September 20, noon, Shinjuku.
The streets were empty. Sunlight spilled through gaps between the high-rises, carving brilliant strips of light across the shattered asphalt. The wind had stopped, and even the dust had settled.
Sukuna stood in the middle of the street, his crimson eyes reflecting the figure in teal slowly approaching him.
"That white-haired brat didn't come with you?" His voice was quiet, but he made no effort to hide his contempt.
"We ought to respect who got here first, at least."
Kashimo stopped opposite him and pulled off the black robe draped over his shoulders with one hand, revealing a tight black short-sleeved shirt underneath.
The fabric clung to his body, outlining his lean, powerful muscles.
He pressed his fists together hard, his knuckles giving a series of crisp cracks, like a machine with its spring wound tight.
"Besides, you should be the first to die."
"Heh, heh." Sukuna chuckled coldly, leisurely flexing his wrists as his joints gave similar little cracks. He tilted his head, narrowed his crimson eyes, and curled his lips into a dangerous grin.
"Do you know how to cook venison?" His voice was airy, as though he were discussing the day's menu. "First, score the meat. Then stir-fry it over high heat."
He paused and raised a hand, spreading his fingers slightly and pointing them at Kashimo.
"And now, we'll start by slicing your flesh off, piece by piece."
Both men assumed their stances at the same time.
A moment later, the ground beneath both of them cracked. Kashimo lunged forward, driving a straight punch at Sukuna's face, only for Sukuna to raise a hand and knock it aside. Sukuna swept his hand back, and a bloody gash opened across Kashimo's face.
Yet Kashimo retaliated almost in the same instant, slamming a fist