As Mahito's body waged war, his battle with Yuji Itadori had taken quite a toll on him. He sat near Geto, who had saved him from his impending demise, but the malice within his heart remained unsatisfied. He glanced at Geto—the very person responsible for the deaths of his friends. To Geto, they were just expendable pawns for his plans.
This didn't sit well with Mahito. Even though Geto had defended him against Yuji, Mahito lashed out. Geto, as expected, dodged Mahito's attack with ease. It was a fair attempt, but Geto had years of experience, far more than Mahito could ever hope to match. Mahito was simply along for the ride. He chuckled slightly, staring Geto down.
"I've always known it… because I was born from you humans," Mahito murmured, the realization sharp in his voice. He had known Geto's true intent long before, but now it felt more personal.
Geto released a sly smirk, his chuckle echoing Mahito's. With an act of betrayal, Pseudo-Geto activated his cursed technique. Mahito was caught in a swirling vortex, the center being Geto's palm. Mahito would be turned into nothing but a tool, his existence reduced to painful oblivion. As his body was torn apart, he flailed, screaming for help, just as he had once before. The agony was unbearable.
As his eyes dimmed, Mahito locked onto the swirling sky above, filled with curses and hatred. His mind flickered between disbelief and amusement. After everything, was this how it ended?
"No..." The word barely escaped his lips, more a thought than a sound. "This can't… be it."
The last thing he saw was Yuji's face—full of anger, sorrow, and an unsettling sense of finality. Mahito couldn't understand it. And then... there was nothing.
Mahito's consciousness drifted through a void, his body dissolving into nothingness. There was no sight, no sound—only an odd awareness of existing in some form, though even that was fading. His thoughts fractured, and memories slipped away like echoes fading into silence. Who was he? What had he been?
Names, faces, emotions—they all evaporated into darkness, leaving only a soul stripped of identity. His memories became indistinct shapes and voices he couldn't grasp, like trying to hold water in his hands. He no longer remembered why he had fought or who he had fought against. All that remained was the sensation of drifting.
Suddenly, a flash of light pierced the darkness, blinding and overwhelming. The warmth was pressing, almost suffocating. Mahito's soul, now raw and undefined, was pulled through the light, compressed and reshaped until…
He cried. Not out of fear or pain, but in the most primal sense—the cry of a newborn.
The flood of sensations overwhelmed him. Droplets of rain pelted him like tiny paintballs. The cold, smoky breeze suffocated his lungs. It was all so uncomfortable, and there was no sign of relief. The low creaks of metal, followed by a shock like lightning, made his small body shudder.
He had been placed on top of a trash heap, lying on a metal sheet. His eyes scanned the dark, cloudy sky. His mother's or father's whereabouts were unknown. There he sat, crying, with no one to rescue him. Time passed until the moon poked through the sky, casting a spotlight on him and only him.
The city was a hellish landscape, barely deserving the name. Loud booms and crashes echoed from far away, the clatter of weapons filling the air. Amidst it all, a passing couple heard his cries as they traveled through the trash heaps.
The woman looked over her shoulder at her husband, who shook his head in reluctance. Her eyes widened in shock at his response, her lips subtly quivering. The man firmly gripped her wrist as she raised their hands to chest height.
"No! I'm already barely making enough for the three of us. We can't afford an orphanage!" he hissed, his voice strained but quiet. His wife, visibly older, shot him a desperate glance before looking back at the boy.
"But that doesn't excuse us to leave him to nobody!" she argued, pulling her hand from his grasp. Ignoring his protests, she scrambled up the pile of trash as quickly as her old bones would allow. Her husband followed reluctantly, ready to accept her decision.
At the top, she found the blue-haired boy, his hair in thin strands like that of a newborn. Her husband arrived beside her, placing a hand on her hip as they both gazed down at the child. The boy had stopped crying, slipping into a trance-like state. It was oddly beautiful.
As she held the child, she noticed something disturbing. The blood on the newborn's body was his own. Patchwork stitches adorned his skin, slowly seeping blood. The sight was terrifying but also invoked a deep sense of pity.
Cradling him gently, she whispered, "I shall name you Mahito."