Chapter 3: The Priest's Last Stand
The silence that followed was thicker than the chamber’s stagnant air. It was broken only by the wet, ragged gasps of Naoya, slumped against a jagged outcropping of stone. His ribs were a fireworks display of pain with every breath, his fine robes dusted with pulverized rock from the impact. He watched, one eye swollen shut, as the demon attended to the girl.
Sukuna’s movements were unnervingly methodical. With his lowest left hand, he ripped a long swath of silk from the ruined altar cloth. His other hands were still on Megumi, who trembled against him, her small form utterly enveloped. He used the silk to wipe gently at the smear of blood on her lower lip—his blood, from where she’d bitten him earlier. The gesture was so at odds with the violence of moments before that Naoya’s fractured mind stuttered, trying to reconcile it.
“You’re messy,” Sukuna rumbled, his voice a low vibration against Megumi’s temple.
She didn’t speak. Her wide eyes were fixed on nothing, glazed with spent terror and a shock so profound it had carved her hollow. Her body ached in ways she had no words for, stretched and filled and humming with a foreign, brutal electricity.
Sukuna tilted her chin up with a single claw-tipped finger. “Still in there, little one?”
A blink. A slow, shivering breath. She gave the barest nod.
“Good.”
He shifted her in his grip, standing up from the shattered altar in one fluid, powerful motion. Megumi’s world lurched; her arms instinctively curled around the column of his neck, her face pressing into the strange warmth of his skin. He smelled of ozone, of old stone, and of something else—something darkly metallic and utterly alive.
He began to walk, his footsteps echoing through the vast chamber, leaving Naoya crumpled in the gloom.
“Wait.” The word was a bloody croak from the high priest.
Sukuna paused, not even turning his head. One of the eyes on his left cheek rolled backward to regard the broken man. “You’re still breathing. That’s more courtesy than you deserve.”
“The ritual… is incomplete. The covenant—” Naoya choked, pushing himself up on an elbow. “You took the vessel but did not consume her. The balance is broken. You will bring ruin.”
Now Sukuna turned. The look on his face was one of pure, unadulterated boredom. “Your ‘covenant’ was a begging letter scribbled by frightened primitives. I took what I wanted from it. The girl. The rest is static.” He adjusted his grip on Megumi, who peered over his shoulder, her green eyes meeting Naoya’s for a fleeting second. “Ruin is what I do, priest. You just never understood the delivery method.”
He continued walking towards a sheer wall of obsidian. As he approached, the stone rippled like water and peeled back in a silent, black yawn, revealing a corridor that led into the heart of his domain.
Naoya’s voice followed them, weakening but fervent. “She is a tool! A means to an end! You can’t just—!”
The wall sealed itself shut, cutting off his rant. The silence returned, deeper now, punctuated only by the soft drip of moisture from unseen places.
The corridor was not long. It opened into a space that was not a room, but a pocket of will made manifest. The air was warmer, dry, and carried the faint, clean scent of ozone. The floor was smooth, polished stone, and piled in the center was a vast nest of silks, furs, and strangely soft hides. Trophies of forgotten beasts and gleaming, unrecognizable artifacts lined shallow alcoves, but the focus was the bed.
Here, Sukuna knelt, placing Megumi down on the dark silks with a care that felt impossible. She sank into the material, her torn traditional garments stark against the black. He loomed over her, his four arms braced on the bedding, caging her but not touching. His lower set of eyes studied her face, while the upper pair scanned her body with a detached, assessing heat.
“He’s wrong, you know,” Sukuna said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather.
Megumi swallowed. Her voice, when it came, was raspy from screaming. “About what?”
“About you being a tool.” One finger traced the line of her jaw, down the column of her throat, coming to rest lightly on her collarbone. “Tools are simple. They have a purpose. You,” he said, and a slow, predatory grin spread across his features, “are complicated. You’re fear and heat and a stubborn little heartbeat that won’t quit. More fun.”
The fear was still there, a cold stone in her gut. But beneath it, something else was sparking—a faint, guttering defiance. She was alive. Against every prophecy, every teaching, every certainty of her short, sheltered life, she was alive. And he was… talking to her.
“What happens now?” she whispered.
“Now,” he said, lowering himself beside her, the immense weight of him making the bedding dip. “You rest. You heal.” One of his upper hands gestured vaguely. “This is my space. Nothing gets in I don’t allow. Not even that buzzing insect of a priest.”
He was so close. She could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the almost-human texture of his skin. The second mouth on his torso was still, lips closed. The raging monster from the altar seemed to have receded, replaced by this watchful, intense presence.
“Why?” The question left her before she could stop it.
His red eyes gleamed. “Why what?”
“Why… this? Why not just… do what they wanted?” She couldn’t bring herself to say eat me.
Sukuna laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Boredom. Aesthetics. Take your pick.” He rolled onto his back, two arms tucked behind his head, the other two resting on his stomach. He stared at the shadowed ceiling. “Centuries of the same dismal pageantry. ‘Oh, great Sukuna, accept our offering, gnash, gnash, devour.’ It’s tedious. Then they send you.” He turned his head to look at her. “You didn’t just lie there. You shook. You cried pretty tears. You even tried to bite. It was… novel.”
Megumi processed this. She was a diversion. A novelty. It wasn’t kindness; it was caprice. The truth of it should have been crushing, but in a strange way, it was a relief. It was a reason she could understand. It was real.
A thick blanket of exhaustion settled over her. The adrenaline was gone, leaving her muscles watery and her mind sluggish. She curled slightly on her side, facing him, her eyes heavy.
“He’ll try again,” she murmured, half into the silk. “Naoya. He believes too much to stop.”
From beside her, she heard the low rumble of Sukuna’s voice, closer now.
“Let him try.”
A massive arm, heavy and warm, settled over her waist, not restraining, just… there. A physical anchor in the form of a demon.
“Sleep, little sacrifice. The only thing getting devoured tonight is my peace and quiet.”
Against all instinct, against every shred of doctrine that had been hammered into her, Megumi felt her body relax into the heat he radiated. The last thing she was aware of was the steady, slow rhythm of his breath and the faint, pleased hum that came from the mouth on his stomach.
Outside the sealed chamber, in the wreckage of the ritual space, Naoya Zen’in used his torn robe as a makeshift sling and forced himself to his feet. Pain was a clarifying fire. The vision of the girl, alive and claimed but not consumed, played behind his eyes on a vicious loop. His faith wasn’t shattered. It was reforged, hardened into something sharp and desperate.
He limped towards the exit, each step a vow. The covenant would be fulfilled. The balance would be restored. If the King of Curses preferred corruption to consumption, then Naoya would simply have to provide a more compelling offering.
The girl was the key. She had to be retrieved. Or destroyed.
His bloody lips moved in a silent prayer, not of supplication, but of declaration. The ritual was not over. It had only just begun.