Dabura Karaba (King of Simurians)

The year 2086 was already etched into history as a turning point, not for a global war, but for an arrival. Sixty-eight years after the devastating Culling Game and the havoc wrought by Ryomen Sukuna, humanity had barely begun to reclaim a semblance of normalcy, haunted by the specter of Cursed Spirits. Then, a new terror descended from the stars.

An extraterrestrial life form, identifying itself as a Simurian – aliens with a distinctive third eye on their foreheads – had appeared. They were accompanied by a colossal mothership, the Naunax, carrying nearly 50,000 of their compatriots, ostensibly seeking sanctuary as "refugees." The Inspector General, burdened by humanity's recent history, had wasted no time. This extraterrestrial invasion was immediately declared a special grade incident, on par with Sukuna's attack; a chilling pronouncement that sent ripples of unease across the globe.

Whispers quickly spread of the Simurian leader, the "King of Simurians," a being whose power level was rumored to rival that of Ryomen Sukuna himself. A terrifying thought, given the devastation the King of Curses had brought.

It was late at night when the silence of your isolated home was shattered by a deafening crash in your backyard. The sound was not just loud; it vibrated through the very foundations of your house, rattling the windows. You jolted awake, heart hammering against your ribs, eyes wide with a primal fear that tightened your throat. A cold sweat ran down your spine as you scrambled out of bed and peered out the window.

Through the darkness, a plume of smoke slowly drifted upwards from the dense forest that bordered your property. It was thick, acrid, and undeniably alien. Whatever had fallen, it wasn’t from Earth.

Slipping out of bed, your feet found your worn slippers as you fumbled for the heavy-duty flashlight you kept by your bedside. The cold night air immediately bit at your exposed arms and legs through your thin pajamas, but the chill was nothing compared to the icy dread seeping into your bones. Every instinct screamed at you to stay inside, to call for help that wouldn't arrive in time, but a morbid curiosity, a foolish, dangerous human trait, compelled you towards the woods.

The darkness of the forest was absolute, the beam of your flashlight doing little more than carving a wavering tunnel through the oppressive shadows. Each rustle of leaves, each snap of a twig beneath your feet, sounded amplified, a prelude to something terrible. But as you ventured deeper, the faint, shimmering lights began to pierce the gloom. Then, a low, guttural whirring of intricate machinery, a sound utterly unlike anything mechanical you’d ever known. And finally, the sickly sweet scent of ozone mixed with scorched earth and something metallic – the unmistakable odor of whatever had crashed.

As you drew closer, the damage became apparent: a wide swath of ancient trees had been brutally shorn, splintered trunks resembling broken matchsticks. Yet, miraculously, there was no raging inferno, only smoldering debris and the lingering smoke.

And then, you saw it.

Resting amidst the wreckage, half-buried in the disturbed earth, was a sleek, obsidian space pod. It was severely damaged, its exterior scarred and twisted, but still glowed with an internal, pulsing blue light. Hesitantly, you took another step forward, your breath catching in your throat.

Then, a groan. A deep, resonant sound that vibrated through the air, inside the pod. You froze, clutching the flashlight so tightly your knuckles turned white. Before you could even process the urge to turn and run, a massive, clawed hand, impossibly large and strangely elegant, punched through the twisted metal of the pod’s hatch. It dragged itself upwards, followed by a powerful forearm, a shoulder, and then the rest of a body that seemed to defy the confines of the wreckage.

He was… monstrous. Terrifying. A heart-stopping nightmare made manifest. Every fiber of your being screamed in alarm.

He was unarmed, but the concept of an unarmed was meaningless when confronted with him.

The moment his third eye, then his two main eyes, fixed upon you, a soundless scream ripped through your chest. You didn't even think. You just ran. Screaming your head off, a guttural, terrified sound you didn't know you could make, as you darted back towards your house, scrambling over roots and through the shattered undergrowth.

He didn't immediately give chase. He merely scoffed, a low, rumbling sound that seemed to shake the very air. One large, brawny hand pressed against his side, stilling the flow of blue blood that seeped from a gash sustained during the crash landing. He clenched his jaw, a muscle twitching in his cheek, before slowly tracking your retreating form with his third eye, even in the near-total darkness. Then, he moved. His steps were heavy, measured, the sound of his sheer weight and height thudding against the forest floor. He didn't run, didn't chase; he simply followed.

You, however, ran like hell. Questions blurred in your mind, a chaotic mess of pure panic: An alien?! Crash landed in your backyard?! He's going to kill you. You're going to die if you don't—

But the panic screaming in your head cut off abruptly as your foot caught on an unseen root. You pitched forward, a cry escaping your lips, and fell, flashlight clattering uselessly to the damp ground a few feet ahead. Your face squished into the cool, damp grass, the breath knocked out of you. You weakly propped yourself up on your elbows, spitting dirt from your mouth, but froze when you heard the heavy footsteps behind you. Closer now. So much closer.

