Chapter Text
The massive obsidian gates of the Dark Lord's Throne Room turned to dust amidst a deafening roar.
They weren't pushed open, nor were they blasted apart by magic. They were shattered by pure, tyrannical physical force. As the dust settled, the existence known to this continent as the Hero walked in, hands tucked into his sleeves, stepping expressionlessly over the debris.
The Hero, Ryomen Sukuna. At the very least, every nation could only---and dared only---call him "Hero." It wasn't purely because of some divine prophecy, but rather because whenever they chose someone else as the Hero, and those heroes heard of Ryomen Sukuna's reputation and decided to confront him in a fit of hot-blooded justice... well...
Anyway, no one wants to experience the sensation of sweeping a large puddle of "former hero" remains out from the cracks of the cobblestone streets to cart them off to the temple for a resurrection ritual.
Especially since he chops them so fine that very few actually come back from the ritual with both their bodies and minds intact.
Ryomen Sukuna stepped over a massive boulder. He didn't look the part of a hero in the slightest. The silver armor symbolizing justice? Not wearing it. The black armor of a vengeful dark knight? Not wearing it. He wasn't even wearing the peasant knight's straw armor, nor did he carry a single classic sword. He was dressed in a loose white robe, the cuffs and lapels stitched with strings of text in dark blue thread. The collar was blown wide open, revealing a broad expanse of solid pectoral muscles and black tattoos. Rather than someone out to save the world, he looked more like a bully who had just finished a brawl at a tavern.
At the far end of the hall, atop the towering throne, the Dark Lord...
Satoru Gojo slowly rose, lifting a staff tipped with a massive purple crystal. His tall figure cast a long, swaying black shadow in the candlelight. "So, Hero," the Dark Lord said, raising a hand as his cape slid from his shoulders, the corners of his mouth curling into a mocking smirk. "Finally. I thought you all got lost in the beginner village. What, did you finally find the road to break in here and save this boring human realm?"
Sukuna clicked his tongue. The secondary eyes on his cheeks opened, glancing away to survey the surroundings, all four eyes filled with disdain. He didn't have a single combat-readiness buff on him, nor did he stop at the effective range for mid-level spells. Instead, he walked straight toward the throne. It was completely whimsical, yet he exuded an oppressive pressure that made the monster attendants in the hall tremble, daring not to intervene.
"Cut the crap, Dark Lord," Sukuna's voice was low and raspy, leaking impatience. "Hand over the your wine cellar keys."
Gojo froze for a moment, all six eyes blinking in simultaneous disbelief. "...What?"
"I said, the keys." Sukuna stopped at the foot of the stairs, crossing his arms. "I heard you have a batch of Northern Tears here, at least a century old. That variety is only preserved well in places with heavy yin energy, like a Dark Lord's castle."
Satoru Gojo floated down from the throne, landing in front of Sukuna. The distance between them was close enough to hear each other breathe. The Dark Lord tilted his head, as if he had heard the world's biggest joke.
"Wait, let me get this straight." Gojo extended a finger, poking it right in front of Sukuna's face. "You slaughtered your way through the Elite Four (your Elite Four consist of seven people? That was an eye-opener), tore down half my outer wall, and even smacked my watchdog flying (you mean that bone dragon?)... not for the legendary holy sword, not for world peace, but just for... a bottle of wine?"
"Strictly speaking, one barrel from a rack. But you can't drink anyway," Sukuna said expressionlessly. "I've already researched your magic lineage. I'm not taking it for free; trading you three thousand gold coins. Enough for you to eat sweets in the nearby towns for a whole year."
The heavy bag of gold coins was held out by Ryomen Sukuna, as if the two were standing by a street stall on a lazy afternoon. Gojo did not take it. The leather bag went into freefall, dropping heavily. It hit the ground with a muffled thud, the strings loosening. Hundreds of gold coins minted with the Imperial Griffin, along with various gems of differing quality, spilled out like a puddle of shimmering, liquid rainbow gold, clattering across the floor filled with rubble and dust. Some even rolled right up to Satoru Gojo's expensive, hand-stitched black pointed boots.
Gojo lowered his gaze, glancing at the gold coins over the rim of his sunglasses, then lifted his eyelids to look at Sukuna.
"Three thousand gold," Gojo repeated, his tone as flat as a dead-lined heart monitor. "You destroyed the only path to the Throne Room---the corridor carved with the ancestral portraits of past Dark Lords, traps and all. The repair costs alone exceed this amount. Just the damagement to the Throne Room has already exceeded it, too. That is obsidian, not roadside pebbles."
