Just like Omni-Man said, Viltrumites don't need to jump or gain momentum. There's no need to build speed or push off the ground. It's internal—pure, raw propulsion. Leverage born from inside the body. Muscles flex, and physics just… cooperates.
No theatrics.
Just control.
I open the front door, letting the fading sunlight hit my face. The heat's still hanging in the air—thick and muggy, like the summer itself is sweating. I step outside, ready to find a quiet place where I can unleash some chaos without drawing a crowd.
But right as my foot hits the porch—
"Nissei, where are you going?" a voice calls from behind me. "I know it's summer break, but the sun's setting soon."
Diddy's manager.
A.K.A. my new mom.
Oh hell.
I turn slowly, already preparing some kind of excuse. I need to start being more careful. Pay attention. Check if I even have a phone. I'm not used to having to deal with anime-level surveillance.
"Don't worry, Mom," I say, casual. "I'm just going for a walk—to calm myself down and get away from all this perverted nonsense."
She narrows her eyes into a weak attempt at a death glare. Her mouth tightens like she's about to cancel my life via a disappointed mom lecture. But all I see is someone who looks like she's practicing for the lead role in Suburban Threat Level: Mild.
"I don't like this attitude, Nissei Hyoudou."
She says my full name like she expects it to strike fear into my soul. Like we're in a fantasy RPG and that's supposed to be a spell that lowers my defense.
Lady, I'm from Earth. Real Earth. Where disrespect earns you a good old asswhooping with maybe a frying pan to the temple and a lecture you'll remember forever.
I raise an eyebrow. "Look, I'm going out. I'll be back later. Bye."
Before she can open her mouth again to defend Issei's 'freedom of expression,' I step off the porch and take the first quick stride down the road. I hear her sigh behind me, but thankfully, she doesn't follow.
Jesus. What the hell is this world?
I walk.
Maybe an hour. Maybe more. I let the heat fade, let the sky turn orange, let the crickets start chirping. I don't even check where I'm going—I just move, trusting that if I find trees and silence, I'll be good.
Eventually, I find it.
A forest.
Tall pines. Thick underbrush. Enough distance from anything that matters. Perfect.
Time to test my speed.
I take a breath, flex the right muscles, and launch forward—
Like R. Kelly's behind me handing out golden showers.
The world blurs. Trees whip past. My hair snaps back. The wind is sharp, slicing at my cheeks. But it feels right. Not like I'm straining to go fast—more like speed is just the default setting. No resistance. No effort. I don't even feel my feet touching the ground after a few steps—it's more like flying, only angled down.
I come to a sudden stop, skidding in the dirt and throwing up a spray of dust and pine needles. I steady myself.
And slam my fist into the ground.
Bad idea.
The shockwave cracks outward like a thunderclap. Earth explodes around me. I've punched a crater into the middle of the forest floor. Bits of rock and dirt hang in the air before falling like slow rain.
I look around. The trees nearest to me are now leaning like they're reconsidering their careers.
"Okay… not subtle," I mutter.
I move deeper, weaving through the trees until I find a clearing farther in. This one's wide, quiet, surrounded by thick greenery on all sides. Even the wind seems softer here.
Alright. Round two.
Time to try Sukuna's power.
As soon as I focus on it, something inside me shifts.
It starts in my chest—a warm coil of energy spreading across my skin. It creeps down my arms, crawling like ink under the skin. Then I see it—black markings. Tattoos swirling up my arms, wrapping around my chest, climbing my neck.
Then my face.
The air feels heavier.
I lift my hand, and as I do—I see something that shouldn't be there.
My finger stops beside my eye.
Except… it's not my eye.
There's an extra one.
"What the fuck—"
Before panic sets in, I lock in on a single thought: Get rid of them.
Control. Intent.
The tattoos fade instantly. The warmth recedes. The extra eyes vanish. My vision snaps back to normal like someone took off a VR headset.
Okay. Cool. That's not terrifying at all.
Why do I have extra eyes?
Why do they feel like they're watching even when they're gone?
I shake off the thought and face a nearby tree. Thick trunk. Old. Solid.
I raise my right hand, thumb up, index and middle fingers extended. Like a gun. Like a warning.
Cleave or Dismantle?
The memory hits me fast, sharp:
Cleave adapts to the toughness of what it hits. It slices to match resistance.
Dismantle is a raw cut—fast, direct, no mercy.
I go with Dismantle.
I fire it off.
A flash. A noise like ripping fabric from the inside of your skull.
And then—gone. The tree I was aiming at, and about seven behind it, are completely severed. A diagonal slice so clean they don't even fall right away. They just hang there for a second like they're in shock.
