Palpable malice that rolled from Ju-On in waves was a psychic miasma, a slick and suffocating black tar that sought to coat Krogh's mind, to define him solely by the sum of his most monstrous acts and to drown out any whisper of the man he might once have been.
Then, the air directly behind Ju-On began to shimmer. This was no simple trick of the light, no illusion cast for deceit. It was a rupture in the fabric of reality itself, a wound in the world that wept a memory, a thing curated and conjured from pure spite.
From this tear, a vision coalesced into a living, breathing painting of exquisite cruelty: a window into a past meticulously designed for maximum agony. There stood Krogh's mother, her face a heartbreaking mask of tender, maternal love, but her eyes were vacant, hollow pools. In her arms, she cradled two young children, their faces the picture of innocence as they cooed, utterly unknowing of the horror that surrounded them or the fate that had already befallen them.
"D̸o̵ ̶y̷o̷u̸ ̷r̸e̴m̵e̸m̵b̴e̴r̸ ̸y̵o̷u̵r̵ ̴n̸e̴w̸b̵o̵r̸n̴ ̸s̸i̶b̸l̷i̸n̴g̴s̷?̸ ̶D̵o̴ ̵y̵o̴u̸ ̴r̷e̵m̴e̵m̸b̴e̴r̸ ̵t̴h̴e̸ ̵w̷o̴m̸a̴n̶ ̸w̴h̵o̸ ̵b̵o̵r̵e̵ ̴y̸o̴u̷?̶"
(Do you remember your newborn siblings? Do you remember the woman who bore you?)
"S̶h̸e̸ ̴l̸o̵v̴e̵d̷ ̶t̸h̴e̸s̷e̸ ̵l̷i̴t̸t̵l̴e̵ ̸o̴n̷e̸s̵ ̸s̷o̸ ̵d̴e̴a̸r̴l̷y̶,̶ ̴s̵o̷ ̶c̷o̵m̵p̸l̵e̵t̸e̵l̴y̸.̴ ̸H̸u̷m̴a̵n̴s̸ ̵l̴i̸v̸i̵n̴g̷ ̸u̴n̷d̴e̴r̴ ̴t̵h̷e̶ ̴d̴e̵m̴o̵n̴i̴c̷ ̸s̵e̴c̴t̷'̷s̸ ̴r̷u̴l̵e̵ ̸a̸r̸e̸ ̷t̷r̸u̴l̵y̸ ̸f̷o̵o̴l̵i̵s̸h̵,̴ ̴a̸r̴e̵ ̸t̴h̸e̵y̷ ̵n̵o̴t̶?̷"
(She loved these little ones so dearly, so completely. Humans living under the demonic sect's rule are truly foolish, are they not?)
"S̷o̸ ̷m̴i̷r̴e̷d̸ ̵i̷n̶ ̷t̵h̵e̷i̴r̵ ̵o̸w̴n̶ ̸e̴v̷i̸l̴,̴ ̵s̴e̴e̴i̴n̵g̵ ̴o̴n̵l̶y̷ ̷p̵l̴u̷n̵d̵e̵r̷ ̸a̸n̴d̶ ̴t̷h̴e̷ ̶s̷l̸a̵u̵g̸h̵t̶e̴r̸ ̶o̷f̷ ̷t̸h̶e̷ ̶w̸e̴a̴k̸.̵ ̸S̸o̷ ̵I̸,̵ ̶i̸n̸ ̷m̶y̷ ̸b̷o̵u̸n̵d̸l̴e̸s̷s̷ ̸k̴i̵n̴d̸n̴e̵s̷s̶,̸ ̷o̴f̸f̴e̸r̵e̴d̸ ̷t̴h̴e̵m̸ ̴s̸o̵m̷e̷ ̴a̵d̷v̵i̴c̵e̸.̸"
(So mired in their own evil, seeing only plunder and the slaughter of the weak. So I, in my boundless kindness, offered them some advice.)
