A deep, suffocating silence filled the void. No heartbeat. No air. No ground. Just darkness — thick, tangible, ancient.
Then, light.
A ripple tore through the pitch-black nothingness, and a boy gasped awake as if pulled from drowning. His silver hair caught the glow of the rising red sun, glistening like a blade freshly drawn. Golden eyes blinked once, sharp and aware, as if centuries of knowledge had poured into him in an instant.
He was naked under the twilight sky, lying atop a patch of cracked earth surrounded by whispering trees, crooked and dead. The wind carried not warmth, but voices — cruel, mocking, curious.
"...Where... am I?" he murmured, sitting up slowly. His voice was calm, deeper than expected for a boy who appeared fifteen, yet carried an unspoken weight, as if this wasn't his first breath.
The world around him pulsed with spiritual energy. But it wasn't holy. It wasn't serene. It was cursed.
The boy stood. He was tall — abnormally so. Nearly 7'8", lean yet sculpted, an eerie mixture of elegance and latent destruction. His silver hair flowed to his shoulders, tousled, wild, yet regal. His golden eyes shimmered not with innocence but power — ancient, terrifying, beautiful.
And in his chest, something stirred.
A cursed energy so vast, so violent, so oppressive, that the very ground beneath his feet cracked. A low hum escaped the air itself, like the universe recoiling.
"...Sukuna," he whispered.
He didn't say it out of fear. He said it because he understood it — this was the name of the curse within. Not possessed. Not inherited. Reborn. Every technique, every ability, every ounce of Ryomen Sukuna's horror and brilliance had fused into his soul.
But he was not Sukuna.
He was himself. Reborn.
A boy from another world. A soul ripped from a life long gone — now rewritten into this strange, vibrant, chaotic reality. And no one would know. His presence, his memories, even his origin had been cloaked by fate itself. To this world, he simply belonged.
He clenched his fists, and cursed energy surged through his veins like fire and lightning entwined. He felt the Divine Dogs stir inside his shadow, heard the rumble of Max Elephant in the distance of his soul, sensed the heavy pull of Mahoraga waiting in stillness like an executioner.
"Ten Shadows… Malevolent Shrine… Soul Cleave... All mine," he muttered, flexing his hand. Crimson lines glowed briefly beneath his skin — binding vows etched in pain and promise.
And yet, despite this overwhelming power, there was a warmth in his chest.
He smiled.
A crooked, genuine, almost human smile.
"Looks like I'm getting a second chance, huh?" he chuckled.
Not just to live. But to evolve.
He took his first step forward — and the cursed ground cracked further, sighing beneath his weight. Every breath he took radiated cursed energy. But he wasn't leaking it. He was controlling it. Masterfully.
He reached into his shadow. With ease, his fingers plunged into the darkness beneath his feet — and from it, a small scroll emerged. Blank. Waiting.
A record.
A journal of his journey.
He wrote with his finger, his cursed energy imprinting words directly into the fabric.
> Year 0. Day 1.
I've awakened three years before this world begins its madness. Before Ayase, before Okarun, before the aliens and spirits and gods of thunder. I will be ready for them all.
My name… no, I've forgotten it. Or maybe I've given it up.
But I will carve a new one with my power, my curse, and my soul.
For I am the Curseborn.
The wind shifted.
His head snapped toward the northeast.
Something was moving.
A cursed spirit — weak, disjointed, slithering across the abandoned train tracks near the forest's edge. It reeked of vengeance, sorrow, rot. Not a threat. But perfect for a test.
"Let's see if this world bleeds like mine did."
He stepped through the trees, silent as moonlight, fast as thunder.
The cursed spirit turned. It was a disgusting thing — a mass of hands and mouths and eyes, weeping and laughing and moaning. A low-level entity. Nothing worth fearing.
But his instincts didn't allow mercy. They only demanded precision.
He extended his hand. Fingers spread.
"Cleave."
A thin red slash of cursed energy tore through the spirit in a blink. No fanfare. No delay. It died before it could scream. Clean, efficient.
He knelt beside it.
The spirit's soul quivered, still faintly clinging to the edge of oblivion.
"Pain makes you linger," he murmured. "But I don't like suffering. Not unless it's earned."
He raised a finger, charged it with reverse cursed energy, and gently touched the spirit's brow.
For a moment, it glowed.
Then, it faded — clean, peaceful. Released.
He stood.
"I'm not a monster," he said quietly to the air. "Not anymore."
A pause.
"But I can be."
He turned back toward the woods, golden eyes glowing in the dark.
Somewhere in this world, the future waited — with ghosts, aliens, yokai, gods, and girls.
He didn't know them yet. But he would.
One of them — Momo Ayase — would become his heart.
Another — Aira Shiratori — would become his soul.
And between them, he would find something even greater than power.
Home.
He took a deep breath and began walking.
The first step of three years that would shape fate, love, and the curse of a lifetime.