Satoru stood at the rooftop's edge with his hood drawn low. The last sliver of sun set Shibuya's towers aglow, windows flickering like distant flames. Behind him, Toji perched on the ledge, tattered clothes shifting in the wind. Buildings stretched in every direction, an iron forest of walkways and neon signs that pulsed against the dusk.
"Nice view?" Satoru asked, voice low.
Toji stared below, shoulders tensed.
"Few come here," he said.
Satoru leaned over the parapet. The city glimmered in neon pinks and oranges, roads twisting through the sprawl. In the far distance rose a fortress unlike any other: colossal towers reaching toward the clouds. Its bulk overshadowed the skyline, a grim sentinel.
"That Sukuna's fortress?" Satoru said.
Toji stepped off the ledge, chin lifting. "Yes."
Satoru's eyes stayed on the fortress. "It's bigger than I expected."
"Stay away from it," Toji said. His gaze darted across the rooftops, as if expecting watchers. "No one who tries to get inside survives."
"I need something from it." Satoru pulled his hood back slightly, revealing a faint smirk.
Toji's jaw set. "You're mad."
Satoru rolled his shoulders. "I've heard that before. But I have business there."
Toji crossed his arms. A dull glow from the city lights outlined the scars on his knuckles.
"Men of Iron patrol the gates," he said. "They feel nothing and they don't hesitate. Devourers keep watch deeper in. Former killers, each with centuries of experience. The High Priests carry Sukuna's will. They'd see you coming."
Satoru tilted his head as if absorbing every word. "Sounds lively."
Toji snorted. "You won't reach the first wall."
Satoru flexed his fingers. "I guess we'll find out."
Toji's foot scuffed the concrete. "You'll get me killed if I'm seen with you."
Satoru turned. "I won't drag you along. But I was curious about something: you're quick on your feet. Mind showing me how hard you can hit?"
Toji glared. "You're serious?"
Satoru stepped away from the parapet. "Hit me. No tricks."
Toji clenched his fist, then lunged. His punch halted an inch from Satoru's jaw, blocked by a barrier that gave no flash, no crackle. Toji gritted his teeth, pushing harder, but his knuckles hovered in midair.
Satoru stood unflinching.
"I call that Infinity," he said.
Toji pulled back, sweat beading on his brow.
"I don't want any part of your plan," he growled. "You off-worlders always think you're untouchable."
Satoru released a gentle breath. "Understood. But if things get messy, you'll know why."
Toji's shoulders stiffened. He glanced at the fortress again, then turned on his heel, boots scraping the rooftop as he left Satoru standing under the blood-red sky.
Satoru descended through the city's tiers, cloak rippling in the updraft. He guided himself with minute pulses of cursed energy, drifting between spires and walkways. Hovercars and skyships buzzed overhead, their lights piercing the gloom. Lanterns hung from slender arches, casting pale glows over crowds below.
He touched down on a deserted platform. A metallic hum rose from deep within the city's core. Sparks of neon danced off polished panels and advertisements scrolled across holographic boards. He pulled his hood low and blended into the throng.
Pedestrians spared him passing glances: Sorcerers with intricately carved staves, children chasing tiny cursed spirits, robed elders whispering incantations under flickering streetlamps. Everywhere, the symbol of Sukuna's crest glowed on walls, a constant reminder of the fortress's influence.
Satoru slipped through the crowd, scanning shops and side alleys. A holographic billboard announced a festival in honor of Sukuna. He paused to watch the message scroll: parades, blessings, mandatory attendance.
He turned away, stepping down a narrow street draped in banners. At its end he noticed a sign shaped like an open scroll, glowing faintly with cursed runes. He pushed aside a hanging curtain and entered. Incense clung to the air.
A robed woman sat behind a low counter. She lifted her eyes. Her hands tightened around a wooden charm.
"I'm looking for information on Sukuna's fortress," Satoru said quietly.
She blinked, her breath catching.
"We don't talk about that," she whispered.
He placed currency on the table, each bill faintly crinkling in the silence.
She stared at it, then took one note, eyes flicking to the door. "The Men of Iron patrol the outer walls in three-hour shifts. The inner gates have Devourers—warriors who served Sukuna or fought in his name. The High Priests keep wards that sense cursed energy. Those wards trigger fortress-wide alarms if you so much as cast a spell in there."
He nodded, sliding the rest of the bills forward. "And if someone avoids using cursed energy?"