"So, you want me to apologize?" Sukuna actually yawned, the light in all four of his eyes looking somewhat unfocused, like a cat at the market that had just woken up and was being forced to work for a bite of fish. "I didn't bring any more. If you don't want to sell, forget it. It's not like I have to drink it."
With that, the legendary Hero actually turned around, dragging his feet as he prepared to leave.
In that instant, the concentration of magic in the air spiked dramatically, as if room temperature had been instantly compressed to boiling point.
No chant incantation. No casting delay. Satoru Gojo didn't even lift his staff; he merely raised his right index finger and flicked it gently toward Sukuna's broad back.
Red.
The originally silent space of the hall violently distorted. A force of repulsion erupted with unimaginable speed, peeling up the floor tiles along its path like a carpet caught in a storm, carrying the weight of a thousand tons as it rushed straight for Sukuna.
Sukuna did not look back.
But he stopped walking. In the split second before that repulsion force---strong enough to shatter city walls---touched the fabric on his back, he turned sideways. His right hand emerged from that loose sleeve and slashed casually into the void.
Zzzzt---
A sound that set teeth on edge rang out, like a rusty saw cutting against glass. The violent red shockwave was instantly sliced open by some invisible blade, split in two, whistling past both sides of Sukuna's body.
With two thunderous booms, the thousand-year-old load-bearing stone pillars on either side of the hall were blasted apart at the waist. Massive blocks of stone crashed down, kicking up dust that instantly swallowed half the hall.
Amidst the billowing dust, Satoru Gojo's figure had already vanished from his spot.
The next second, he appeared in mid-air right in front of Sukuna, a near-mad excitement burning in his cerulean pupils. It was a spark long absent in his long, invincible, lonely life as the Dark Lord.
"Don't be in such a rush to leave," Gojo's voice carried a smile, but there was no warmth in it, only a sharp edge. "Since you're here, wouldn't it be disrespectful to the Dark Lord not to leave something behind?"
His long leg descended like a guillotine, cleaving through the air with a vicious howl.
This strike had no magical enhancement; it was a pure venting of physical strength. Sukuna clicked his tongue, seemingly finding it a hassle, but he still raised both arms, crossing them above his head to block.
Bang!
The muffled sound of the impact sent visible ripples vibrating through the surrounding air. The ground beneath Sukuna's feet cracked instantly, spiderweb-like fractures spreading rapidly outwards as his feet sank deep into the earth.
But that was all.
Sukuna's arms were as steady as a monolith, not budging an inch. He raised his head. In those two pairs of eyes, there was still none of what Satoru Gojo was expecting---not the fanaticism, caution, or killing intent one should have when facing a formidable enemy.
There was only a calm like stagnant water, perhaps even a hint of annoyance at being pestered.
If it weren't for the fact that most teleportation spells required a certain amount of chanting time, and that he had placed teleportation restrictions within the Dark Lord's Hall, Gojo suspected Sukuna might have been too lazy to even walk out the door and would have just teleported away.
"Indeed very strong," Sukuna assessed, sounding as if he were judging the quality of a slab of pork. "But haven't you quite finished? It's just a barrel of wine. Do we really have to get physical just because we couldn't agree on the price?"
The smile on Gojo's face stiffened.
He used the recoil to leap backward, landing on the broken armrest of his throne. His excitement was like a pot of fire doused with a ladle of cold water, sizzling with white smoke and giving rise to an indescribable irritability in his heart.
"JUST a barrel of wine?! What do you mean, JUST a barrel of wine! do you not understand human speech?" Gojo tapped the crystal on his staff in agitation, then pointed it accusingly at Ryomen Sukuna, his words coming faster and faster. "We are fighting! This is the decisive battle between the Dark Lord and the Hero! You should have accepted the kingdom's quest, climbed over mountains and ridges, defeated my minions, and gradually become the strongest. Then you come to the Dark Lord's Hall---or maybe I can't hold back and meet you halfway---and we engage in an earth-shattering battle! Okay, fine, maybe I couldn't help but skip a few phases, but you should also have prepared the corresponding weapons to engage in a magnificent duel with me! Finally, you reach where the Holy Sword is, pull it out, find that I'm not dead yet, so you draw your weapon again or use your damned magic lineage to cut my head off---not act like some auntie bargaining at a wet market! Why is your mind only on that barrel of fermented grape juice! I do not accept this!"
"I'm busy." Sukuna pulled his feet out of the ground and dusted the dirt off his sleeves. "Besides, you started it."
"Then fight back!"
Gojo growled low. With the chanting of the Six Eyes, a bright blue circular glow appeared in the center of the hall.
