MHA; Gojo Vs Sukuna

Chapter 11: The Crimson Trail.

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The sky loomed heavy with dense, gray clouds, swirling in slow, deliberate patterns as if the heavens themselves were caught in hesitation. A cold wind swept through the abandoned port, rattling rusted chains and creaking the skeletal remains of forgotten warehouses. The air smelled of salt, metal, and something stale—like time had stood still in this forsaken place.

Sukuna moved forward, his black boots pressing against damp concrete, each step echoing faintly in the desolation. His red interface flickered before him, the arrow on the digital map pointing straight ahead.

Destination: 30 meters ahead.

His lips curled into a smirk, his dark red eyes scanning the looming structure before him. A deteriorating warehouse, its faded paint peeling like dead skin, stood at the water's edge. Cracked windows lined its upper levels, some completely shattered, allowing the wind to whistle through like ghostly whispers.

Sukuna stopped just outside, rolling his shoulders lazily. "So, this is the place," he muttered, his breath visible in the chill. "Charming."

The interface dimmed, and the words on the screen shifted.

Proceed with caution. Hostile individuals detected.

Sukuna chuckled under his breath. Hostile? That was putting it lightly. He could already hear the muffled voices inside, gruff and laced with the kind of arrogance that came from knowing they operated in shadows, away from prying eyes.

Pushing the rusted door open, the metal groaned in protest, and all conversation inside died instantly. The interior was dimly lit, the scent of sweat, gunpowder, and illicit goods thick in the stagnant air. Crates and makeshift tables lined the room, stacks of weapons, cash, and unmarked packages scattered haphazardly.

Six men stood in a semi-circle, their eyes locking onto the intruder. They weren't ordinary thugs—no, these were men accustomed to violence. Their faces were lined with scars, their hands calloused from years of dirty work. A few had tattoos, insignias of underground syndicates that spoke of old allegiances.

A man in a dark trench coat, clearly the one in charge, leaned against a crate, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips. His eyes, sharp like a predator's, studied Sukuna with a mixture of irritation and amusement. "You lost, kid?"

Sukuna exhaled slowly, his expression unreadable. "I'm looking for something," he said, voice calm but carrying an undeniable weight. "Something that should be here."

The trench coat man raised an eyebrow, before letting out a dry chuckle. "Oh? And what would that be?"

Sukuna took another step forward, hands sliding into his pockets. "An object. Small. Sealed in a box. I'd rather not make a mess." His gaze flicked over the men, sizing them up with the casual ease of a lion among sheep. "So, how about you hand it over, and we all walk away without any unnecessary trouble?"

A tense silence filled the warehouse. Then, the trench coat man grinned, a slow, condescending stretch of his lips. "That so?" He gestured with a lazy hand.

The moment was brief. The air shifted, thick with unspoken hostility. Fingers tightened around weapons. The click of safeties being disengaged rang out like a silent countdown.

Sukuna sighed. "So that's how it is, huh?"

The black markings on his face deepened, spreading like ink across his skin. His fingers twitched slightly, an invisible force thrumming beneath his flesh. He looked almost bored, but his eyes—his eyes gleamed with something wicked.

"Well, don't say I didn't give you a chance."

The room exploded into motion.

A man lunged, gun raised—but before he could pull the trigger, Sukuna moved. The crate he had been leaning on was suddenly airborne, hurled with effortless force. Wood shattered against the man's body, sending him sprawling against the cold floor with a sickening crack.

Another rushed in from the left, swinging a crowbar aimed at Sukuna's skull. Without missing a beat, Sukuna caught it mid-swing. His grip was vice-like, his fingers squeezing until the metal bent like softened clay. The attacker's eyes widened in horror—just before Sukuna's fist collided with his stomach, lifting him off the ground and sending him crashing into a stack of crates.

Three men remained, visibly shaken. But fear makes people reckless.

One pulled a knife and charged, aiming for Sukuna's throat. A mistake. Sukuna sidestepped fluidly, grabbing the man's wrist and twisting. The sickening pop of dislocated joints filled the air, followed by a guttural scream. With a single powerful motion, Sukuna slammed him headfirst into the concrete.

The last two hesitated. Good instincts—too bad they wouldn't save them.

Sukuna took a step forward, and in that instant, his presence became suffocating. The air around him seemed heavier, as if reality itself acknowledged his dominance. The trench coat man gritted his teeth, his fingers twitching over his holster. "What are you exactly?" he spat.

Sukuna tilted his head, smirking. "Already told you, just someone looking for a little thing."

The last two men tried to flee. It was pointless. With inhuman ease, Sukuna grabbed a wooden beam and swung it like a bat. It connected with one of them, sending him crashing into the opposite wall. The final man tripped over a crate, scrambling backward as he bled from a wound on his forehead.

He looked up at Sukuna, his voice trembling. "How... how can you do this? With no quirk.. Just your body alone—this is insane. No wait, these black lines on your face have something to do with your ability, right..."

Sukuna crouched beside him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. "Don't occupy your mind with what doesn't concern you," he said, his smirk widening. "Now, where's the box?"

Through ragged breaths, the man gestured weakly toward the back room. There is where they put all the things that they don't know are useful, things that only arrive to be in the museum. Sukuna patted that man shoulder, then stood, making his way toward the indicated direction.

Behind a rusted steel door, he found it—a simple wooden chest, unmarked but radiating something ancient. He reached for it, fingers grazing the surface.

The system interface flickered to life.

Object acquired. Consuming item…

A strange warmth coursed through his body. His muscles tensed, then relaxed. His senses sharpened, his vision clearer than before. A new notification appeared on the screen.

Power level increased. Number of consumed fingers: 2/20.

Sukuna exhaled, rolling his shoulders as he adjusted to the newfound strength. His reflection in the broken glass of an old cabinet caught his eye—the markings on his skin had grown more pronounced, darker, more defined.

He grinned. "Now this... this is getting interesting."

Behind him, the warehouse was littered with broken bodies and splintered wood. The storm outside remained on the verge of breaking, the air thick with the promise of rain. Sukuna stepped over the unconscious men, humming softly to himself as he disappeared into the misty night.

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