and I am yours now.” A disciple of the deity of chaos, a path that was sure to be lonesome, yet he found no bitterness in this fate.
“I like the sound of that from your lips,” Sukuna grinned wide enough to show his fangs. “Mine. My blessed one.”
Satoru jolted when Sukuna gently cupped his face, leaning in close enough that he was certain Sukuna was about to kiss him. His lips parted in anticipation, yet his heart quivered in fear. He didn’t know what exactly he was afraid of, and the feeling was so foreign to him that he didn’t know what to do with it.
Instead of kissing him, Sukuna merely pressed their foreheads together, eyes closed as he muttered something under his breath. A mantra in the language of the gods that Satoru’s mortal ears could not decipher.
A sharp pain lanced through his skin where it was pressed against Sukuna’s, all-consuming but brief. He stumbled away from Sukuna, clutching his forehead that still throbbed with phantom aches.
“My apologies, little wolf. Pain is an unfortunate necessity for change.”
“Unfortunate for all but you,” Satoru glared at Sukuna. “Somehow, I have the feeling that you take joy in the pain that you must inflict.”
“And in pain that is inflicted for the fun of it as well,” Sukuna added. His eyes fell to the wakizashi still buried in his abdomen, pulling it out with a sweet hiss. Looping an arm around Satoru's waist, Sukuna drew him in close so he could slide the wakizashi back into its sheath. The newly sanctified blade sat heavily by Satoru's side, anointed in the blood of a kami. “But now, you bear my mark. Wear it proudly, Gojo Satoru.”
Satoru touched his face, but it felt no different than before. No raised skin nor scarring from the supernatural ink that had been laid upon him.
“Show me what you had done to me,” Satoru demanded. “If you had ruined my features…” He was self-aware enough to acknowledge his vanity, but how was someone like him supposed to avoid being vain? His beautiful hair had been spun by Inari, his body perfectly was toned with muscle, and his face was delicately elegant. He was more than his beauty, but his beauty was still a part of him.
“I could never mar your pretty face,” Sukuna said softly. He conjured a watery orb that stretched itself thin, forming a perfectly flat reflective surface. Peering upon the water, Satoru saw the mark Sukuna had left on him.
On his forehead was the same symbol that adorned the forehead of Sukuna’s human form. Only, instead of harsh black ink, it had been drawn in shimmering white lines, as though traced in starlight. By the corners of his azure eyes were false eyes drawn in the same divine ink. Four tattooed eyes for a total of six.
“I look…” Heavenly, was the thought that came to Satoru's mind. Otherworldly and divine. The visage of someone deserving of worship, and not one of a miko who offers worship.
“Like a godling,” Sukuna said, completing his thought. “Which I will make you into if you allow me to, Satoru.” The shape of his name as it was uttered by Sukuna was so intimate that it brought a shiver down his spine.
“Why? I had not won our duel. Are you going back on your word?”
“You had not. But as one of my miko, I should be allowed to impart upon you any blessing I'd wish to, shouldn't I? And it's not godhood I'm offering you, only its close second.”
Satoru frowned thoughtfully. “I'm not declining your offer nor do I believe that I am unworthy of it, but I do not understand why you had gone through such lengths to have me.”
“Because you are special. And in a way that has nothing to do with Inari's blessing. There are no other mortals like you, and because of that, I must have you.”
It was true that there was no one else who could boast being both miko and samurai. A prodigy of two paths. A feat that Satoru had achieved entirely on his own, without any divine aid.
“I am pretty special,” Satoru said distantly in agreement. “Of course I've always known that. But hearing these words from you, Ryoumen Sukuna, is the only time it's been meaningful.”
“Then come, little godling. Let us complete your ritual so you will be wed to me. Not to that Inari, who wouldn't offer you a fraction of what I will bestow upon you. Come with me, and receive my blessing.”
Many miko are symbolically wed to the kami they serve, but Satoru knew that Sukuna meant it in a much more literal sense. Even with that knowledge, he allowed himself to be led by Sukuna, whose arm was still wrapped around his waist, deeper into the deity’s realm.