She hesitated. "Still impossible. Some gates need flight or teleportation to pass. There are wards for that too. No one enters, no one leaves. Not without the clans knowing."
Her eyes shifted, voice trembling. "They say the fortress is alive with curses left by Sukuna. People call them his Shadows."
Satoru lifted a brow. "Shadows?"
She lowered her gaze. "They appear when intruders wander the halls. No one returns to speak of them."
He quietly tucked away the information, then turned to leave. The woman's hand trembled around the money.
"Never saw you," she murmured.
He slipped back into the alley. The city noise enveloped him: voices, engines, chanting from street sorcerers. From a far corner rose the fortress's silhouette, spires vanishing among gray clouds.
Satoru walked until he reached a small square lit by paper lanterns. A stone statue of an ancient Sorcerer stood at its center, arms raised as if defying the twilight. He passed it and found a bench by a flickering streetlamp.
He settled there, cloak pulling tight around his shoulders. Vendors sold skewers and noodles at the square's edge. Children bounded over steps. Night fell in shifting shades of violet, though overhead, high above the rooftops, the fortress remained a black monolith.
He rose after a moment, drawn by the glow of a side street. A battered sign for an inn swung on squeaking hinges. He entered a cramped lobby with stained lanterns and a solitary attendant behind a narrow desk.
Satoru set money down and asked for a room. The attendant slid a key card across the desk, face impassive.
He climbed narrow steps to a small room with a stiff bed pressed against one wall. The single window revealed the fortress's lights, faint in the distance. He tossed his cloak on a rickety chair and loosened his boots.
He stood at the window. Beyond the city lights, the fortress soared, a shadow against the moonlit sky. He pictured the labyrinth of corridors, the Men of Iron, the hidden wards that sensed every cursed breath. The Devourers stood somewhere inside, unstoppable veterans. Deeper still, the High Priests. He imagined their robes shifting in dark halls, their eyes fixed on any intruder who dared approach.
His fingers twitched against the sill. At the thought of infiltration, a faint tension stirred in his shoulders. He exhaled slowly, turned from the window, and lay on the bed.
Morning light crept across the city. Satoru left the inn as vendors set up stalls. Woks hissed and sizzled. Floating creatures—small curses tamed as pets—wove around ankles or perched on cart edges.
At a larger avenue, Satoru paused by a circular platform dotted with clan insignias. A cluster of Sorcerers in uniform passed, each carrying a staff carved with swirling runes. They stared a moment, then moved on.
He merged with the crowd and made his way toward Shibuya's outer ring, where cargo ships and transport vehicles gathered. At a broad loading bay, men and women in worn robes hauled crates onto freight trucks. Overhead, a giant skyship drifted, stirring dust in its wake.
He searched for any sign of fortress-bound supplies. A pair of robed officials stood near a console, scanning manifests on a floating screen. Their conversation cut through the din:
"—cargo for the festival. Must reach the fortress by tomorrow."
Satoru edged closer, slipping behind stacked crates. A beep sounded from the console. He glimpsed lines of text referencing shrine offerings, clan tributes, wards, names, times.
One official tapped the screen. "The High Priests want these crates delivered by nightfall."
The other nodded. "We'll send them by hovercraft. Checkpoint's at the main gate. Men of Iron run final inspections."
They sealed the manifest, then moved off. Satoru studied the crates from behind the pile. He traced his hand over one label: KIRYUIN CLAN – OFFERING.
He turned briskly and left before the workers noticed him. As he strode through narrow corridors flanked by tall, curved walls, his eyes flicked to the fortress in the distance.
Two hours later, he found himself near the city's eastern perimeter. The roads branched out, merging into a wide causeway that stretched toward the fortress's outer walls. Great metal pylons rose at intervals, each topped with a glowing crest. Armed guards in black armor stood at attention.
Satoru crouched on a ledge overlooking the approach. A handful of civilians bowed to the guards, presenting papers or clan tokens. The guards waved them on, directing them to smaller side gates. Larger vehicles rumbled past, heading to a different entrance where mechanical sentinels watched. The fortress loomed overhead, an unbroken expanse of metal and stone.
He watched the routine for nearly an hour, noting patterns, number of guards, the timing of gate lifts. Men of Iron patrolled in pairs, their heads swiveling in perfect arcs. Each step they took felt synchronized, weapons glinting beneath the hazy sunlight.
A soft beep chimed from within his cloak. He withdrew a small device, glanced at the message, then pocketed it. He rose, pressing his back against the ledge. The thick taste of steel lingered in the air.
