Satoru stood at the edge of the ravaged village, the air thick with ash and the stench of burnt flesh. Beside him, Marcille froze, her small frame trembling as her wide eyes drank in the carnage.
Men, women, old, young, all butchered without mercy. Houses smoldered, reduced to blackened skeletons, their roofs caved in, their walls smeared with blood that pooled into the muddy streets.
"What… happened here? Satoru..." Her voice came out flat, hollow, a monotone whisper that barely cut through the silence.
She stared, unblinking, as if her mind couldn't stitch the scene together. He didn't answer right away, just stayed silent as they trudged through the gore-soaked ruin.
His shoes squelched in the filth, each step a grim drumbeat, while his mind churned. Tell her the truth, or let her drift into blissful ignorance? He clicked his tongue, jaw tight.
'I hate this shit; hate watching kids get crushed by the world's garbage.' He sighed, steeling himself for what was coming.
"The village… what happened?" she spoke again, her voice fractured now, like glass about to shatter.
She stood beside him, staring at the devastation; corpses sprawled in unnatural angles, some charred beyond recognition, others split open like overripe fruit.
Her emerald eyes dulled, hollowed out by confusion and creeping horror. She didn't press him further, didn't demand answers; just gazed at the slaughter with a lifelessness that clawed at his chest.
Satoru's gaze shifted, landing on a figure crouched in the muck near the old well. Elna, the village chief, her once-sturdy frame, was battered but alive, her gray hair matted with blood and soot.
She lifted her head, locking eyes with them; first Satoru, then Marcille. "You!" she spat, her voice a raw, seething howl of rage that sliced through the stillness.
Elna dragged herself forward, her legs twisting in a grotesque, unnatural crawl, bones grinding audibly beneath her skin. "It's all your fault!" she screamed, her trembling finger stabbing toward Marcille.
"Look around you! They killed everyone; everyone! Just to get to you! I knew it, damn it!!! I fucking knew it! Robert was right. I should've tossed you into that well with the rest of those wretched brats.
I should've killed you alongside your mother!!!" Her voice peaked into a banshee's wail, venom dripping from every word.
Marcille went still, her breath catching, her face a blank mask as Elna's tirade crashed over her. 'Kill me?' The thought echoed in her skull, faint and dazed, like a whisper from a dream.
Her eyes dimmed further, pupils shrinking to pinpricks. "You… killed my… mother," she mumbled, the words slipping out soft and broken, barely audible over Elna's shrieks.
Elna's glare snapped to Satoru, her fury pivoting. "And you! Why the hell do you care if this demon lives or dies? Why? What did we ever do to you?"
Her voice trembled with a twisted righteousness, as if their blood-soaked sins could be brushed aside. She pressed on, relentless.
"Marcille, I swear by the god we've bled for, the god we've fed with our sacrifices; I won't rest, I won't stop, not until I've torn you apart, until I've killed you!"
The hatred in her tone was a living thing, thick and unyielding, coiling around them like smoke. "I will kill-" But her threat choked off as a dense orb of fire erupted from nowhere, slamming into her chest with a sickening crunch.
The impact hurled her backward, her body spinning through the air until it smashed into the gnarled tree beside the well, bark splintering under the force.
"You killed my mother!!!" Marcille erupted in anger, her voice louder and venomous, trembling with a hatred that mirrored Elna's own.
Smoke curled from her staff, the tip glowing faintly; she'd cast the spell, her hands steady despite the storm in her heart.
She broke into a run, her small feet pounding the dirt toward the tree where Elna lay crumpled. The woman stirred, impossibly alive, her chest caved in, ribs jutting like broken teeth.
She hauled herself up with an eerie ease, her body defying its ruin. "Is this what I get?" she rasped, voice gagging on blood. "For keeping you? For feeding you, raising you like my own?"
The words dripped with bitter mockery, a twisted parody of love. Marcille's face contorted, rage flaring anew. "You killed my-!!!"
