The last vision faded like smoke in the wind.

  Before Gojo, the skeleton of Bran the Builder—once thrumming with cursed energy—crumbled into dust. The final remnants of resentment, pain, and purpose dissolved into the cold air.

  Even five thousand years of rage couldn’t last forever.

  Gojo watched silently.

  A man who saw the truth, who reached for something greater, only to fall short. Bran had no successor. His children, born of the Corpse Queen, were taken back to Winterfell—raised in ignorance, their bloodline twisted into a lie. A kingdom built on sacrifice and silence.

  Gojo sighed.

  "Fool," he muttered.

  Not out of cruelty—but pity.

  Bran had tried to do the right thing. Alone. In the shadows. And he failed.

  Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

  But at least… he tried.

  Now, the burden passed to someone else. To Gojo Satoru. He wouldn’t make the same mistake. He wouldn't die with regret—or leave the next generation in chains.

  Gojo turned to the glass candles—once tools of vision, now prisons of cursed energy.

  "A chore," he muttered. "Always a chore."

  One by one, he swallowed them.

  Each shard scraped down his throat, humming with the weight of forgotten history. But Gojo didn’t flinch. His body lit with cursed energy, Conversion igniting with divine purpose. The glass melted, shattered, turned to nothing.

  The throne room trembled.

  A distant, groaning crack echoed through the North.

  The Wall—all of it—began to crumble.

  A thunderous avalanche of stone and ice. The ancient spellwork undone, no longer fed by blood or binding vows. Gojo felt it all fall. From Eastwatch to Shadow Tower, every stronghold buckled, collapsed into ruin.

  When the silence returned, only roots remained.

  Weirwood trees. Towering. Unnatural.

  Their faces twisted, mouths open wide in silent screams. Red sap bled like tears as they stood in place of the Wall, guardians of a pact older than memory. The cursed forest had returned to claim its place.

  Gojo stood before them, cloak flapping in the wind.

  No turning back now.

  The path ahead led only north. To the Lands of Always Winter. To the Moon Shard. To the source of all of this madness.

  He would end it.

  No matter what it was. No matter who stood in his way.

  Even if he had to tear the sky apart