The ryokan thrummed with clamor, the air thick with the sound of shamisen and taiko drums, their notes clashing like warring spirits. Women in flowing kimonos, their obi tied with elegance, glided through the hall, offering sake and coy glances to the men sprawled across cushions in the chamber.

The scent of rice wine and roasted fish mingled with the haze of incense, while raucous laughter and the clink of gambling tiles filled the spaces between.

For Ryomen Sukuna, it was a tiresome scene, one he had witnessed countless times. This ryokan, this den of fleeting pleasures, bore his name, as did every inch of land his shadow touched.

His pride swelled larger than the power coiled within his form—a power restrained only by the prayer beads draped around his neck, their weight a tether to keep his true, monstrous self at bay. That form, born in the fires of a bygone age, had feasted on human flesh and souls for nigh on a thousand years.

It was the Heian era, the year 666 by mortal reckoning—a number that curled Sukuna’s lips into a faint, wicked smile. A fitting omen for one such as he, a demon too vile for the depths of Yomi, too fearsome for the heavens to claim.

Hell had spat him out, unable to contain his malevolence, and now the earth bore the weight of his existence.

Ryomen Sukuna, the name whispered in awe and dread, commanded reverence. Nobles bowed before him, their foreheads pressed to the tatami, and this establishment—his establishment—stood as a testament to his dominion.

Clad in a kimono of pale pink, its inner layers of white silk clinging to his form, he exuded an aura that silenced the room as he entered. His presence was a storm, inevitable and overwhelming.

“Lord Sukuna,” murmured Kyomi, a serving woman, her head bowed low, eyes averted as custom demanded. To meet his gaze was to invite misfortune, for his curse was as potent as his name. “Shall we prepare the lower chamber for your tea, my lord?”

Sukuna’s lips twitched, a yawn escaping him as he surveyed the rabble. “Nay, Kyomi. I shall remain here, amidst these boorish fools. Find me a table by the window, where the moonlight may soothe my temper.” His voice, though languid, carried a weight that brooked no dissent.

The women in their silken kimonos hastened to obey, guiding him to a low table where the pale glow of the moon spilled through the shoji screens.

Later, Sukuna sat in solitude, his tea steaming before him. He closed his eyes, shutting out the din of drunken revelry, and drew a breath to replenish his cursed energy.

Each sip was a ritual, a moment to center himself as he awaited the inevitable—his final battle, the end of an existence that had stretched too long. Death was no stranger to him; he welcomed its approach.

Love, a wife, children—these were fleeting dreams for one such as he. His curse would claim them, as it had all else. The heavens shunned him, and even the demons of Yomi quailed before his might. Earth alone endured him, and even then, only barely.

Yet, the women of his ryokan were not mere chattel. They were not the cast-off courtesans of the imperial court but souls he had plucked from ruin.

Beaten, abandoned, they had found sanctuary under his roof. To him, they were as daughters, shielded by his wrath, their tongues sharp as any blade. He ensured their safety, their dignity, for none dared cross Sukuna’s kin.

A commotion stirred the air, pulling him from his reverie. He kept his eyes closed, trusting his women to handle the disturbance. Their voices, honed by necessity, could flay a man’s pride without need for his intervention.

But then—a voice, unfamiliar, cut through the din. It was not one of his own. The aura, the scent, the very presence was... other.

“You wretched bitch!” slurred a drunken voice, thick with venom. “You spilled my sake! Do you even belong here? I should spit upon you!” The words were followed by the sound of a struggle, a hand seizing hair not accustomed to such insult.

Sukuna’s brow twitched, his patience fraying at the word bitch. He loathed such crassness, especially in his domain. His eyes opened, slow and deliberate, and there stood a stranger.

A visitor in his ryokan, where women typically retired to their chambers above.

Their presence was an anomaly, a spark in the monotony of his existence.

He leaned back, exhaling a breath that seemed to draw the light from the room. The air grew heavy, the shadows deepening as his cursed energy pulsed, effortless and oppressive.

The sound barriers shattered, a low hum reverberating through the hall, and the drunkard’s ears bled as he staggered back, clutching his head.

“Silence,” Sukuna commanded, his voice a blade that sliced through the clamor. “It is nigh on midnight, and your filthy tongue offends me. Begone, lest I carve the stench from your mouth.”

The man fled, his screams echoing as he stumbled into the night.

Sukuna's gaze shifted to the stranger, his head tilting with a faint, predatory smile. “You, little rabbit,” he said, his tone laced with amusement, though his eyes burned with curiosity.

“What is your name? Do you court trouble so boldly?” A low, airy laugh escaped him, as if this newcomer had stirred something long dormant within his cursed heart.

For the first time in centuries, it pulsed with something akin to life.