She raised her staff again, Mana surging, but Elna moved faster, her hand thrusting out as she chanted, "Enclose!" Her voice warped, dark and resonant, a shadow spilling from her lips.
Marcille's vision went dark, lost in the embrace of void. "Marcille." The new voice was soft, tender, achingly familiar. Marcille froze, her staff faltering as her gaze snapped forward.
There she stood; her mother, alive, real, her long blonde hair shimmering like spun gold, emerald eyes warm and beckoning. "Mother... I-" Marcille's voice cracked, her feet shifting forward, drawn to the outstretched hand.
But then a gentle tap landed on her shoulder, a warmth flooding through her, steadying the chaos in her chest. She glanced up; her true mother smiled down, radiant and ethereal, a spirit woven from memory and love.
'I'm always with you, dear.' The words rang in her mind, clear and unshakable, piercing the illusion ahead. The figure before her wasn't real, just Elna's trick.
Marcille's eyes hardened, a fire igniting behind them, the same fierce focus she'd shown poring over spell-books.
She stepped forward, hand raised as if to grasp the false mother's, but her Mana erupted; a torrent breaking free, wild and unstoppable.
"Surge of the White Flames!" she cried, her voice steady, commanding. A magic circle flared before her staff, blazing white, and from it roared a storm of pale lightning wreathed in ghostly flames.
The spell tore through the air, a searing wave of light and heat aimed straight at Elna. The woman had smirked, certain her deception had won; until she saw the lightning, which immediately struck, slamming into her chest with a deafening crack.
The blast unleashed a shockwave, dust and debris exploding outward, the white flames surging in a second wave that swept the haze away. When it cleared, only Elna's charred husk remained, slumped against the uprooted tree, a blackened ruin of flesh and bone.
Marcille's strength fled. She sank to her knees, her staff clattering to the ground, hands clawing at the dirt for support.
The truth, the betrayal, the murder, the lies, all crashed over her like a wave, relentless and drowning. Tears burst forth, a flood she couldn't stem, spilling down her cheeks in hot, ragged streams.
Her chest heaved, sobs ripping from her throat, loud and raw, echoing through the dead village. She clutched the earth, fingers digging into the mud, her body shaking as grief and rage warred within her.
Her mother; gone, stolen by the woman she'd trusted, the woman she'd called family. The village; her home, her sanctuary; yet to be revealed as a den of monsters, feeding on blood and deceit.
Everything she'd known, every scrap of safety, torched to ashes around her.
She wailed, a sound so piercing it seemed to claw at the sky itself, her voice breaking under the weight of it all.
The girl who'd giggled over breakfast, who'd marveled at magic tricks, was gone. Shattered by the reality of Elna's words, by the sight of her mother's killer burning before her.
Her hands gripped her staff again, not for strength but for something to hold, something to anchor her as the flood of emotion threatened to sweep her away.
She'd killed; her first blood, spilled in a blaze of white fire, and the act sank into her bones, heavy and irreversible.
Her sobs grew louder, a keening cry that carried all her pain, her loss, her fury at a world that had betrayed her so completely.
Satoru stood beside her, silent, his usual grin nowhere in sight. He didn't touch her, didn't speak; just let her cry, let her purge the poison tearing her apart.
His Eyes traced the fading Mana, the lingering echo of her mother's spirit, and he exhaled softly. 'A mother's love transcends even death, doesn't it?'
The thought lingered, bittersweet, as he watched Marcille unravel. She needed this; needed to scream, to break, to feel the full weight of what she'd lost and what she'd done.
He'd seen too many kids crushed by shit like this, but Marcille… she was tough, tougher than she knew. The fire in her spell, the resolve in her eyes; he'd caught it even through her, tears.
She'd survive this. She had to.
The village lay quiet now, a graveyard of ash and ruin, Marcille's cries were the only sound piercing the stillness.
Satoru stayed close, a shadow at her side, letting her grieve as the truth settled in; harsh, brutal, and hers to carry.
