A sly smirk played on Kenzo's lips as he watched the swirling energy of the Prison Realm distort the air. Gojo, the mighty Six-Eyed Sorcerer, was trapped within, stewing in his self-proclaimed boredom. Kenzo knew the words, the simple phrase that would shatter the barrier and set Gojo free. Yet, he held back.
It wasn't about strategy, or weakening Gojo, though those thoughts did dance at the edge of his mind. No, the truth was far more deliciously petty. The image of Gojo's smug grin contorted into frustration, his eyes narrowed in annoyance, brought a childish glee to Kenzo's heart. Let him simmer, let the silence gnaw at his ego.
"Just a little longer," Kenzo murmured, his voice barely a whisper. He imagined Gojo pacing the confines of the prison, muttering curses under his breath. The thought brought another smirk, wider this time. He could almost hear Gojo's voice, laced with condescension, asking, "Are you done playing your little games yet, Kenzo?"
ahito, a blur of motion, twisted his hands, his Idle Transfiguration warping the surrounding debris into shields that deflected the onslaught.
Their clash danced around an abandoned warehouse, a whirlwind of shadows and cursed techniques. Mahito, fueled by sadistic glee, launched tendrils of transfigured concrete, aiming to twist Kenjaku's form into grotesque shapes. The sorcerer remained composed, dodging and deflecting with practiced ease, his own cursed techniques erupting in waves of force that reshaped the very air around them.
Words flew as quickly as fists. Kenjaku taunted Mahito, mocking his reliance on a borrowed existence, promising to unravel the binding vow that anchored him to this reality. Mahito, in turn, reveled in Kenjaku's frustration, relishing the fear he saw flickering in the ancient being's eyes.
But this wasn't a mere brawl. Kenjaku, ever the strategist, observed. He noted Mahito's reliance on brute force, his predictable transfigurations, the subtle tremor in his form when his attacks were countered. He searched for openings, for weaknesses in the binding vow, for a way to sever the very foundation of Mahito's existence.
Mahito, too, wasn't just attacking. He probed Kenjaku's defenses, trying to discern the true nature of his being, searching for vulnerabilities in the layers of cursed techniques and ancient knowledge. He whispered insidious doubts, exploiting insecurities buried deep within Kenjaku's millennia-old heart.
The battle evolved, their techniques interweaving in a macabre ballet. Mahito transfigured the very ground beneath Kenjaku, attempting to bind him, while the sorcerer countered with intricate chains of cursed energy, seeking to sever Mahito's connection to his anchor.
Mahito, a twisted grin plastered on his porcelain mask, danced towards Kenjaku. His nimble steps barely touched the ground, anticipation radiating from him like heat waves. Every inch of him screamed "predator," his eyes gleaming with the thrill of the hunt.
Kenjaku, however, remained immovable. A statue carved from shadows, his gaze never left Mahito. He knew the boy's game all too well – a single touch, and his Idle Transfiguration could twist Kenjaku's very being into a grotesque mockery.
Suddenly, the air above Mahito shimmered. Razor-sharp claws materialized from thin air, aimed at the curse's head in a swift, silent strike. He barely avoided the attack, a surprised gasp escaping his lips as he twisted mid-air, landing gracefully a few feet back.
Kenjaku raised a hand, and the spectral claws dissipated. "Playing coy, Mahito?" His voice was a cold whisper, devoid of emotion. "Perhaps you underestimate my caution."
Mahito's grin faltered for a moment, replaced by a flicker of annoyance. He knew better than to underestimate Kenjaku, but the prospect of finally getting his hands on him fueled his fervor.
With a snarl, he launched himself forward again, aiming not for a touch, but to close the distance. Kenjaku reacted instantly. Walls of swirling cursed energy erupted from the ground, blocking Mahito's path. The young curse slammed into the barrier, his surprise evident as it held firm.
Kenjaku didn't waste the opportunity. Tendrils of darkness slithered towards Mahito, each imbued with a curse technique designed to hinder and harm. One whipped around his leg, trying to trip him, another crackled with electricity, aiming to stun.
Mahito, agile as ever, contorted his body, dodging the tendrils with practiced ease. He spat a glob of transfigured saliva, aiming to corrupt the cursed energy itself. Kenjaku, anticipating this, simply dissolved the tendrils as they neared, preventing the corruption from spreading.
The dance continued, a deadly game of cat and mouse played out in bursts of cursed energy and desperate lunges. Kenjaku used his vast knowledge of techniques to keep Mahito at bay, never allowing him close enough for a touch. Mahito, frustrated yet undeterred, adapted his tactics, exploiting weaknesses in Kenjaku's defenses, searching for an opening.
The air crackled with tension, the outcome hanging in the balance. Would Mahito manage to land a touch, forever altering Kenjaku's form? Or would the ancient sorcerer's strategic defenses hold, forcing the playful curse to retreat?