Chapter Text
I
Megumi was the first of the two to notice it.
The aftermath of Shinjuku had seeped into her skin and senses, bringing with it the diagnosis of a short life expectancy.
The suffering turned out to be more eternal than she had imagined.
Being immortal did not guarantee him an exceptional quality of life; on the contrary, for a fragmented soul hardened by the trauma of war, his life would be one of constant suffering. The brain damage caused the early onset of multiple sclerosis; it began in his hands, spread down to his legs, and finally rose like a tide toward his spine.
His new normal was to lie bedridden, admiring; it could be any tiny thing, like the newest flower peeking out of the garden, the butterfly flitting over the engawa, or the breeze moving the leaves in new directions.
Everything reminded him that the world was always in a state of flux.
Everyone, except him.
And it seemed Itadori was the same.
After the events in Shinjuku, the Gojo Clan offered their estate while the school was being rebuilt. Yuta accepted after considering himself the next leader in the line of succession following Satoru’s death; no one doubted the changes that were to come, but they did question the consequences of those changes.
Yuta settled everyone into that new home, offered them everything at his disposal, and worked to lay the groundwork for a new educational approach within the school of sorcery.
“I bet you’ll make an excellent teacher,” Okkotsu remarked one of those afternoons when he deigned to visit him.
But Megumi didn’t reply; he just stared out the window, wishing he could see beyond that simple shoji screen.
How could he be a teacher if his life was confined to four walls and a half-open shoji screen?
His life was nothing more than eternal confinement.
He longed for something more than that slow, painful monotony.
The war changed people in unimaginable ways.
The existence of curses was no longer a state secret; it was news that paralyzed Japan to such an extent that foreign intervention seemed the best option for the Land of the Rising Sun.
That situation caused nationalism to grow increasingly resistant.
Extremist groups claimed the existence and management of cursed energy as a national matter, far removed from foreign intervention and other movements.
The nationalist movement turned into an uncontrollable fanaticism; all it took was a mention of a messianic figure for them to reconfigure their foundations into an institution with two main, interlinked branches: the humanitarian and the political.
The junkyōsha adapted a term from Japanese Christianity to highlight and manipulate the suffering experienced after the war and the change that would come if they removed the one who still kept the barriers—and thus the curses—alive.
Tengen.
Tengen was nothing more than a martyr who needed to ascend to leave his position to a new follower, someone fresh for their new intentions.
That perfect individual was the one who ended up as the game master in the ritual known as the Sacrifice Games.
Megumi understood the status and role he had assumed upon returning to the world of the living after Sukuna’s death; he couldn’t simply pretend nothing was happening and carry on, because while his body was already showing the consequences, his mind was in complete chaos.
And in that chaos, the junkyōsha knew how to take advantage.
They did not approach him swiftly, but with surgical precision that went unnoticed by many.
He had the aptitude to be a new vessel; if he had been one for the terrible Ryomen Sukuna, why not for Tengen? One entity for another—after all, many considered both to be canvases of different colors.
And Megumi still had remnants of both inside him.
The Junkyōsha soon became the Shinshūkyō, a religious movement that gained notoriety by winning elections in three-quarters of the Kokkai and, years later, having its own prime minister.
The Shinshūkyō were committed to rebuilding the school of sorcery; they even promoted the elimination of the bias that the older generation had instilled in students with peculiar and unique techniques.
But they still promoted nationalist sentiment.
According to Fushiguro’s research, contrary to nationalist claims, there were signs of cursed energy in the Magadha region before the Common Era; it was only with Japan’s expansion under Tengen during the Nara period that its study began to gain prominence, culminating in the founding of schools of sorcery during the Heian period.
However, studies beyond the Indian subcontinent revealed evidence of sorcery in the regions of what was once Babylon, Egypt, and certain parts of Persepolis.
So whose was this cursed energy?
Fushiguro believed it belonged to everyone—a legacy born of humanity that people were naturally bound to bear.
The Shinshūkyō believed that Japanese cursed energy was the turning point for the implementation of old ideas; taking projects of yore such as the Dai-tō-a Kyōeiken as a reference, they began to expand their foundations through various means.
It could be seen in the government’s foreign policy stance, in the fashions and trends that were exported, and in the complex treatment some neighboring countries received.
And as it expanded, its influence became increasingly attractive.
All under a facade that knew how to sugarcoat its ideas with charitable pretexts, comforting consolations, and attention.
Something Fushiguro held deep in his heart were moments of longing.
