ayame's flower realm . JUJUTSU KAISEN

forty . resentment

flames and ashes danced around in the wind, sweeping through the village made out of wood, spreading in a matter of seconds. screams of agony, mothers crying for their children, the children's wails disappearing into the crackling of the flames. it was as if this wasn't a cold winter night, as the heat melted down the people's skin.

"it was that woman! that woman!" they cried. "aah, i knew we should have called someone from the gojo clan long ago! we should not have let her be!"

as if the fire did not hurt her, a woman strolled through the village with a katana dragged behind her. dirt and blood covered her entire being; her once beautiful and elegant appearance had been wiped away, replaced with a wild and unruly features. her carefuly tailored black kimono had turned into rags and her feet were bare. her black eyes were glowing red but no one knew if it was from the flames, or the curse.

on her forehead, a red mark was glowing bright.

the woman ignored the pleas and begging of the villagers, her hand swiftly slicing off their lives as if they were paper.

perhaps, at that time, the woman had thought that the villagers' lives weren't enough.

because after she had cut off every head she saw, the woman had returned to her home. she kneeled next to her husband and daughter's bodies, their chests empty, as she lifted up the blade to her neck —

the man glared into the brown and red eyes that seemed to be gazing somewhere past him, and then towards the red mark on her forehead. it seemed as if he remembered something, as his hand gripped his shirt, the area right on his heart.

right then and there, two faces overlapped with each other. in his eyes, he saw both the young girl in front of him as well as the woman who had dragged her bloodied katana through a village up in flames. he could still smell the stench of burnt flesh and wood from that night, and though it was still in the early hours in the morning, he felt as if he was standing in the middle of the village which had went up in flames.

the man clenched his jaw as he parried another slash before retreating.

the two of them stood a distance away from each other. both figures were decorated with reds and slashes on their clothes and skin.

ayame was getting restless.

calamity's edge was a deadly blade, one that will intrude the wielder's mind if the conditions met. it was a result from centuries ago — it was said that a talented sorcerer had slayed hundreds of cursed spirits in one night. as talented as they were, it was only from the aspect of their ability. the sorcerer's mind and heart, however, was easily poisoned - as if it was a brand new sponge that would greedily absorb any substances it came into contact with.

when the sorcerer died, they were holding calamity's edge in a tight grip. some said because of the cursed energy that had piled up inside the sword, it had somehow seeped into the sorcerer's body, thus corrupting their mind and finally drove them insane.

this was the reason why yasuhiro did not flaunt the sword, as beautiful as it was.

ayame lifted up the sword in her hands. the swarm of sakura petals grew stronger and more aggressive, indiscriminately slicing through everything in their path.

the mark on ayame's forehead was a constant bright red.

the other flower spirits of the blossoming technique refused to come out. that was something ayame had noticed earlier in despite the haze she was currently in. she didn't have time to think of a reason why only the sakura petals could be casted —

white particles floated down from the sky, glistening in the moonlight. they fell and fell, before softly landing on the ground, on trees, in ayame's hair —

pretty.

ayame carefully watched a snowflake falling right onto the pitch black blade of calamity's edge. a gentle breeze caressed her cheeks, softly running its fingers through her hair, brushing against her ears. something wraps itself around her, engulfing her in an embrace,

a mother's touch.

ayame's eyes involuntarily drooped, her hands slowly lowering.

red dripped from her side, a knife sticking out of it.

the man watched as the young girl dropped onto her knees, her head hanging low.

in that moment, the curse of thousands of years and the grief of the village centuries ago met in the form of a girl slumped on the ground, her side pierced through.

the curse of the ohashi, and the grief-stricken heart of a husband whose heart had been dug out by his own beloved.