Marcille's sobs dwindled, choked off by a sound that clawed at her ears; bones snapping, muscles tearing, a wet, grotesque symphony rising from the ashes.
She lifted her tear-streaked face, eyes widening in primal dread as they locked onto Elna's charred corpse. The blackened husk twitched, then convulsed, flesh splitting with a sickening squelch.
A screech tore from its gaping maw, the jaw unhinging wider than any human mouth could stretch, splitting skin and sinew.
From that cavernous void, two twisted arms erupted; gnarled and bony, sprouting like antlers, their tips jagged and glistening with dark ichor.
The head was gone, replaced by a monstrous fusion; two headless torsos fused at the shoulders, their stumps writhing as they knitted into a bulbous, pulsating mass atop her neck.
Her spine cracked and lengthened, each vertebra bursting through her back in sharp, blade-like protrusions, dripping with a tar-like ooze.
The thing grew, swelling grotesquely, its legs buckling and reforming into massive, deer-like limbs, with hooves the size of boulders, sinews bulging unnaturally beneath taut, ashen skin.
It towered upward, a ten-meter nightmare from antlered crown to cloven base, a god born of slaughter and madness.
This was it; the deity the village had bled for, the twisted force that fed their sham immortality. Its presence pulsed, a miasma of rot and despair that thickened the air, pressing down like a physical weight.
The Six-Eyes flicked over it, dissecting every detail in an instant. 'Fascinating,' he thought, unfazed. 'Damn near a cursed spirit; has same rancid energy, but twisted, negative Mana instead.
No human origin here. A demon, maybe? Even the presence matches with the one from Adramalekh's.'
The thing's aura didn't rattle him; he'd faced worse, uglier and more dangerous things
He stood loose, hands in his pockets, a faint smirk tugging his lips as he sized up the fight to come. Just another monster to break.
Marcille, though, was a different story. Her body quaked, knees buckling under the sheer, suffocating terror radiating from the beast.
Her staff slipped in her sweat-slick hands, her breath shallow and ragged. She'd never felt anything like this. Its presence was a black tide, drowning her senses, a repulsive density that clawed at her soul.
Her wide eyes darted over its form; the antlers curling like skeletal hands, the twin torsos pulsing with unnatural life, the vertebrae glinting like a row of daggers.
Disgust and fear coiled in her gut, her heart hammering so loud it drowned out her own thoughts. This was no spell, no trick; it was a god, a nightmare made flesh, and it had devoured her village, her mother, her everything.
Then, a hand settled on her head; gentle, warm, cutting through the cold dread like a lifeline. She looked up, trembling, and met Satoru's gaze.
His blue eyes softened, a quiet smile curving his lips. "Don't worry," he said, voice smooth and steady, a calm against the chaos.
"Stay close to me, alright?" He turned back to the monstrosity, his smirk sharpening into something fierce, eager.
Marcille clung to his calm, her fear still gnawing but steadied by his unshakable confidence. Whatever this thing was, he'd face it, and she'd hold on.
The thing looming before Satoru and Marcille was no god; not in the way the villagers had deluded themselves into believing.
It wasn't some benevolent shepherd of souls, no granter of prayers or guardian of the meek. It was godhood distilled to its rawest essence.
An entity beyond comprehension, beyond mercy, a force sculpted from the primal urge to devour and twist the world into its own grotesque image.
The air shivered around it, recoiling from a presence that didn't belong; a blasphemy against nature, a nightmare birthed from a realm where natural laws were mere suggestions.
When it strode forward, the ground didn't just tremble; it seemed to retreat as if the earth itself feared contact with this abomination.
Its grotesque head; two fused torsos, headless and pulsating, swiveled toward them, antlers jutting like skeletal claws.
A screech ripped from its maw, a sound so jagged it felt like it could shred the sky, as if their very existence offended its warped sensibilities.
Satoru tilted his head, unfazed, his Six Eyes gleaming as they dissected the thing in an instant. "Marcille," he said, voice casual, almost bored, "You know about demons?"