The melancholy and sorrow of being bedridden were eased by Yuuji’s gentle presence.
There could be a thousand and one ways he entered his bedroom, but there was always one that was his favorite.
He would arrive quietly so as not to disturb him during those moments when the illness still weighed on his body. He would lie down beside him and, with his gentle arms, draw him close as if in a lullaby that soothed any discomfort as if by magic.
He would tell him about his day: mission after mission. Other times, he would recount some triviality that came to mind, or he would simply remain silent and fall asleep beside him, exhausted.
Those moments began to be longings for his weak heart, an ember that remained before a winter’s chill, one that he did not want to be extinguished.
He wished to be fire.
Little by little, those moments began to become more and more routine. No matter how far away the mission was, the exhaustion or the illness always ended in the same scene.
And Fushiguro could not forget what happened that time.
It was a winter night. The storm had been raging for days, so missions had been suspended until further notice; during that downtime, Itadori spent the rest of the day with him. They talked at times, watched TV at others, and simply enjoyed each other’s company most of the time.
Megumi could have sworn that Yuuji shared the same longing he had begun to feel months ago—that feeling that squeezed his heart and yearned for the tenderness of a kind soul upon his own.
He didn’t understand the magnitude of it at that moment.
It was around three in the morning when it happened.
Neither of them could sleep; they didn’t know if it was because of the recurring nightmares or the uncomfortable feeling they were experiencing. There came a moment when Megumi could no longer bear the anguish weighing on his fragile heart, and he mustered the courage to turn and face the pinkhead.
What to say?
his heart was under the spell of attraction, which was mutual.
What to do?
Itadori’s body had changed over time; he had simply matured. His features were harsh, making it difficult to penetrate the veil of indifference he wore to avoid forming connections; only with the black-haired boy could he lower his defenses and show the sincerity of his heart. It was a fragile vulnerability that Megumi offered to take into his hands and assure his partner that nothing would be lacking.
No, not if they were together.
The moment their gazes met, time stood still, and the world stopped spinning.
Everything paused for them; it was as if reality—so different from what they were experiencing—had finally made sense.
Megumi tried to say something.
But Yuuji’s actions sealed the silent promise they had made.
It was the beginning of an inevitable end.
The theory of souls dictated that they could never merge; it’s like chemistry -some substances cannot be mixed, only emulsified-and that forbidden point in their souls was when the two nuclei touched for an instant. Sukuna tried to be just himself over Fushiguro’s soul and never succeeded; he took over his body and plunged him into the deepest depths of misery, yes, but it was never his.
Yuji and him, it was another mixture from a different situation.
Their souls danced like remnants of a trauma. They never quite touched; if one moved to one side, the other moved in the opposite direction, yet they still sought each other out.
Even if their souls were to connect, many writings revealed that they would seek to rid themselves of the other.
If their souls did touch, they always ended up yearning for a certain “something” in each other.
Often, they would go too far with each other. It was a longing that went beyond the bonds of the flesh, a desire to tear through everything to reach that precious core, regardless of how it might affect the limits of their vulnerability. Megumi’s body couldn’t withstand so much, and the tenacity of Yuuji’s body would clash with his until they ended up proving that theory: two souls couldn’t merge.
Yuta was one of the first to suspect it.
The way Yuji and Megumi sought each other out or asked for information about the other was quite striking. The way they looked at each other, the small touches that seemed to ease the pinkhead’s tension, or the words that could capture the black-haired boy’s attention when no one else could rouse him from his daydreams as he lay in bed.
Then he confirmed it.
Whenever he had time, Yuta would visit him with news and any message he thought might be of interest to Fushiguro. In recent months, the visits had stopped due to the birth of Iori -a child identical to his father-, both in appearance and demeanor.
The infant was quiet. On the rare occasions he cried, it was a pitiful, silent whimper that no miracle could silence.
Iori seemed to know the kind of world into which he had been born.
That morning, when he visited him, he brought along some information that the user of the Ten Shadows had asked for out of curiosity. It was the only thing that seemed to distract him after Yuuji had left on a mission, and since Yuta felt bad for the boy, he thought it would be a good idea to go talk to his friend.
The conversation was pleasant; Megumi made the occasional comment without taking his eyes off the outside, as if he longed to run away.
Then Yuta saw it.
That violet mark on Fushiguro’s pale, slender arms. The edges were beginning to turn yellowish with greenish tints; they had been there for some time, and instead of healing, they were worsening his mood.