He retraced his steps into the maze of side streets. Occasionally, he stopped by corners or balconies to watch the fortress gates from different angles. Once, he noticed a line of robed figures—High Priests or their acolytes—drifting along a walkway that extended from the fortress's side. They carried lanterns shaped like eyes.
At sundown, he slipped into a cramped tea shop. Faint music played from hidden speakers. The aroma of roasted leaves drifted through the small space. He ordered a cup and sat near the door. Sorcerers in black robes sat at a corner table, their low voices blending with the quiet hum of conversation.
He eyed them, reading subtle clan crests embroidered near their collars. One man shook his head when the other whispered something. A map lay on their table, dotted with red circles around the fortress perimeter. He watched their gestures, gleaning pieces: patrol frequencies, blind spots near certain towers.
When they stood to leave, he rose a moment later. The men exited onto a side street, and Satoru lingered behind them, footsteps soft. They passed down an alley scattered with plastic crates. Their voices echoed:
"—Kiryuin want in, but the priests keep raising wards. No official invitation, no entry."
The second man shoved folded documents into his robe. "They'll blame us if anything goes wrong during the festival."
They disappeared behind a locked gate. Satoru halted, leaning against a cold metal wall. His gaze strayed upward. Above the alley, the fortress lights gleamed in patterns across its towering bulk.
He turned away. The air grew colder. Clouds gathered around the fortress spires. Lightning flickered in the distance. He moved on, footsteps echoing in deserted corridors. Soon, he found himself in another district, less crowded and dimly lit by flickering overhead screens.
A large sign read: MEGURI ARCHIVES. He descended steps into an underground repository. Rows of digital terminals lined the walls, each humming with energy. A lone attendant glanced up from behind a reinforced window.
Satoru rapped softly on the counter. "Records on Sukuna's fortress patrols," he said.
The attendant's eyes flickered with alarm. She shook her head behind the glass.
"Money's not an issue," he said.
She studied him, tapped a console, then handed him a small data chip through a slot. He slipped it into a handheld device. Lines of text scrolled, listing watch rotations, possible troop movements. He memorized what he could, then returned the chip.
She locked eyes with him, her knuckles white on the console. No words passed between them. He laid a small stack of bills by the slot, turned, and climbed the steps back into the open air.
Later that night, he slumped onto a low wall under a half-lit street lamp. The fortress stared back at him, a silent behemoth in the gloom. He breathed in the city's mingled scents: engine exhaust, burnt offerings from temple stalls, a faint trace of sweet rice.
He rose at last and headed toward a discrete inn in a side alley. Inside, a tired clerk handed him a key. He creaked up the worn stairs to his rented room. A single window offered a partial view of the fortress's lower spires, lights blinking in slow, deliberate patterns.
He shed his cloak, hung it on a crooked peg, and dropped onto the bed. He lay on his back, arms folded behind his head. Through the thin walls, city noises rose and fell: distant horns, hollow booms of industrial machinery, the drone of skyships cruising overhead.
In the darkness, he shut his eyes. Memories surfaced unbidden—brief flashes of old faces, that first spark of pride in a pupil's eyes, the sting of losing comrades too soon. His hand curled at his side, then loosened.
He turned onto his side. A subtle grin crossed his face as he imagined the fortress corridors and the wards pulsing like hidden veins. The intricacies of infiltration gave him no rest, but he found comfort in the planning.
Morning spilled over the horizon in muted gold. Satoru stepped into the streets, blending once more with crowds eager for the upcoming festival. Musicians tested stringed instruments along a public square. Young sorcerers practiced illusions that turned ribbons into small fireworks. A swirl of color filled the air, and the fortress loomed behind it all.
He threaded his way through the festival stalls. A group of masked performers whirled past, streamers trailing. Children pointed at them, eyes wide. Overhead, banners bearing Sukuna's crest flapped from tall poles.
An announcement blared from a holographic screen: "Honored families to present offerings at the fortress gates by sundown. Citizens, join the grand procession at twilight."
Satoru paused near a tall archway, leaning on a stone pillar. The fortress glowered in the distance, each spire silent and watchful.
He turned, set on finding a vantage point closer to the walls, perhaps a rooftop or a disused balcony that overlooked the main gate. He found an abandoned tower on the perimeter, windows boarded and half the stairs missing.
He climbed carefully. Broken steps groaned beneath his boots. A door at the top stuck, but he forced it open. A jagged hole in the wall offered a view of the fortress ramparts.