The girl, still rooted in place, her body quaking from the soul-deep dread radiating off the beast, couldn't speak. Her wide eyes flickered with terror, but she managed a shaky nod; confirmation enough.
Satoru's lips quirked into a faint smile. "Well, you can fill me in later. For now, just sit tight and watch me handle this."
Marcille stayed silent, her staff clutched tight, uncertainty swirling in her gut. She had no idea how Satoru could face this; this thing, that towered ten meters high, its presence a suffocating shroud of rot and malice.
The demon screeched again, a piercing wail that grated on Satoru's nerves. He grimaced, muttering, "Goddamn, that's loud," before vanishing from Marcille's side in a blink.
He reappeared beside the beast's hind leg, one hand clamping onto its upper thigh; massive, sinewy, and reeking of decay.
"Just shut the fuck up, will you?" He said, voice dripping with irritation. Then, with a grin that bordered on feral, he yanked.
The demon, tons of twisted flesh and bone, a colossus that dwarfed him five times over, was now launched into the air like a ragdoll.
Satoru's strength wasn't effort; it was a casual flex, a flick of the wrist that sent the beast soaring beyond the village's charred border.
It crashed through the tree-lines, splintering oaks and pines into kindling, its bulk tumbling end over end before slamming into the earth with a bone-rattling thud.
Satoru stood rooted in place, smirking as he glanced back at Marcille. "Strong, huh?" he said, tossing the words over his shoulder like a boast he didn't need to prove.
Her jaw dropped, fear and distress evaporating, replaced by slack-jawed awe. She'd heard tales of warriors and mages whose might could topple kingdoms but seeing it.
Satoru hurling a god like it was a child's toy; was something else entirely. In his shadow, the demon's ominous weight felt like a fleeting ghost, a threat rendered laughable.
Satoru turned his gaze back to where the beast had landed. The forest around it withered; trees blackened, leaves curling into ash, grass rotting under a creeping miasma that poured from the demon's form.
It hauled itself upright, rearing on hind legs that shouldn't support such a stance. Its amalgamated head tilted back, the mouth beneath its grotesque visage splitting wide.
Two golden orbs flared within that endless dark, burning with a sick light. Its forelegs; twisted, unnatural and spread outward, joints cracking as they defied their own structure.
A wave of dark energy erupted, a tide of negative Mana and festering rot that surged outward, decaying everything it touched.
Plants dissolved into sludge, stones crumbled to dust, and the air itself thickened with the stench of death, and, strangely, a faint whisper of life.
Satoru stepped in front of Marcille, Infinity flaring to life; a shimmering barrier that swallowed the wave whole, leaving them untouched.
He frowned, sniffing the air. 'Death and… life?' The contradiction puzzled him. This thing thrived on pain, gorged on suffering, yet there it was; a thread of vitality woven into its rancid core, like a mockery of creation.
Its intent, though, was crystal clear. Rage, hunger, a lust to tear them apart and feast on their remains. The demon roared, enraged that its attack had fizzled, and charged; except it didn't run.
Space warped around it, folding in on itself, and in a heartbeat, it was on Satoru, its antlered maw lunging with bone-spikes aimed to impale.
He raised a hand, Infinity stretching outward, and the beast's charge halted mid-air—a brick wall of nothingness stopping it cold.
Its momentum crashed against the barrier, sending a shockwave ripping through the ground behind Satoru and Marcille.
Fifty meters of earth erupted, trees uprooted, soil churned to rubble, the village's remnants flattened further in a deafening roar.
Satoru didn't flinch. "Damn," he muttered, almost impressed. "This thing might've given Rika a decent spar."
'I felt it, that warping of space didn't feel the same as those from that hellscape. This would never push past infinity.' That only meant one thing, that place ruled by that dragon, was special.
Then his smirk sharpened, eyes glinting with something dark. "Hey, Jotun reject! I felt you feeding off this girl's despair. Ever wonder what your own tastes like?"
The demon twitched, a flicker of something in its aura; fear, maybe? And Satoru's grin widened. "You flinched."