And when he finally mustered the courage to ask, the black-haired boy simply replied, “I don’t remember when it happened.”
Maki used to blame the illness that was crippling and weakening Megumi more than Itadori himself, but she soon changed her mind upon noticing the emotional toll it was taking on the couple.
The pinkhead went overboard on missions. He spent whatever he could on pachinko or any bet that came his way.
He slept for long stretches and stayed up all night with others.
And little by little, he drifted away from the bonds he had formed.
Once Yuta decided to confront them, it was a turning point for everyone.
It was a chain of events.
Iori had turned 8 when his reserved and serious demeanor became mysterious and melancholic.
He didn’t understand the reasons behind many things in his surroundings.
The main question he always asked himself was, “What will become of our future?”
The cloud hanging over him was the subject of endless debate; some turned to his parents as mediators, while others chose to ignore them for the sake of the family they had built.
Cruel whispers claimed that his parents’ shadow was what overshadowed little Iori’s happiness; others argued that, despite his young age, Iori understood the magnitude of the world he had been thrust into.
The postwar period was merely a waiting game for something worse.
But to Megumi Fushiguro, Iori was just a child whose cursed tecnic prevented him from living like a normal child.
Unmei no Zankyō weighed heavily on its bearer. Seeing the future in every dream he had was an eternal curse; the boy couldn’t decipher his dreams, and that frustration was what wore down his mental state.
It was like watching hundreds of takes from a movie and trying to figure out which one might make the final cut. They all had their reasons for being there, and none seemed more far-fetched than the last.
It was Iori who approached him. First, out of curiosity -he was an important sorcerer and friend of his father’s who never aged and spent his time bedridden-, admiring the scenery. Second, Megumi was a good teacher, even if he didn’t want to admit it.
The black-haired man taught him the knowledge he had gained through his research. The classical theory of sorcery was soon undermined by the new perspective Fushiguro presented: cursed energy originated from turning points in major migratory movements throughout history.
“Energy isn’t concentrated; it’s distributed or… eliminated.”
The boy was his very first student. He would test his own ideas and theories through the research he was conducting, and when Yuji Itadori arrived, he would simply watch as the two of them rambled on until he eventually fell asleep.
Kugisaki always said it whenever she visited: that boy seemed more like Megumi’s son than Yuta Okkotsu’s.
But it wasn’t that comment that disrupted their dynamic.
The growing dependence the couple began to develop wasn’t gentle or comforting; it was consuming. It bled into everything—into their routines, their silences, their absences.
And, above all, he saw what he was doing to the fragile stability of little Iori.
Faced with Yuta’s refusal to let them tear each other apart, he tried to negotiate after finding them in such a compromising situation. But their mutual refusal -and the embarrassment that followed- were enough for them to grab their belongings and leave what they had considered home for decades.
Yuji carried him in his arms while Iori watched them from his bedroom doorway.
They didn’t want to talk to their senpai. Even if they looked like kids throwing a tantrum, it was wounded pride that was truly driving the friends apart.
“You know what’s going to happen, guys,” Okkotsu warned, hot on their heels before they crossed the main entrance. “Both of you… what you’ve become is.. is… you’ve lost your minds! You’ll just end up killing each other…”
But neither Itadori nor Fushiguro paid him any attention.
They settled in Nara for a short while. A small apartment where they lived day to day, selling whatever they could and working whatever jobs they could find.
Well, just Itadori.
In that small apartment, Megumi simply stared out the window while lying on the bed, longing for the moment when the pinkhead would walk through the door and take him in ways that only their souls could understand.
That newfound independence also sparked a long-dormant feeling in him: initiative.
More than once, he was the one to call for a moment together. He’d wait for him, no longer lying down but sitting on the bed, pull him toward him, and they’d melt into each other for brief moments.
As soon as they made peace with Yuta, he allowed Iori to accompany him on his travels so he could continue studying with Fushiguro.
Nobara was the one who teased him the most about his precarious situation, but then she would leave an envelope with money so they could survive the rest of the month before Itadori got a decent paycheck.
Nara’s memories were like a shooting star. He didn’t know at what point they turned into terrible nightmares he couldn’t shake.
Could he have prevented all of this?
Megumi couldn’t tell.
He wanted to know more. Many say that selfishness makes us inhuman; it was probably true, the dark-haired man believed, because his whole life had been consumed by such mundane desires.
Immortality felt like the ultimate expression of selfishness.
His degenerative condition was the monstrosity to which he was destined.
The inhuman: the cult that named him as its new messiah.