"This body is truly wretched…"
From a mound of corpses, a hand reached out, shoving aside bodies to crawl free.
A blood-smeared young man emerged, wiping his face slowly, lost in thought. After a long pause, he staggered away.
//
Winter faded, spring returned, another year passed.
Momoto Ichi rarely visited, and Yukiori's outings dwindled.
The courtyard servants avoided speaking to him, delivering meals and departing swiftly, deepening Yukiori's silence.
Day after day, he gazed at the same square of sky, watching sunrises, moonfalls, and wilting leaves.
Time blurred, its passage meaningless.
Today, under the servants' watch, Yukiori ate sparingly, then tilted his head to vomit the meager food once they left.
He could no longer stomach anything. Even if he tried, his stomach rejected it instantly.
This persisted for half a month. Fearing their prized boy might die quietly, the servants rushed to inform the elders and Momoto.
Yukiori, frail enough for a breeze to topple, lay on the bed, his sickly aura unmasked.
"Where's the healer? What did they say?"
A servant knelt, voice trembling. "The healer said… Young Master Yukiori's body was always weak, and his lingering cold never fully healed…"
"Combined with excessive grief… he's bedridden."
When all left, Momoto approached the bed, eyeing Yukiori, who turned away defiantly.
"Yukiori, why torment yourself?"
"Wouldn't it be better to stay peacefully? With the binding, no one can force you to do what you hate."
Momoto couldn't fathom why Yukiori, served by so many, wasn't the happiest soul, yet remained miserable.
"Would you rather live with those cursed sorcerers, never knowing when you'd die?"
Only then did Yukiori's face betray emotion.
Resentment and defiance surged. Momoto yearned to seize Yukiori's shoulders, demanding why a sorcerer like him paled against a hunted cursed sorcerer.
Had Yukiori stayed obediently, he'd have been Momoto's alone.
"Yukiori, even if you wish to die, it'll be here."
Momoto's chest heaved, calming his rage before speaking coldly.
Yukiori didn't reply, curling into the blankets, as if to shut out Momoto.
Instead of leaving, Momoto mused aloud.
"If they died, would you stop thinking of them, stop wanting to escape?
"They're formidable, especially that cursed sorcerer, Two-Faced Sukuna. He killed one of our elders…"
"I told him you died that snowy night."
"So, Yukiori… to them, you're dead. They won't save you."
"Sorcerers are born to counter cursed sorcerers. Those two will fall by my hand, and you'll see it, making the right choice."
Momoto lied.
He'd told Sukuna and Uraume of Yukiori's death, and the boy who fled that night collapsed in grief.
The cost? Their sorcerer squad sent to kill Sukuna was nearly annihilated; Momoto barely escaped.
He'd almost died by Sukuna's hand.
These words aimed to break Yukiori's hope, urging him to stay willingly, while salvaging Momoto's pride.
Yukiori, turned away, dug his nails into his palm, drawing blood.
No…
He'd never been so certain—Uraume and Sukuna wouldn't abandon him.
Yet…
To them, he was dead.
Yukiori didn't notice Momoto leave, only felt his stomach ache. He knew he needed food.
Two servants entered, propping him against the headboard to spare his strength.
Even so, after two bites, Yukiori coughed, vomiting the meal.
This time, blood tinged the food.
Expressionless, he wiped his mouth. Malnutrition blurred his vision, but he saw the reddish-brown stain.
The servants' hands shook, terrified. If the lords learned Yukiori coughed blood, they'd be blamed, fault or not.
"Bring me clear water. Don't tell them. Understood?"
"You don't want punishment, do you?"
Even if they knew, they'd only force bitter medicine on him.
He'd lost all will to live. Once, he endured for his mother.
Yukiori knew Momoto manipulated him, but he'd had no choice then. Now, hearing Momoto's words, he learned Sukuna and Uraume were safe and stronger. He could rest easy.
The servants exchanged glances, then shook their heads.
"Young Master Yukiori, you're ill. You need medicine. We'll take the punishment."
They couldn't bear seeing Yukiori suffer daily. It was all their lowly status allowed for him.
"… "
They hid his condition, telling the lords Yukiori's health faltered from overthinking.
To aid his recovery, his range of movement expanded.
For the first time since arriving, Yukiori left his room not to be paraded.
Shielding his eyes from the glaring sun, he stood dazed.
He hadn't seen such a blue sky in ages. Watching birds soar, he felt detached.
"Young Master Yukiori, this healer, sent by Lord Momoto, will check your health."
A check would reveal his body's ruin.
More forced medicine…
The thought made Yukiori retch over a stone wall.
With an empty stomach, he spat only blood.
No hiding it now.