Outside, the fortress seemed to breathe with hidden life. Great spotlights swept the skies around its upper tiers. Men of Iron marched in lines along catwalks. He spotted unmanned drones hovering, scanning. One soared close, mechanical wings glinting under the midday sun.
He watched the gate below. Large vehicles rumbled in, carrying crates for the festival. A group of robed figures checked cargo under the watchful gaze of mechanical sentinels. Devourers stood in shadow near a secondary entrance—tall, armored men exuding quiet menace.
Satoru shifted his weight against the rubble. His eyes flicked from one patrol to another, timing their passes, counting how many steps it took them to vanish from sight.
He stayed in that tower for hours. Through a crack in the floor, he glimpsed the city behind him, where the festival crowd swelled. Drums thundered in the distance. He clenched his jaw, then rose and made his way down the broken stairs.
A short walk took him to a street that cut along the fortress's side. Ramps led up to an elevated roadway. He climbed onto a deserted walkway that offered a vantage across a walled enclosure. He peered through the chain-link fence.
There, a cloaked figure sorted crates of supplies. Next to him, an official in clan attire read from a clipboard. The official locked each crate, sealed it with a bright sigil, then guided it to a line of waiting vehicles. A faint hum of wards being activated prickled the air.
Satoru scanned the perimeter. Guards patrolled in small squads. He watched their patterns, searching for a gap. He inched closer, pressing against a metal beam.
Overhead, a voice boomed from a fortress loudspeaker: "Festival offerings inbound. Proceed to Gate Twelve for inspection."
A large segment of the wall slid open. The vehicles filed inside, vanishing into a corridor lit with harsh white lights. Satoru traced their path with keen interest. Then the gate rumbled shut, dust swirling in the gloom.
He pulled back from the fence. The stink of oil and burnt incense clung to the air. An electric crackle signaled more wards going active. He swept down a narrow stairwell and emerged into an alley scattered with old flyers and bits of scrap.
He spent the next hour crossing the city again, weaving past revelers and ignoring the distant echo of drums. He reached another hidden vantage near the main gate. Trumpets sounded from far behind, and the fortress front lit up with new lamps.
Priests and acolytes filed out, their lanterns bobbing in a slow procession along the ramparts. Some chanted in a language older than the city's oldest streets. Their voices carried on the wind, sending an uneasy chill across the crowds that had gathered outside.
Satoru pressed himself into the shadows of a tall building. He watched the solemn parade for a time, then turned away and headed deeper into Shibuya. Bright lights glowed off mirrored surfaces, and the reflection of the fortress soared high above.
He came upon a busy district where clan members ate at open-air restaurants. He skirted the edges, slipping past decorated archways, ignoring the swirl of confetti thrown by boisterous children. Eventually he reached a smaller hotel that advertised cheap rooms for travelers.
He exchanged a few bills at the reception. The clerk handed him a key, pointing him down a narrow hall. In his room, he eased the door shut and stood for a moment in the dim light. Through a grimy window, the fortress blinked with distant beacons.
He laid his cloak over a chair. A quiet hum rose from outside as more cargo transports headed toward the fortress. He set his hand on the windowsill, feeling the vibration of the city. His reflection stared back from the glass: hood drawn, the faintest curve at the edge of his mouth.
He ran a thumb over the battered key in his palm. The plan formed in his mind. Infiltration would take cunning, timing, and perhaps an ally who lacked cursed energy entirely. He recalled the boy, Toji, who had parted from him on that rooftop.
A muffled clang from the streets below drew his attention. He saw a line of festival revelers heading toward the fortress. Torches burned bright, silhouettes marching in lockstep. Banners snapped in the wind.
Satoru opened the window and leaned out. He inhaled the night air, thick with smoke and incense. The menacing outline of Sukuna's fortress towered above.
He closed the window. A worn desk stood against the wall, and he lowered himself into the chair. He removed the communicator from inside his cloak. A soft glow lit its display. Messages scrolled in an alien script. He scrolled past them, set the device aside.
He eyed the fortress one last time, shoulders set. Then he exhaled, a long breath in the cramped silence, and flicked the lamp off. Shadows spread across the walls. In the darkness, faint pulses of light from outside played across his face.
He sat without moving for a while, head bowed, fingertips tapping the desk. Then he rose, crossed the small room, and lay on the bed, eyes drifting shut. Beyond the window, the city roared with festival cheer, and the fortress loomed with quiet threat. And he still had no fucking idea how to get in.
AN: Chapter 66 is out on (Pat)reon!