With a bang that cracked the air, he launched skyward, pulling the beast along like a kite on a string. Blue amplified his grasp, an unyielding force dragging the demon upward despite its frantic thrashing.
It clawed at the air, space warping in desperate bursts to break free, but Satoru's mastery of spatial control outclassed it by miles.
High above, the demon's massive form blotted out the moonlight, casting a jagged shadow over the farmland beyond the village.
A helpless titan suspended in his grasp. He released it, letting it flail mid-air, then spun into a series of front flips, building raw power in his leg. No technique, just muscle, and with a thunderous BAAM! His kick slammed into its protruded spine.
The impact caved in the demon's back, vertebrae shattering like dry twigs, and it hurtled downward, a screaming meteor of flesh and fury.
It hit the ground with a quake that shook the earth, a crater blooming where it landed, dust and debris billowing outward.
Marcille watched, breathless, her awe eclipsing the terror that had gripped her moments ago. Satoru floated down, landing lightly, but his smirk faded into a scowl.
This wasn't fun. The demons he'd fought in Adramalekh's hellhole; those scaly, bastards had been more cunning, durable and tricky enough to test Infinity.
This thing? A village's so-called god? It was a disappointment, a bloated punching bag that wouldn't even survive a warmup round with those Tyrranid lookalikes.
He'd hoped for a scrap, a real brawl. Instead, he got this.
"Fine," he muttered, lifting a hand. "Let's wrap this up." Blue flared again, Limitless surging with intensified output.
The demon wailed; a pitiful, gurgling shriek; as the force crushed it inward. Ten meters of grotesque divinity crumpled, folding into itself like wet clay under a press.
Flesh tore, bones splintered, and in seconds, it was a squashed ball of gore, oozing black ichor into the dirt. Satoru lowered his hand, smirking faintly at Marcille. "Easy enough."
Her eyes were saucers, astonishment wiping away any lingering fear. If she hadn't grasped it before, she did now. Satoru Gojo was a monster in his own right, a force as untouchable as the god he'd just pulped.
He turned to her, demeanor shifting to something softer. "Alright, kid, here's the deal." He crouched, meeting her gaze.
"I had found out what those guys were up to; sacrificing kids, feeding this thing for their fake immortality. That's why I got you out.
Didn't know the mercenaries would burn it all down, though." A half-lie, but close enough. Marcille nodded, her face hardening as the truth sank in; her home, her people, all a lie built on blood.
She understood now, more than ever, and it steadied her. "Thank you," she said, voice quiet but firm. "For saving me. For this."
Satoru blinked, caught off guard, then shrugged. "Don't mention it. I do what I want, and this time, it was keeping you alive. That's it."
Marcille managed a small, tired smile, the weight of the day settling into her bones. The village was gone, the god was dead, and the truth was hers to carry.
Satoru stood, hands back in his pockets, glancing at the gore-strewn crater. What a letdown.
The village was in ruins, a graveyard of ash and shattered lives, but Marcille's house, her small sanctuary, hadn't been entirely swallowed by the flames.
Satoru and Marcille picked through the wreckage, the air thick with soot and the faint creak of charred wood.
She moved with a quiet determination, her small hands trembling as they sifted through the debris. Not everything was lost.
Her mother's grimoire, its leather cover singed but intact, emerged from a toppled shelf, the silver runes glinting faintly in the dim light.
She clutched it to her chest, fingers tracing the edges as if it were a lifeline to a past she could still feel. A few other keepsakes survived.
A wooden hairpin her mother had carved, a tattered shawl that still smelled faintly of herbs. Satoru watched her, silent, his usual smirk softened into something unreadable as she gathered these fragments of memory.
Night fell, cold and heavy, and they settled into one of the few rooms still standing, a cramped space with a cracked wall and a half-burnt floor, but a roof to shield them from the wind.
Marcille stayed close, curling up beside Satoru on a salvaged blanket, her small frame pressed against his side. She didn't speak, didn't move much; just clung to him, her golden hair spilling over his arm.
