The Higher-Ups were all dead.
In that dark, oppressive council chamber, saying that rivers of blood flowed might have been an exaggeration.
But the old people who had once stood high above everyone, holding power over Jujutsu Society, had indeed all become corpses.
They lay in various twisted positions on their ornate chairs or the floor, like broken dolls tossed aside by a mischievous child.
And Madara left without a care.
He pushed open the heavy wooden doors and stepped into the bright corridor outside.
Afternoon sunlight spilled through the high stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns of light and shadow on the floor, in stark contrast to the dark room steeped in death behind him.
Madara walked down the corridor at an unhurried pace, his black uniform spotless in the light.
His head was slightly lowered, and he murmured to himself, as though reviewing the battle just now, or thinking about something.
"A Cursed Technique that uses language to confuse and manipulate people's minds... No wonder listening to him made me feel a little uneasy."
He recalled how it had felt to listen to that aged voice.
It had not merely been skillful rhetoric; it had also carried an effect akin to mental suggestion.
Had it been someone whose will was less firm, or who already harbored resentment toward Satoru Gojo,
they probably really would have gradually believed those lies riddled with holes under the guidance of those words, and come to doubt or even hate Satoru Gojo.
The reason the Higher-Ups had dared to summon Madara and fabricate such clumsy lies to his face
was probably their reliance on this Cursed Technique, which could subtly influence other people's thinking.
They had used this trick to control many people and resolve many problems.
So they had naturally assumed that a