Then they collapse, one after another, a chorus of crashing trunks.
I blink. Step back.
"Holy shit."
That… was not what I meant to do. That was a warning shot.
And I just Hiroshima'd the forest.
I breathe in. Out. More memories slide into place—about energy control, limiting output, reading durability, the feel of cursed energy when it's focused versus when it's wild.
Alright.
I turn to another tree. Raise my hand again—this time with only one finger extended. Slower. Focused.
I aim carefully.
Think it. Feel it.
Dismantle.
The energy flows out of me again—but not wild this time. It feels tight. Precise. Like a scalpel, not a guillotine.
The tree splits clean in two. A thin, quiet cut. No shockwave. No fallout. It slides apart and drops gently to the ground, like it was never whole in the first place.
I exhale.
"Much better."
I can feel it now—cursed energy. It's not just around me; it's everywhere—woven into the air, humming beneath the earth, clinging to the trees like dew.
I want to see if I can take it a step further—use it not just as a source of power, but as a sensory extension of myself. Not just to attack or defend—but to perceive. To understand.
So I stop moving.
I close my eyes, draw a deep breath in… hold… and release. Slowly. Deliberately.
Then again.
Each inhale feels colder than the last, more focused. Each exhale feels like I'm shedding the noise in my head, clearing space for something else—something ancient, intuitive, alive.
With each breath, I can feel the cursed energy syncing with my rhythm. My pulse slows. The air grows thicker—charged. Not oppressive, but heavy with possibility.
Then—it hits.
Not a thought. Not a memory. A presence.
It crashes into me like a lightning strike of recognition. A memory—but one that doesn't belong to the life I lived. Yet somehow, it does.
I'm standing in the woods. Different woods—colder, darker. I can see my breath fog the air in front of me, heart thudding hard in my chest. Everything is dead quiet. But not peaceful.
It's that kind of silence that wraps around you like a predator—too perfect. Too still.
Then I feel it.
Cursed energy. Not through my eyes. Not through my ears. Not even through touch.
Through everything.
My skin prickles like the forest is pressing against it. The space around me bends subtly, like it's shifting, breathing with me.
I can feel the trees. The dirt. The wind that isn't moving. I can feel something wrong in the stillness—something waiting.
The memory guides me. Whispers through my bones:
Reach out—not with your hands, but with the energy inside you.
So I do.
No force. No straining. I just… allow.
And suddenly, I know.
I can sense a rabbit skittering underbrush thirty feet to my left, its body warm, heartbeat rapid. I can feel the decay leaking off a twisted tree nearby—the cursed residue oozing like oil. I sense a shift in the air behind me, subtle, like the breath of someone just a little too close.
And yet—I'm not afraid.
This is how cursed energy really works.
You don't just use it. You become it. You don't just see with it—you feel with it. You understand with it. You know danger before it makes a sound. You read intention before words are spoken.
It's not just supernatural. It's instinctual.
It's terrifying… but it feels right.
Like I was always meant to do this.
Like the power had been asleep in me, waiting for the right breath, the right moment, to wake up.
I open my eyes.
It's dark now. Full-on twilight.
The trees are taller than they seemed before. Shadows stretch longer, deeper. The sounds of insects and wind have returned—but they feel distant, like background noise to a new frequency I've just tuned into.
How long was I out here?
It doesn't matter. I should probably head home before someone starts another unnecessary intervention.
But just as I'm about to take off—I feel it.
A pulse. Not mine.
I don't turn. I don't move.
Because I don't need to.
Something—or someone—is here.
I can feel their energy leaking out of them in waves. Not in a focused stream. More like a child splashing around in a bathtub—wild, sloppy, excessive. They don't know how to control it. But that doesn't mean they're weak.
There's power there. Raw. Untamed.
But not enough.
I float gently upward, cursed energy gathering at my feet and spine, lifting me without effort. A soft hum surrounds me as I ascend above the tree line, the forest canopy opening to a dark sky speckled with stars.
As I rise, I call cursed energy inward, wrapping it around myself like a cloak—not to attack, but to vanish. To mask my presence completely. Like mist vanishing into the air.
Below, I can still sense that chaotic power thrashing about, unrefined and loud. Whoever they are—they're new to this. They might even be dangerous. But they're not ready.
And I'm not interested in playing games tonight.
I glide through the sky in silence, the trees below shrinking away like shadows under a rising sun. I feel calm. Focused.
The cursed energy still dances at the edge of my skin, alive and alert.
This is power I didn't just inherit.
This is power I'm learning to understand.
And that's what makes it mine.