Gojo could only watch, a flicker of frustration in his eyes, as Kamo completed his summoning. The lingering contamination in his own blood had forced a grim triage—amputating and regenerating his own arm. It had bought Kamo the crucial seconds he needed.
Space groaned and tore. From the rift descended a colossus of incarnate slaughter—the Blood God Shikigami, more massive and detailed than Gojo remembered. Three heads—furious demon, impassive deity, and frigid lord of the underworld—crowned a body of churning, flame-like crimson. Six burning eyes scanned the battlefield, their gaze searing the air. Six arms, each corded with impossible muscle, wielded an arsenal of nightmarish weapons: axe, hammer, spear, saber, mace, and a great bow, its string taut with lethal intent.
An oppressive, divine malice pressed down on the shattered landscape.
Yet, for Gojo, the true shock wasn't the god. It was the how.
He'd seen it clearly. No Domain Amplification. No Inverted Spear of Heaven. Just Blood Manipulation, wielded in a way that shattered a fundamental law of his world. How did he warp space itself?
There was no time to ponder. In his perception, a torrent of cursed energy surged into the Blood God's bow arm.
'A ranged attack? At this distance, against teleportation?' It seemed like a desperate, wasteful move from a depleted opponent. A feint to buy time.
"Can't let you stall," Gojo muttered, energy coiling around him to initiate a teleportation blitz towards Kamo's main body. Close combat was the key—he needed to dissect that spatial-breaching technique up close.
He never got the chance.
The Blood God released three arrows. They didn't travel. They translocated, vanishing from the bow and materializing instantly in a triangular formation around Gojo, already deep within the effective range of his Infinity.
His instincts screamed a contradiction:
1.
This was the Shikigami's attack, not Kamo's. Would it bypass Infinity?
2.
Kamo's blood had just pierced him. Could his Shikigami's projectiles do the same?
He had a nanosecond to decide. He chose both.
Limitless Cursed Technique. Infinity engaged fully, the infinite series calculating to decelerate the arrows.
Simultaneously, his body phased, Blue's attraction warping his position just enough to avoid a direct center-mass hit.
It was the right choice, and yet it wasn't enough.
The blood arrows didn't simply pierce Infinity; they fermented within it. Upon contacting the slowed space, they didn't push through by force. Instead, they exploded into a mist of microscopic, cursed spores—the enhanced, weaponized version of the original fungal curse's ability. They fed on the very cursed energy sustaining Infinity, creating localized, rapidly expanding pockets of null space within the defensive field.
Two arrows missed his phased form by centimeters, but the third grazed his newly-regenerated arm.
Instantly, a searing, corrupting heat bloomed beneath his skin. The blood-fungus hybrid wasn't just attacking; it was integrating, seeking to convert his own flesh and cursed energy into more of itself.
Gojo's eyes widened behind his Six Eyes. This wasn't a power clash. It was a systemic infection.
He severed the connection again with brutal efficiency, a portion of his forearm dissolving into crimson dust before Reverse Cursed Technique flooded in to rebuild.
When he looked up, his gaze locked not on the towering Blood God, but on Kamo Itsuki himself, who stood calmly in the distance. Kamo raised a single finger to his temple and smiled—a cold, knowing smile.
The message was clear.
You're not just fighting a god, Satoru. You're fighting the ecosystem I built to defeat you. The blood that warps space. The fungus that eats technique. Every move is a trap within a trap.
Now, try to keep up.
Gojo's strategy was a layered defense: expand Infinity's range for a buffer, use it to blunt the initial impact, and be ready to teleport the instant it failed.
It failed instantly.
The arrows didn't just pierce; they dissolved Infinity on contact, the fungal spores within them voraciously consuming the cursed energy that sustained the technique. Gojo vanished in a warp of distorted space, the arrows shearing through the air where he'd been.
He reappeared halfway to Kamo, his planned direct teleportation aborted—the energy expenditure to cross the full distance under that threat was too great. Before he could reorient, a chilling realization hit: the arrows had pivoted mid-air and were arcing back towards him with unerring accuracy.
"Tracking, too?!"
Another desperate teleport, a hairsbreadth evade. He analyzed at lightning speed: The spatial translocation is a one-time trigger at launch. Now they're just fast, physical projectiles. Fast, but not faster than instant teleportation.
His goal snapped back into focus: Kamo himself. He warped again, aiming to materialize right beside the sorcerer.
He was met not by Kamo, but by a wall of divine flesh and a descending mountain of spiked iron.
The Blood God was colossal, a hundred meters of incarnate wrath, but Gojo had underestimated its operational speed. Unbound by mortal physiology or gravity, its sheer scale meant a slight motion covered a devastating area. The massive, spike-studded mace it swung didn't need agility; it needed only to exist in the space Gojo was about to occupy.
Gojo aborted his appearance, flickering to a different coordinate. The mace cratered the earth where he would have been, the shockwave and geyser of pulverized rock and soil violently destabilizing the local space, making precise, short-range teleportation perilous.
He was forced into a frantic, flickering dance. The Blood God's follow-up was a storm of steel—the hum of a saber cleaving the sky, the piercing thrust of a spear seeking his core. His Six Eyes saw each move coming, a perfect prediction engine. But prediction meant nothing against area-denial on this scale. The god's "slow" movements created zones of absolute annihilation that he had to teleport around, not through.
By the time he disengaged, putting significant distance between himself and the titanic guardian, he was not where he wanted to be. He hovered over the wreckage of what had been the simulated foothill forests of Mount Fuji, now a smoldering plain of splintered trees and churned earth.
The Blood God stood between him and Kamo, a silent, three-faced sentinel, its weapons still gleaming. Kamo Itsuki remained at its center, a calm conductor behind an orchestra of violence.
Gojo Satoru breathed out, a sharp, exhilarated grin cutting through his focus. This wasn't an obstacle. It was a puzzle. A puzzle with a time limit, a tracking hazard, and a spatial-warping, technique-eating core.
'Okay, Itsuki,' he thought, his Six Eyes drinking in the flow of cursed energy around the Shikigami, searching not for a weakness, but for the underlying rule. 'Let's see how your god handles infinity when infinity stops playing defense.'
He raised a hand, not towards Kamo, but towards the space above the Blood God. The air began to churn with a different kind of violence—not the erasure of Purple, but the voracious, endless pull of Blue, amplified and focused. He wasn't trying to crush the god. He was going to distort the very battlefield it stood on.
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