He let her, his gaze drifting to the flickering shadows cast by a makeshift fire he'd lit. But as the hours dragged on, he noticed something odd.
Her breathing never slowed; her eyes never fluttered shut. She wasn't sleeping, hadn't even tried. He shifted, looking down at her. "Hey, kid," he said, voice low, "don't you want to sleep?"
Marcille's head tilted up, her emerald eyes catching the firelight; wide, alert, and tinged with something hollow. "Sleep?" she echoed, the word clumsy on her tongue, like a forgotten relic.
She paused, brow furrowing as she searched her fractured memories. "I… I don't think I ever have. Not really. I forgot when it stopped.
Before my mother died, or after. It's been years, though. I don't sleep." Her voice was soft, matter-of-fact, but it carried a weight that sank into Satoru's chest like a stone.
She'd been confused yesterday when he'd mentioned it, and now it clicked. She'd lost the very concept, erased from her mind by time or something darker.
He stayed quiet, letting her words settle, his Eyes tracing the edges of a truth he'd already pieced together. That night, crouched by the empty house, he'd overheard the details.
Elna's cold voice detailing how they'd twisted Marcille's mind. They'd warped her, molded her into their perfect little tool, her every thought bent toward serving the village.
And Elna, with her spiteful magic, had stripped away her ability to sleep; deliberately, cruelly, just to keep her vigilant, a sleepless sentinel for their rotten schemes.
'Diabolic doesn't even cover it,' Satoru thought, a flicker of disgust tightening his jaw. The kid had been a puppet, her strings pulled so tight she didn't even know they were there.
But she didn't need that truth; not now, not after everything else she'd learned today. She'd carried enough for one lifetime.
Then, something shifted in him; something he hadn't expected. He leaned down; voice softer than he'd ever heard it.
"Marcille," he said, genuine, unguarded, "do you want to sleep again?" She didn't answer right away, just stared at him, her eyes shimmering with a quiet ache.
After a moment, she nodded; slow, hesitant, a silent plea wrapped in that small gesture. "I've tried before," she whispered, her voice cracking.
"When I close my eyes, it's… it's just nightmares. Sounds, screams, whispers. Images that won't stop. They never let me rest."
Her hands tightened around the grimoire, knuckles whitening, and Satoru saw it; the toll of years spent awake, haunted, her mind a battlefield she couldn't escape.
He exhaled, a faint smile tugging his lips; not his usual cocky grin, but something warm and steady. "It's alright now," he said, patting his lap.
"Rest your head here. Trust me; everything's gonna be fine." She hesitated, then shifted, laying her head against him, her hair spilling across his legs like a golden tide.
She was tense at first, her body rigid with the ghosts of those sleepless nights, but his presence, solid, unshakable, eased her bit by bit.
Satoru rested a hand on her head, his Eyes narrowing as he probed deeper, past her trembling surface to the core of her mind.
There it was; the damage, etched into her brain like a scar. The hypothalamus, the delicate knot that governed sleep, was frayed, its rhythms shattered.
Elna's magic, or the relentless grind of insomnia, had ravaged it, leaving her trapped in a waking purgatory. He'd suspected as much, but seeing it confirmed sparked a rare curiosity.
His Reverse Cursed Technique had grown sharper in this world. Could it heal others now, not just himself? He'd never managed it before, but the idea gnawed at him.
'Worth a shot,' he thought, letting positive energy pool in his palm. It flowed out, gentle and precise, threading through her skull into the broken pathways of her mind.
Marcille felt it; a warmth blooming from his touch, soft and enveloping, like sinking into her mother's arms after a long day.
It spread through her, melting the tension in her shoulders, softening the edges of her frayed nerves. Satoru watched, his smile widening as the damage began to mend.
Neurons knitting back together. Her brain was healing, slowly but surely, and with it came a wave of exhaustion she couldn't fight.
Her eyelids fluttered, heavy, her body sinking deeper into his lap. "Close your eyes," he murmured, voice a quiet anchor. "Trust me, kid. It's safe now."
