Gojo watched the dragon shrink into the sky, its massive wings beating furiously as it vanished into the clouds. Blood speckled the snow where its eye had been. His cursed technique, Red, hadn’t killed it—but it had wounded it. Scared it. That was enough.

  “That was too close,” Gojo muttered, the words lost to the wind. His body still reeked of charred flesh. Every breath hurt.

  He should have died.

  Again.

  He had landed a Black Flash—pulled from instinct and desperation—but even that hadn’t guaranteed survival. Not until Conversion awoke.

  His new cursed technique.

  Gojo looked down at his hands, trembling and bloodied. Conversion. A power that allowed him to transform mass into cursed energy. A strange, delicate balance of destruction and rebirth. When he bit into the Child of the Forest’s fingers, he wasn’t just feeding—he was converting. Turning that alien flesh into a foreign cursed energy, feeding it into his own circuits.

  Two incompatible energies, grinding against each other inside his soul.

  And from that collision—healing. A forced mimicry of reversed cursed energy. An unstable, beautiful reaction. Pain turned into power.

  It wasn’t sustainable. It wasn’t perfect. But it worked.

  Only Gojo could have done this.

  He’d mastered Hollow Purple, the synthesis of Red and Blue. He’d taught himself to destroy and heal his brain in combat. He had fought Sukuna. Survived Mahoraga. Died once, and returned.

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  So this miracle?

  This was earned.

  With the last of his cursed energy, Gojo raised his hand—and fired.

  Thirteen streaks of crimson light blazed across the frozen battlefield, cutting through fog and snow like meteors. Each beam honed in, each blast precise.

  When the blizzard cleared, twelve Children of the Forest lay in twisted heaps, their bodies torn apart. The thirteenth target—Coldhands’ possessed corpse—crumbled into ash.

  Gojo dropped his arm, gasping.

  Red - the simple repulsion of converted cursed technique was easy now. Compared to resurrection? Child’s play.

  The silence that followed was loud. Gojo could hear only his breathing, the rasp of burned lungs struggling to keep pace. The dragon had nearly incinerated him. His skin still peeled and flaked with every movement. He couldn’t stay here.

  He wasn’t ready to face another dragon.

  Not yet.

  As he turned to leave, something caught his eye—amidst the ashes of Coldhands, half-buried in the snow.

  A blade.

  Gojo knelt and picked it up. Dark Sister.

  The weapon shimmered with an aura far older than the Wall. Its cursed energy felt... bound. Condensed. Like pain given shape.

  Gojo frowned.

  Valyrian steel. A cursed tool. No—the cursed tool of this world. Forged through alchemy and sacrifice. Blood melted into iron. Souls hammered into edges.

  Another legacy of human cruelty.

  Gojo felt that old weight creeping back in—like a noose around his neck.

  Was this all people were? Empires of suffering? Fathers like Craster abandoning their sons. Brothers killing each other over thrones. Mothers like Alicent poisoning the world just to see their children crowned.

  The pattern never changed.

  It was Jujutsu Society all over again.

  And like before—Gojo benefited from it. He was reborn through a blood sacrifice. He had killed to survive. He had taken power in a world that thrived on pain.

  A part of him wondered if he was just another cog in a cursed machine.

  But then—

  He remembered.

  Yuji. Megumi. Nobara.

  They had been his students. His hope. And in the end, they were the ones who broke the cycle.

  Not Gojo.

  But now?

  Now he understood.

  He couldn’t do it alone.

  Even the strongest need someone to carry the fire when they fall.

  Gojo clenched his fist around Dark Sister.

  He would change this world. Or die trying.

  But not before finding someone worthy to pass the torch.

  He missed his students.

  More than anything.