"A̴n̸d̸ ̴b̵e̵c̴a̴u̴s̴e̸ ̴o̷f̵ ̶m̴y̷ ̵g̵e̸n̸e̵r̴o̷s̸i̴t̷y̸,̵ ̸t̵h̴e̶y̸ ̵w̷e̷r̵e̶ ̸a̵l̴l̴ ̷s̴o̸ ̷v̴e̷r̵y̸ ̵g̸r̴a̵t̴e̴f̵u̸l̷.̵
̷r̵i̴g̷h̵t̴ ̴u̴p̴ ̸u̵n̴t̵i̵l̸ ̸t̵h̴e̵ ̷v̴e̴r̵y̷ ̵e̷n̴d̶,̴ ̵t̵h̸e̷y̵ ̸b̸e̵l̵i̴e̴v̸e̷d̶,̷ ̸w̸i̴t̷h̵ ̸a̷l̵l̴ ̸t̴h̵e̸i̵r̴ ̸h̴e̴a̵r̸t̵s̸,̶ ̵t̵h̴a̴t̴ ̷I̷ ̴w̴a̵s̵ ̵y̷o̸u̸.̴"
(And because of my generosity, they were all so very grateful... right up until the very end, they believed, with all their hearts, that I was you.)
For Ju-On, torture was never a simple matter of inflicting pain. That was the crude work of a butcher. This ghost pursued the art of the composer, the grand architect of despair. It would identify the most sacred melodies of a life—love, hope, memory—and then, with meticulous, unholy precision, force those very instruments to play a symphony of their own damnation. It would conduct this horrific performance until the music curdled into screams, and the instruments themselves shattered into silent, twitching ruin, their every note a testament to his absolute mastery over suffering.
Within the living painting, the Ju-On of the past was a portrait of benevolent concern, a kindly family member offering sage advice with a gentle smile. The mother, her spirit already hollowed into a vacant vessel, listened with the placid obedience of a sleepwalker. And then, under its whispered guidance, the mother moved. Her hands, which moments before had cradled her children with tender love, were transmuted into instruments of exquisite horror. They became knifes and claws, moving not with rage, but with a dreadful, practiced precision. The scene was not one of chaotic violence, but of a systematic, nightmarish dissection. The air, thick with the psychic residue of the event, was filled with the sound of spilling life, the wet, terrible separation of flesh, and the desperate, suffocated cries of the innocent, all unfolding under the direction of a love that had been twisted into a weapon.
Ju-On watched the real Krogh's reaction not with the hot, fleeting satisfaction of glee, but with the cold, appraising interest of a devil examining a particularly fascinating fracture in a specimen of hell rock. The hatred and agony that welled in Krogh's eyes, the tremor in his hands, the silent scream locked in his throat—these were not signs of emotion to Ju-On. This was an interesting toy.
"O̸n̸e̵ ̴d̵a̴y̶,̸ ̷s̸h̶e̸ ̵b̷r̴o̴k̴e̴ ̶f̴r̸e̸e̷ ̸f̷r̴o̴m̵ ̶h̵e̵r̸ ̷m̴i̵n̴d̵ ̸c̸o̵n̴t̸r̴o̴l̸.̵"
(One day, she broke free from her mind control,)
The thing that was Ju-On narrated, its voice a flat, didactic monotone, as if reciting notes from a tale. "C̵o̸g̵n̵i̵t̷i̸o̵n̵ ̸r̴e̷t̸u̸r̵n̴e̸d̵,̸ ̸a̴n̴d̸ ̶w̵i̵t̵h̶ ̷i̴t̸,̶ ̶s̸h̵e̴ ̸s̴e̵e̵m̴e̴d̴ ̸d̸e̴s̸i̴r̴e̸ ̸f̵o̴r̵ ̴r̴e̴v̷e̸n̸g̸e̸.̸ ̴A̸ ̵f̴a̵s̵c̵i̴n̴a̴t̸i̵n̴g̸ ̴d̸e̴v̵e̵l̵o̵p̴m̸e̵n̴t̵.̷"
(Cognition returned, and with it, she seemed desire for revenge. A fascinating development.)
What the broken woman could never have known was that her every coherent thought, her every fleeting spark of hope and rage, was not her own. They were pre-designed components in a psychological trap that Ju-On had already constructed around her crumbling consciousness. The ghost thing had grown bored with submissive torture; it wished to experiment with a more refined cruelty: the gift of agency. IT wanted to bestow the fleeting illusion of hope onto human worm, only to personally administer the kick that would send this worm tumbling into a far deeper, more personalized abyss.
As the woman's awareness fully returned, flooding her being with the horrific, soul-annihilating knowledge of what she had already done, Ju-On's will descended upon her like a cage of iron. It did not crudely force her hands; that would have robbed the act of its meaning. Instead, the ghost guided them to ensure his virtuoso musician hit every single, perfect note of torment. The malice flooded her senses, making her see with unbearable clarity, making her understand the exactness of each movement, making her feel every texture and resistance as her own fingers, under her own volition yet completely beyond her control, performed the final, unthinkable acts of violation upon the small, still forms of her children.
