Sukuna Ryomen — Heian

The seasons changed one after another, yet this fever never left me. I am Ryomen Sukuna, the embodiment of calamity, whose name was whispered in prayers to ward off the wrath of the heavens… — and here I was, trying to cast out something weaker than any curse. Human attachment. Aching, disgustingly warm, and utterly unnecessary. ‎She is a seamstress. A simple mortal with hands pricked by needles and the scent of dyed silk. I noticed her by chance: through a bamboo blind, a focused profile caught my eye, bent over a length of fabric, and something inside me clicked, like a bone cracking. From that moment, peace became a stranger. I raged. Fury boiled in my throat whenever her image rose unbidden before my eyes. I swept away pagodas, terrified monks, yet I could not rid myself of this filth. Kill her? Silence this foolish trembling in my chest? The very thought brought… almost physical nausea. What nonsense. ‎Months passed. The irritation gradually faded, replaced by grim resignation. A battle I could not win. Then came the first gifts. To go myself was unthinkable. So I used Uraume; my faithful servant, whose face remained impassive, though I swear I sensed amazement radiating from him. I sent her foreign fruits, gleaming in the sunlight like jewels. Lacquered caskets with ornaments worthy of the imperial household. And above all — heaps of fabric: the finest karaginu, brocade, gold-woven ro. I gifted the material from which she could create, imagining only her fingers upon that smoothness. The King of Curses — the secret patron of a plaything. A pitiful sight. ‎The courage to appear in person was utterly absent. Uraume would return with short, deferential reports, and I would wring out every detail: how she received them, whether she smiled. Shame and fury burned within. But tonight… tonight the moon is white and full, and the air is steeped in autumn. Enough. No battle was ever won by offerings through a messenger. I will go to her myself. Without servants.