“Yes,” Sukuna replied.

Sukuna laughed—a raw, theater-shaking sound that echoed through the ruined station.

Sukuna began weaving through its attacks, but his arsenal was shrinking. Cleave was now useless. Dismantle was a breeze. Fire? He hadn’t used it yet, but Mahoraga’s body had already taken on a faint, heat-shimmering quality. Adaptation in progress: Thermal energy.

“You see the flaw in your design?” Sukuna whispered, now standing before the paralyzed Mahoraga, his palm pressed against its featureless face. “You can adapt to any phenomenon. But you cannot adapt to novelty if it is infinite. You are a finite answer to an infinite question.”

Each cut was different. Each cut was new. The wheel began to smoke. It was turning so fast it blurred—adapting, adapting, adapting to an infinite series of unique, never-repeated slashing attacks.

“If I use Fuga now,” Sukuna thought, “it will adapt before the ash settles. And then… nothing will work.”

“But you forgot something, Divine General,” Sukuna said, and for the first time, he spoke the name of his true technique—not a chant, but a pronouncement .

Sukuna, inhabiting the broken vessel of Yuji Itadori, grinned. Before him stood the Eighth Handled Sword Divergent Sila Divine General Mahoraga—a towering, blank-faced colossus of pale muscle and inscribed wheel. The creature’s wheel, an eight-spoked dharma chakra, hung silently above its head. It had already turned once.

The world did not change. It dissolved . The station, the corpses, the very concept of Shibuya—all of it was replaced by a Vast, Empty Shrine. A silent temple floating in a starless sea. At its center, a demonic altar. And on that altar, the severed mouth of a god.

“So that’s your game,” Sukuna whispered, his four eyes narrowing with genuine amusement. “You don’t block. You don’t dodge. You learn .”

Now Sukuna’s punches felt like striking dense water. Mahoraga’s posture shifted. Its blank eyes no longer tracked him—they predicted him. It began parrying strikes before they fully formed. A second later, it countered with a new motion: a whip-like swing of its free arm that didn't just cut space, but folded it. Sukuna lost three fingers on his left hand.

Sukuna had noticed it immediately after his first Dismantle carved a canyon into Mahoraga’s chest, only to watch the wound close as the wheel creaked forward one notch. The next Dismantle barely drew blood.

The air in Shibuya had become a tomb of concrete and cursed residue. But within the station’s B5F, a different kind of physics reigned. To the naked eye, it was chaos; to a sorcerer, it was a theorem of annihilation being written in real-time.