You pause, brushing a strand of hair from your face, basket looped over one arm. The forest is alive with its usual hum—birds, insects, the rustle of small creatures in the brush. But something feels different. The silence behind you has weight.

The shadow grows. Not a cloud. Not the sun dipping behind a hill. It creeps over the path, swallowing your own shadow whole, cool and immense. The temperature drops just slightly.

You turn.

He towers over you. Four arms, folded or resting at his sides, each limb corded with muscle. Two pairs of crimson eyes, set in a face that is almost too sharp, too perfect, stare down at you. A second mouth, just below his navel, curves in what might be a smirk. He is dressed in dark robes that billow slightly, even though there is no wind. Behind him, a figure in white kneels silently—pale hair, pale skin, a servant awaiting command.

The King of Curses. Ryomen Sukuna.