She did. Her lashes brushed her cheeks, and for the first time in years, the darkness behind her lids wasn't a storm of nightmares.
It was calm, vast, a deep plane of peace she'd forgotten could exist. Her breathing slowed, soft and even, and she drifted; truly drifted, into sleep.
A sleep untainted by fear, unbroken by the echoes of a manipulated mind. Satoru leaned back against the wall, his hand still resting lightly on her head, watching her chest rise and fall.
The fire crackled, casting a warm glow over her peaceful face, and he felt a quiet satisfaction settle in.
Her sleep was deep, dreamless, a reprieve from the years stolen from her. Satoru's thoughts wandered as he sat there, the night stretching on.
He hadn't planned on playing healer, hadn't expected to care this much, but here he was, guarding her as she slept for the first time in years.
The room was quiet, save for the fire's soft pops and her steady breaths. Outside, the wind howled through the ruins, but in here, it was still; a fragile bubble of calm amidst the wreckage.
Marcille's face softened in sleep, the lines of grief and fear smoothed away, and Satoru found himself wondering what she'd dream of when the dreams finally came. Her mother, maybe, or a world that didn't break her.
The stillness right now, was a stark contrast to the shitstorm of the last few days, and his mind wandered, tracing the jagged path that had landed him here.
Adramalekh's hell felt like a lifetime ago; those endless battles, clawing through a meat grinder of demons that snarled and bled under his hands.
That world had been a crucible, a brutal dance of survival where every move was kill or be killed. The Spatial Anomaly bastards there had been real threats.
Slippery, vicious, some even scraping past Infinity with their abilities. He'd thrived in that chaos, relished the thrill of it, the raw freedom of cutting loose without a leash.
Then this world; dumped into a village of backstabbing cultists, a fake god that couldn't even make him break a sweat, and now this.
Him, Satoru Gojo, playing babysitter to a kid who'd been through more hell than most adults could stomach. It was almost laughable, the absurdity of it all.
He glanced down at Marcille, her face peaceful in sleep, and a wry smirk tugged at his lips. 'What would Suguru think of this?' The thought hit him like a stray spark, sharp and unexpected.
Suguru Geto, his old friend, his shadow, the one who'd always seen through his bullshit. If he were here, he'd probably arch an eyebrow, that dry smirk of his cutting through the silence.
"You, taking care of a kid? Didn't know you had it in you, Satoru." He'd tease him mercilessly, no doubt; call him soft, poke at the cracks in his invincible facade.
But there'd be something else too, a quiet approval in those dark eyes, a nod to the fact that even Satoru could do something selfless once in a blue moon.
The idea made him chuckle under his breath, a low, rough sound that didn't wake the girl.
And Utahime? Oh, she'd lose her damn mind. He could picture it clear as day; her storming up, face red, voice shrill as she jabbed a finger at him.
"What the hell are you doing with a child, Gojo? I'm calling the authorities; this is abduction!" She'd be halfway to dialing before he could even explain, too wound up to hear him out.
He snorted, imagining her flipping out while he just grinned and waved it off. "Relax, Utahime, she's not a hostage. I'm just that charming."
She'd hate that; hate him more, probably, but the mental image was too good not to savor.
His smirk faded, though, as he looked back at Marcille. This wasn't his usual gig; saving kids, healing brains, sitting vigil while they slept.
He was the strongest, the untouchable, the guy who tore through enemies like paper and walked away laughing.
Yet here he was, tethered to this fragile moment, guarding a girl who'd lost everything but still trusted him enough to sleep.
Maybe it wasn't so bad. Chaotic battles, new worlds, a kid on his lap; life kept throwing curveballs, and he kept swinging.
That was enough for now.
... To be continued!!!
A/N: This chapter is a bit slow, but I thought emphasizing on Marcille's emotions and the grievous depth of this part felt necessary not to rush, I hope you like it... Chapter 5 will be tomorrow, same time.