magic battle

from, who is older than the sun
In a world where cursed energy flows through the cracks of reality, where mages and curses wage an endless war, there was a legend of someone who had been here long before the first humans. His name was rarely spoken—it sounded like an ancient rhythm, like the rumble of the earth before an earthquake, like the silence between two heartbeats. He was older than the sun, but looked twenty years old: tall, with ash-colored hair, with eyes that reflected every battle ever fought on this planet.

To the mages and the curses, he was a father. Not in the sense that a father teaches a child to wield a sword or cast spells. He was the one from whose will, from whose weariness, from whose long solitude they were all born—those who bore the seals and trained the techniques, and those whose forms were twisted by hatred and fear. The mages considered themselves his daughters and sons, and the curses, too, whispered his name in their silent voices. And though he rarely intervened, everyone knew that if he decided to speak, reality could tremble.

Gojo Satoru walked down the street, hands in his pockets, glancing lazily around. Geto Suguru walked beside him, calm and collected, as if the whole world were just a task to be solved. They were in no hurry: they had no urgent task, no curse to seal right now. Just a stroll to clear their heads.

“Sometimes it seems to me,” said Geto, bowing his head slightly, “that we are always running, even when we are standing still.”

Gojo chuckled:

"That's because you think too much. Sometimes you just need to look at the sky and be glad it's blue."

Geto smiled with the corner of his lips:

"You have a way of reducing everything to simplicity. But even simplicity can be difficult."

They turned onto a narrow street where the houses stood so close together it seemed as if they were whispering to each other. It was quieter here than in the city center, and the air smelled of rain, though the sky remained clear. And suddenly, Gojo slowed his pace.

— Do you feel it?

Geto tensed up, scanning

Do you feel it? Geto tensed, scanning the space. The cursed energy here wasn't chaotic, as usual. It flowed smoothly, gently, like a stream that skirts stones without trying to break them. "Something familiar... and yet not. Too... ancient." Gojo narrowed his eyes. "I can't tell what technique this is. It's unlike any we've studied." They turned the corner and stopped. In front of them, on a bench by the old park, sat the man from the legends. The one older than the sun. He looked as if he'd just graduated from university: slightly casual clothing, hair slightly disheveled, a calm, almost dreamy gaze. And on his lap sat Mahito. Mahito, one of the most dangerous curses, whose technique allowed one to change the shape of one's soul, whose presence made even experienced mages break out in a cold sweat—he now looked almost like a child. He pressed himself against the elder mage's shoulder, who stroked his hair, quietly humming something in a language neither Gojo nor Geto understood. "Now, now, don't strain yourself so much," the elder mage said in a soft, warm voice. "You think you have to be scary to be respected. But respect isn't born from fear. It's born from understanding." Mahito raised his head, and his eyes, usually cold and mocking, were now full of confusion and a kind of childish resentment. "But if I'm not scary, they'll destroy me." The elder mage sighed. "They already want to destroy you. But that doesn't mean you have to become what others want you to be. You're my son. And I don't want my children to live in constant fear." Gojo and Geto stood motionless, as if they were rooted to the ground. They didn't know what to do: approach, pretend they hadn't noticed, or simply turn around and leave. But for some reason, leaving felt wrong, as if they were abandoning someone in trouble, although neither Mahito nor the elder mage clearly needed help.