Gojo stood before the latest dead end, staring up at the twisted, ancient form of the weirwood tree. Its bark was gnarled and warped, and its pale eyes stared back at him, cold and unblinking, as if watching his every move.
Another one, he thought bitterly. Another dead end.
But there was something about this one. Something different. Something that made his gut churn with unease. He could feel the cursed energy pulsing through the tree, alive and thrumming with power. Gojo's eyes narrowed. It felt familiar, the same as the cursed energy he had sensed from the White Walkers. Was this the source of it all? Was this the beginning of everything—the very creator of the cursed spirits that plagued this land?
He couldn't ignore it. He couldn't leave it alone.
Taking a deep breath, Gojo stepped forward and unsheathed his axe. He had no time to waste. He needed answers, and if this tree held them, he would force it to give them up.
With a swift, powerful swing, Gojo's axe struck the tree. The blow rang out with a resounding crack, but instead of splitting the bark, the wood seemed to absorb the force, the cursed energy pushing back against him. Gojo gritted his teeth. This wasn't going to be easy.
He struck again, and then again, each blow driving deeper into the weirwood's bark, but still it resisted, as though the tree itself had been enchanted to remain whole. The cursed energy around it grew stronger with each swing, pulsing like a heartbeat. It was as if the tree was alive, feeding off the pain and effort Gojo was putting into it.
Then, to his horror, Gojo's axe became slick with blood.
Blood?
The blood seemed to seep from the very heart of the tree, pooling in strange patterns on the ground beneath it. Gojo stepped back, his senses on high alert. This wasn't just a tree—it was something far worse. And then, as the blood continued to stain the ground, he saw it.
An eye.
It peeked out from the hollow of the tree, wide and unblinking, staring straight at him. Gojo froze. What in the hell was this?
The cursed energy intensified, nearly overwhelming him, and for a moment, Gojo thought he might be dragged into the tree itself, absorbed into its darkness. But he held his ground, his grip tightening on the axe. The sight of that eye sent a shiver down his spine, but it also brought a new clarity to his thoughts.
The Jujutsu Sorcerer.
This couldn't be a coincidence. This cursed tree was a prison, a vessel. Someone—no, something—was hiding inside. The man, the sorcerer, whoever it was—was trapped within the weirwood's depths.
Gojo's mind raced, trying to piece together the fragments of what he'd seen before. The White Walkers. The cursed spirits. The rituals. The sacrifices. Was this why they were doing it? To create the White Walkers?
Gojo's heart sank. Was this just another victim of a cursed ritual, trapped within the tree? A human being used as a vessel for the creation of these monsters?
The thought made Gojo's blood run cold, but he couldn't stop now. He needed to save whoever this was, to free them from this nightmare.
With one last effort, Gojo raised his axe again, slamming it into the tree with all his might. The cursed energy flared wildly, and the eye in the tree seemed to widen, almost as if it were pleading.
But when the blow landed, Gojo felt something shift.
The tree shuddered, and a horrific sound echoed from within. The body within the tree twitched, and Gojo realized, with dawning horror, that the man and the tree were one now. The cursed energy was so tightly bound to him that he had become a part of the tree itself.
Gojo gritted his teeth and approached. The man's body was barely recognizable, his skin fused with the bark, his form twisted and unrecognizable. He tried to move, to break the cursed bond, but it was no use. The man was a part of the tree now—too far gone.
Then Gojo noticed something—a lit glass candle, embedded into the trunk and stabbed through the prisoner, its flame flickering weakly as if it too had become a part of the twisted ritual.
He stared at the grotesque scene before him. The man was trapped in a cycle of suffering, his mind comatose, his body bound to the tree.
Gojo had seen many things in his life, but this... this was something beyond even his understanding.
Without hesitation, Gojo drew his blade and struck. His sword cut cleanly through the man's skull, splitting his brain in two. But even as the man's body slumped, Gojo realized that he was still alive. The cursed energy within the tree surged, trying to keep the man alive despite the fatal wound.
Holy shit, Gojo thought. Even Kenjaku can't survive that.
The thought left him stunned. He had never encountered a situation like this—where death was not the end. Where the curse itself could defy the laws of life and death.
Gojo had tried extinguish the glass candle too, but the flame seem ethereal as if it didn't belong to this world.
He couldn't kill the man, not like this. There was nothing more he could do. He couldn't risk staying here any longer, especially with the tree's cursed energy growing more intense.
Gojo stepped back, shaking his head, his expression hardening. He left the man there, as the tree began to regrow around him, encasing the tortured soul once again.
As the tree's roots slowly consumed the man's body, Gojo couldn't shake the thought that lingered in his mind.
This world is was even more cursed than the last.
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