mojito

The air crackled with tension. Mahito, with the distinctive stripes crossing his face and a sinister smile frozen on his lips, stood in the middle of a ruined street. Opposite him stood Gojo Satoru, calm and confident, and Nanami Kento, whose gaze was cold and his posture composed. The battle had been going on for several dozen minutes, and both sides were beginning to falter.

Mahito laughed—hoarsely, mockingly—toying with the mages, sometimes retreating, sometimes charging again. His cursed energy pulsed, distorting the space around him, and his ability to manipulate souls made him nearly invulnerable.

"Do you really think you can stop me?" he hissed, dodging another of Gojo's blows. "You're just..."

He didn't have time to finish.

Suddenly, the air thickened, as if weighed down by something unknown. The space trembled, and a figure appeared a few steps away from Mahito.

All three of them - Mahito, Gojo, and Nanami - froze, amazed by what they saw.

Before them stood a young man remarkably similar to Mahito. The same facial structure, the same strange, almost unnatural beauty. His skin bore the same stripes—exactly the same as Mahito's: the same lines, the same pattern, just as neatly and symmetrically knotted. And his smile—the same, with the same corners raised in a mocking, almost sardonic curve.