Gojo had never felt a weight like this before—not in Shibuya, not in the Jujutsu Headquarters, not even in his final battle against Sukuna. It wasn’t just lifting mass or converting energy; it was wrestling with the memory of an ancient god, with gravity itself.
Now he understood.
Now he truly understood why so much blood had been sacrificed to the Moon Shard across the millennia. That cursed god hadn’t just demanded blood out of cruelty. It needed the energy—oceans of it—just to nudge the moon into motion.
And Gojo?
He had done more than nudge it.
He had consumed the remnants of the Moon Shard—its soul, its will, its lingering cursed energy—and transformed it into something new. Something his.
Floating high above Westeros, his body bathed in silver light, Gojo channeled the celestial technique with his entire being. Hands trembling, breath ragged, heart steady.
The Winter Moon, cold and beautiful and vast, began to drift backward—back toward the Lands of Always Winter.
The Long Night ended.
From the Dreadfort to the Neck, from the Wall to Winterfell, the night sky began to shift. The cursed glow receded. The blizzards calmed. The stars returned.
And beneath him, stretched across the white plains, a mass of wildlings fell to their knees.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
They had watched it all.
The blinding red beam that split the sky. The screaming winds that cracked mountains. The sight of a floating moon crashing down toward a lone man, only for that man to rise again, untouched and glorious.
The destruction of the cold gods, a god of their ancestors' nightmares, undone by one man wrapped in light.
They didn’t understand cursed energy or domain expansions. But they understood what they saw.
They saw a god slay another god.
And when Gojo rose again, naked and surrounded by drifting moonlight, they wept and bowed. Whispers passed through the kneeling crowds:
“He is one of the Old Gods, made flesh...”
“He came from the moon to protect us...”
“He banished the Long Night...”
“The god of death turned his blade on winter itself.”
They had no idea what they were witnessing. Only that the moon, that second moon which had haunted them for weeks, had moved because of the figure in the sky.
That glowing man with white hair and eyes like crushed amethyst.
A god.
Gojo looked down. Thousands of people—men, women, children—bowed to him in fear, awe, and something like reverence.
He frowned.
Then he looked at his reflection in a frozen river. It startled him.
White hair. Purple eyes. A face more beautiful and alien than Jon Snow's ever was. The soul of Jon had truly left him—passed on, freed—and Gojo’s form had reverted back into something else. Something closer to who he once was.
And he was naked.
“Ah… crap.”
Thousands of wildlings, staring up at him, whispering prayers. And here he was, floating naked in the freezing sky like some holy painting gone wrong.
Gojo sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
“…This is so embarrassing.”
Not even Infinity could protect him from shame.
With a flicker of cursed energy, he vanished from the sky, leaving behind only a fading silhouette in the moonlight.
He reappeared far away—deep north, far past the Wall—his feet landing softly in snow outside a cave choked with twisted roots and old, dead trees.
The last refuge of the Children of the Forest.
The cave of the Three-Eyed Crow.
This was where the final answers lay. Where the true story of Westeros began—and maybe, just maybe—where it could finally end.