A massive suction force generated alongside the brilliant azure light. Rubble, gold coins, broken stone pillars---even the light itself was forcibly dragged towards that power. It was a gravitational pull simulating a black hole, enough to crush an ordinary person into meat paste in an instant. The light grew more intense. Gojo waved his staff, and the spell shot out like an arrow leaving the string, its effect like a landslide rolling down, crushing all matter in its path.
Sukuna stood his ground, his white robes flapping wildly, pressed tight against his muscular torso by the wind pressure. He finally frowned; if he didn't handle this, his clothes were going to tear.
He raised his hand and waved it consecutively at the empty air in front of him.
Invisible slashes wove into a net. Like a school of coordinating piranhas, they bit open the vortex of magic, burrowed into the center of the gravity, and precisely severed the nodes of the mana flow. The gravitational field magic Gojo had constructed was like a toy with its batteries removed; before it could even smash into Sukuna's face, it sputtered out with a soft poof.
"Boring," Sukuna said, lowering his hand, his tone cold. "Is that all? Just these flashy parlor tricks?"
Gojo froze.
Not because he was criticized, but because of Sukuna's attitude.
He was truly just... humoring him.
It was like an adult facing a child waving a plastic sword around---neither wanting to hurt the other nor wanting to play such a boring game, just wanting it to end quickly so he could go home and watch TV.
Sukuna didn't counterattack. Those slashes just now were clearly executed with ease; he could have easily thrown out more attacks at Gojo. Even knowing Gojo's sorcery lineage included the Limitless, that would have at least been a response to the attack. But Sukuna didn't. He simply neutralized the move, and that was it.
No killing intent. No strategic gambling. No thrill of hanging by a thread.
Gojo felt like he had punched a pile of cotton. No, worse than that---he had punched into a pool of dead water. After the ripples faded, it returned to its original state, without even a satisfying splash.
"You..." Gojo slowly drifted back to the ground. That soaring desire for battle was cooling rapidly, replaced by a viscous, damp disappointment.
He stared at Sukuna. This man possessed power enough to destroy the world, power that could rival his own, perhaps even kill him.
But he wouldn't give it.
He stingily locked that power inside his body, just so he wouldn't dirty his clothes or delay his drinking time.
"You want that bottle of wine that much?" Gojo's voice dropped low, devoid of emotion.
"What else? Your head on a platter?" Sukuna sneered. "Your head doesn't go well with wine. Besides, if I kill you, the demon race is bound to riot. Then the world will be full of goblins and slimes running amok, which is even more of a hassle to clean up. Maintaining the status quo is fine."
Realistic, mercenary, boring.
BORING.
And THAT was the strongest Hero of this generation.
Gojo felt like a wad of wet cotton was stuck in his throat. He looked at the mess in the hall, at the traces of destruction he had made to display his power, and suddenly felt that it all had become incredibly dull.
The evenly matched fight he expected, the life-and-death struggle he expected, the climax that would make his very soul tremble... in this man's eyes, none of it was as important as a barrel of fermented grape juice.
It wasn't supposed to be like this. He felt that this generation's Hero should be more interesting than all the heroes he had read about in books, because he was unique---a Hero who didn't shout about justice or salvation or gather companions along the way, a Hero who forced all nations to recognize him solely because of his strength. It shouldn't be like this; there should be something else, right?
"In the basement, on the left."
Gojo turned around and walked back to the half-collapsed throne. He didn't even look back at Sukuna, his back radiating a barely concealed sense of desolation and exhaustion.
"If you can't find it, ask the skeleton guard. It only has half a jaw, but it can still talk."
After saying that, he plopped down onto the throne, propping his chin with one hand, the other hanging limply at his side, his fingertips still retaining the residual warmth from casting the spell.
Footsteps sounded from behind him.
Not approaching, but receding.
Ryomen Sukuna didn't hesitate for a second. He didn't even say "thanks" before walking straight toward the side door leading to the wine cellar.
The footsteps grew fainter until they vanished at the end of the dark corridor.
Gojo maintained that posture, sitting for a long time in the deathly silence of the hall. The air was still thick with the smell of dust---the earthy scent of pulverized stone---and the lingering, dissipating smell of ozone from the brief clash.
He lowered his head, looking at the puddle of scattered gold coins by his feet.
One of the coins had rolled right next to the tip of his shoe, its golden surface reflecting his cerulean eyes.
There was nothing there.
"...So boring."
He mumbled softly, his voice so light it didn't even startle a spider that had just crawled out near his foot. He extended the tip of his boot and gave a gentle kick.
Disturbed by the air current, the spider moved its eight legs and quickly scurried back into the shadows. The gold coin rolled down the steps with a clatter, the crisp sound echoing through the dead silent hall, until it rolled into the abyssal shadows and fell silent once more.