The Gathering Storm
The city’s outskirts lay draped in a suffocating haze, where crumbling buildings leaned precariously against one another like weary sentinels guarding forgotten secrets. Asphalt cracked beneath scuffed boots, its fractures glowing faintly with a sickly blue light—remnants of cursed energy bleeding into the world. The air hung heavy, thick with a palpable dread that seeped into every shadowed alley and whispered across broken windows. Somewhere nearby, the distant wail of sirens mingled with guttural snarls, a chorus of chaos heralding the rise of malevolence.
Satoru Gojo moved through the desolation with a casual grace that belied the weight pressing down on his shoulders. His blindfold gleamed faintly under the dim streetlights, a stark contrast to the ruin surrounding him. Even amid decay, his presence radiated an unshakable confidence, the calm eye in the storm brewing around him. Each step was deliberate but unhurried, as if the world’s unraveling was merely a bothersome breeze brushing past.
A sudden screech tore through the silence, sharp and frantic. Gojo’s head tilted slightly, sensing the surge of cursed energy before it fully manifested. Without hesitation, he pivoted…