....My apologies guys for the chapter confusion... Enjoy!
The silence left in Geto Suguru's wake was broken by a wet, tearing sound. From the carcass of the giant worm-curse, Fushiguro Toji emerged, slick with otherworldly viscera, his expression one of mild annoyance. "The vessel isn't here," he muttered, a flicker of displeasure crossing his scarred face. "And I planned to finish Gojo Satoru with that first strike. I've gotten rusty." Yet his posture remained loose, utterly devoid of tension even as he faced the one known as the strongest.
In his hand now was not the short knife of his ambush, but a longer, colder blade—a tachi that hummed with latent cursed energy. Perched on his shoulder, the infant-faced curse, Chōbō, writhed dumbly.
Gojo Satoru met his gaze, the Six Eyes blazing. There would be no banter. He moved, a flick of his wrist summoning a vortex of crushing force—Blue—directly beside Toji, aiming to slam him into the estate's stone walls.
Toji was already gone. He didn't blur; he simply ceased to be where he was and appeared elsewhere, his movement a product of pure physical law, utterly devoid of the cursed energy signatures the Six Eyes tracked. Gojo's mind recalibrated with a jolt. He leaves no trail. I can't predict him.
Toji became a phantom, a high-pressure system of lethal intent. He wove around Gojo in a silent, blistering dance, each feint and shift designed to probe, to disorient. His eyes held the cold amusement of a predator certain of the kill.
"If I can't catch you, I'll just remove the board," Gojo snarled. With a surge of power, he expanded Blue to its maximum output. The surrounding outbuildings—the sheds, the gazebo, the stone benches—groaned, then were ripped from their foundations and violently compacted into a sphere of rubble before being hurled into the distant woods. The courtyard was now a barren, dusty plain. No cover, no shadows.
He scanned the emptiness. Nothing.
Then, from the tree line, a swarm emerged. Not curses of power, but of nuisance—a chittering, dense cloud of Grade 4 Fly Heads, their numbers blotting out the sky as they descended upon him. For Gojo, they were less than gnats. His *Limitless* held them at bay, an impenetrable field a meter from his skin. Yet, they served their purpose: a living, swirling screen that obscured all vision beyond.
His senses screamed. The danger was now.
"Your flaw," a voice whispered, cold and intimate in his ear, "is believing your defense is absolute."
The tachi—the *Inverted Spear of Heaven*—pierced the infinite series of *Limitless* not by overpowering it, but by erasing its very concept. The field parted like a curtain. The blade did not slow. It entered the base of Gojo's neck.
Agony, pristine and absolute, erupted in Gojo's mind. It was not the pain of the wound, but the shock of the impossible made real.
Toji did not pause. He wrenched the blade downward in a terrible, diagonal slash that carved from neck to waist. A torrent of blood, shockingly bright, followed the blade's path. Gojo's body shuddered, his attempts to counter already a fraction too slow, his world narrowing to the searing line of fire across his torso.
Still, Toji was not done. Efficiency dictated certainty. The *tachi* flashed again—a precise stab through each thigh, severing major muscle groups. A final, ruthless thrust into the forehead, the tip scraping bone.
The light in the Six Eyes guttered, their brilliant blue dimming to a dull, clouded grey. Gojo Satoru's legs buckled. He collapsed forward into the expanding pool of his own blood, the last of his strength leaching into the dust.
"My condition is finally improving," Toji remarked, his tone clinical as he examined the blood-slicked blade. He looked down at the fallen sorcerer. "Let me be clear. This blade is the Special Grade Cursed Tool, the *Inverted Spear of Heaven*. It nullifies any cursed technique it touches." He paused, as if reciting a necessary epitaph. "And the one who killed you is Fushiguro Toji. If you seek revenge in another life, don't look for the wrong person."
He gave the chilling scene one last, indifferent glance, then turned, melting back into the forest as silently as he had arrived, leaving only the settling dust and the profound, echoing silence of an ended era.
Geto Suguru approached the two embracing figures, the weight of the unspoken truth heavy on his tongue. He cleared his throat, the sound awkward in the hushed grandeur of the hall.
"Amanai-san," he began, his voice softer than usual, cutting through her quiet sobs. "There is something you need to know."
Riko pulled back from Kuroi, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, her expression a mixture of confusion and residual fear. Kuroi looked at Geto with protective suspicion.
"The ritual," Geto continued, choosing his words with care. "The merger with Master Tengen… it will not require your life."
A stunned silence followed. Riko blinked, the words not seeming to register. "What… what do you mean?"
"Kamo Itsuki, our companion, possesses a unique technique. He has created a… replica. A perfect biological copy of a Star Plasma Vessel. Master Tengen has agreed to accept it for the merger instead."
The words hung in the sun-dappled air. Riko's face cycled through emotions—disbelief, a fragile, dawning hope, and then a sharp, defensive confusion. "A… copy? Of me? But… why? Why would you do that?"
"Because the choice should have been yours from the beginning," Geto said, his gaze steady. "You were born into a duty you never asked for. We couldn't change that. But we found a way to fulfill the duty without taking your future."
Kuroi's hands flew to her mouth, her eyes wide. Riko just stared, her mind grappling with the enormity of the reprieve. The looming specter of dissolution, the fate she had resigned herself to with a brave face, was simply… gone.
"But… the real me…" she whispered.
"Will live," Ieiri Shoko finished gently, stepping closer. "You'll be given a new identity, a new life, far from all of this. You and Kuroi can have the future you always should have had."
The reality of it began to sink in, washing over Riko not as a wave of joy, but as a profound, trembling relief that left her weak. She sagged against Kuroi, who held her tightly, tears now flowing freely down the maid's face as well—tears of gratitude.
Geto allowed them a moment, his own heart unclenching a fraction. The guilt of escorting her to what he believed was her death had been a stone in his chest. Now, it was replaced by a fierce, quiet satisfaction. This was protection. This was their duty as the strong.
His communicator buzzed—a pre-set, urgent pulse from Kamo's channel, not a message, but a signal. It meant the situation outside was critical, but contained. Gojo was engaged. Kamo was in play. His role was here.
He looked back towards the entrance of the great hall, his mind briefly with his friends in the shattered courtyard. With Satoru's limitless power and Kamo's ruthless ingenuity, the assassin, however formidable, would be handled. He had to believe that.
Turning back to the two weeping girls and the watchful Shoko, Geto Suguru allowed himself a small, resolved smile. "It's over," he said, not just to them, but to himself. "The hard part is over. Now, we wait." He positioned himself between them and the grand entrance, a sentinel ensuring the promised future would not be stolen at the last second. Outside, a battle for the past raged. In here, they guarded the beginning of something new.
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