▪and they would get violent▪
《 underestimate her.
please.
--in the end
you'll never see her coming. 》
DISCLAIMER : Under no circumstances do I own Jujutsu Kaisen, nor its characters. I only own the plot of this story, with the r...
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chapter i. living myth walking among us
At such heights, the sheer pressure of the sky crushes any soul impudent enough who dared to think they could challenge the might of whatever deity saw fit to give life to us all.
No one would, no one should even attempt such an act. Soaring above past the tainted souls of mere mortals, far above lands long forsaken by gods is a privilege reserved to the honoured ones. Attempting to do so yourself, you flimsy mortal, would be but foolish.
And yet…
Yet you should have known better than to forget the ever-growing ache, the devouring hunger for power resting deep in mankind’s core. Men always wanted to fly.
You should have remembered the desire settled in their hearts, this inexplicable urge to reach higher and higher, to feel the soft embrace of the firmament. Just why do you think Icarus was so keen, so very eager to brush the heavens from the tip of white feathered wings, flying higher and higher?
Wings became metal shaped in the form of deformities deafening in their graceless flight. It had cut all ties with their dream.
(Hadn’t Icarus fell?)
Yet, this foolish dream of theirs had subsided in their heart. There are powers in this world far, far beyond one’s twisted imagination, and they might just cause it all to tumble down in the end.
You should ask the one miles away from home, shielded from the void by nothing more than the feeble metal of a plane.
Maybe, just maybe, she would answer — or she would not — and for a tantalizing eternity of a second, as you stare into eyes far too sharp for their own good, you can swear the ground approaches so frighteningly fast.
Down below, the lights of a city held so dear to her heart approach each passing second.
They flicker, and her features are painted in colours of neon red. Even from this distance, the city of wonder that is Tokyo knows how to enrapt its visitors, inhabitants or mere tourist. Its welcome is warm, the smiles soft and the bustling alleys brimming with life— yet her coming back might not have been such a good idea.
Had she been able to peer down the windowsill, leaning forward ever so slightly in a leather seat, black tie shifting over pristine white fabric, her eyes blessed with the familiar sight of a city growing nearer and nearer, perhaps she would have smiled.
She had walked down those streets known better than the back of her hand on more than one occasion, with unyielding steel in her eyes and at her hip. Thick blood had covered them, like crimson garments gracefully draped over the pavements. A chorus of grotesque disembodied voices had echoed, and blood had been on her hands too, so much of it—