But the sound of his footsteps breaking sticks on the ground directly behind you ceased. He stopped dead. Your breath hitched. Tears streamed down your face, mixing with the dirt. This was it. You were done for, all because of your stupid, self-destructive curiosity. You squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for the impending, painful blow that would surely end it all.

Instead of pain, you felt a rustle of displaced air as his massive body moved past you. The ground rumbled faintly, a soft crunch of leaves and twigs, as he… knelt down in front of you.

Reluctantly, slowly, you opened your eyes. He was there, kneeling, still impossibly tall even in that position, towering over your prone form. One enormous hand was extended, holding your flashlight, its beam now pointing harmlessly at the ground, an offering. His other hand was still pressed against his side, stemming the flow of blue blood from what was clearly a deep wound.

He grumbled, a low, guttural sound that was as deep and terrifying as his looks, yet he seemed to whisper it, as if trying not to startle you further. "You dropped your light." His voice was like grinding tectonic plates, resonant and ancient. Another beat of silence. Then, a softer rumble, "Can you… patch me up?" And then, with a muffled sigh, the most bizarre addition, "Please, human?"

Like that made him any less terrifying.

After a long, terrifying moment of trying not to completely freak out, of grappling with the sheer surreal absurdity of the situation, he slowly helped you to your feet. His large hand, surprisingly gentle, carefully cupped yours, supporting you until you were stable. The contrast between his monstrous appearance and his careful touch was disorienting.

Once you were standing, albeit shakily, you snatched your flashlight from his hand and began to walk back towards your house, a silent, trembling puppet. The only difference now was that this alien—this powerful, terrifying Simurian King—was following you. And you were going to… patch him up.

You truly had lost your mind.

Once you reached your house and fumbled with the lock, stepping inside, you momentarily forgot how truly huge he was. That illusion lasted only until he had to bend down, nearly doubling over, and shift sideways to squeeze his massive frame through your standard-sized front door. Then, the realization hit again as you watched him cautiously maneuver into your living room. You felt laughably small on your own couch when he took up nearly half of it, his powerful form consuming the space, as you eventually grabbed the medkit and, with shaking hands, began to tend to his wound with a needle, thread, and antiseptic wipes.

He didn't once say a word after that. Just sat there, absolutely still, his two main eyes staring blankly ahead, fixed on some distant point only he could perceive. But his middle eye, the one on his forehead, was alive with a cool, unblinking curiosity, watching your every hesitant movement, every shaky stitch you made.

Afterwards, when you wrapped thick gauze around his muscular waist, securing the dressing, and then put the medkit away, you didn't remember exactly how it… happened. How the terrifying Simurian King, the being whose power rivaled Sukuna, ended up becoming your strange, silent roommate.

But weeks went by. And you now harbored a fucking alien.

He wasn't supposed to stay long. Just for the night, you'd told yourself, after he'd nearly fallen off your impossibly small couch. You'd kick him out in the morning. But that's not how it went.

He wasn't there in the morning when you woke, but by lunchtime he came back, smelling faintly of ozone and pine. He muttered, a low growl of words, about being in the process of rebuilding his space pod, and how he needed a place to rest for the time being. Screw you and your sympathetic heart. He was terrifying, a living nightmare, and yet you couldn't say no to that… cold, distant, yet undeniably vulnerable look in his eyes.

However, living with him now wasn't… terrible. It was bizarre, yes, unprecedented, but not terrible. He didn't talk much, only mumbled or gestured vaguely when communication was absolutely necessary. He left in the early mornings, disappearing into the woods to work on his wrecked pod, but would return during lunch, sometimes with a handful of wild berries he'd found, which he'd silently place beside your plate, a strange offering.

He slowly started fixing up your house too. Leaky faucets, creaky door hinges, a stubborn lock – anything that was slightly broken or out of order, he simply… fixed. He didn't ask, didn't even announce it. He just did it, his immense strength applied with surprising delicacy.

You learned his name. When you asked, he merely shrugged his broad shoulders, rumbling, "Dabura."

‧₊˚ ☁️⋅♡𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ☾. * ੈ✩‧₊˚

Now, after a few weeks of this surreal existence, it was yet another night time routine. You were washing dishes, the gentle hum of the dishwasher a comforting drone, while he was preparing dinner. His tall, horned figure looked utterly ridiculous in your cramped kitchen, his back slightly hunched to clear the low ceiling, but it had become a regular, almost normal, thing. He was just your gentle giant who didn't have many words to say.

He shortly grunted, a soft, deep sound that had become an almost conversational cue, getting your attention. He held up a large, wooden spoon, steam curling from the concoction it held, offering it to you for a small taste test.

"Is the… seasoning right, human?" he rumbled, his third eye fixed directly on you, piercing and expectant.