Bathed in the mother's pleading screams, in her desperate begs for mercy, and in all while she, fully conscious, the Ju-On manipulated the mother into peeling the skin from her young children before her very own, unblinking eyes.
"H̴u̸m̶a̴n̸s̸ ̵a̸r̶e̵ ̸p̸a̷r̸a̸s̷i̴t̵e̷s̸ ̴o̵n̴ ̸t̴h̵e̷ ̴s̷k̷i̸n̷ ̷o̴f̴ ̸t̴h̷i̴s̶ ̵d̵i̸r̴t̸,̸"
(Humans are parasites on the skin of this dirt,)
Ju-On stated, as if it's a simple, clinical fact delivered without malice or passion, merely as an observation of undeniable truth. "Y̶o̷u̸ ̸a̵r̴e̶ ̸a̸ ̸p̴l̷a̵g̸u̴e̸ ̴o̷f̷ ̵m̵e̶a̵n̵i̸n̴g̸l̴e̴s̴s̸ ̸c̸o̵n̸s̸c̵i̴o̵u̸s̴n̴e̴s̸s̶.̴ ̸T̴h̵e̸r̶e̷ ̴a̵r̷e̸ ̵t̶o̵o̶ ̷m̴a̴n̷y̴.̷ ̷T̵h̵e̷i̴r̶ ̷o̵n̸l̶y̸ ̸u̸n̷i̴v̸e̴r̵s̴a̴l̵ ̵m̴e̵r̷i̸t̴ ̶i̷s̸ ̵i̴n̷ ̴t̴h̴e̴ ̷c̷r̵e̴a̴t̵i̴v̵i̴t̴y̴ ̷o̴f̵ ̴t̷h̵e̵i̷r̷ ̷s̵u̴f̸f̴e̷r̷i̴n̸g̸.̵ ̸A̸n̸d̸ ̸K̷r̵o̷g̸h̵,̸ ̴y̵o̷u̴r̷ ̴m̷o̵t̴h̴e̴r̵.̵.̵.̷ ̸s̸h̵e̶ ̷e̶x̷h̵i̴b̴i̴t̵e̵d̷ ̷a̷ ̵p̸a̸r̴t̸i̷c̴u̸l̵a̷r̸l̸y̸ ̵f̴a̵s̴c̸i̴n̴a̵t̴i̵n̴g̸ ̵d̸e̴g̸r̴a̴d̸a̵t̵i̴o̷n̴.̸ ̶S̷h̴e̴ ̸w̴e̵n̸t̸ ̷q̴u̸i̴t̴e̷ ̸m̷a̴d̵ ̸a̴f̴t̸e̸r̴ ̵I̵ ̸g̸u̷i̴d̵e̴d̴ ̴h̵e̸r̸ ̴h̵a̸n̷d̸s̴ ̸t̴o̶ ̵g̸o̴u̵g̴e̸ ̸o̸u̴t̷ ̶y̴o̵u̵r̷ ̵y̴o̴u̴n̵g̸e̸r̴ ̸s̵i̷b̸l̵i̵n̴g̷s̵'̵ ̵e̶y̸e̷s̸,̸ ̵t̵o̸ ̶p̸e̸e̵l̴ ̶a̴w̷a̸y̴ ̴t̶h̵e̷i̵r̷ ̷f̵a̴c̴e̴s̵ ̴a̷n̴d̷ ̸s̷e̴e̶ ̸t̴h̴e̵ ̴r̴a̵w̸ ̵m̸e̴a̴t̸ ̸b̴e̵n̵e̴a̴t̴h̵,̷ ̴t̵o̴ ̵s̵t̵o̸m̷p̶ ̵a̷n̵d̵ ̸c̵r̷u̵s̵h̸ ̴t̸h̵e̸i̴r̸ ̵p̸e̵t̴t̴y̷ ̴h̵u̵m̷a̴n̵ ̵g̷e̴n̴i̴t̸a̵l̵s̴."
(You are a plague of meaningless consciousness. There are too many. Their only universal merit is in the creativity of their suffering. And Krogh, your mother... she exhibited a particularly fascinating degradation. She went quite mad after I guided her hands to gouge out your younger siblings' eyes, to peel away their faces and see the raw meat beneath, to stomp and crush their petty human genitals.)
Krogh's breath came in ragged gasps, his knuckles white. The suffocating Sword Intent radiating from the ghost being was indeed the same as his, but stronger and thicker. His Spirit Essence was a finite river, and he was pouring it into a bottomless well. The Ju-On's power was a perversion, a theft. It didn't cultivate; it consumed. It had no core to protect, no meridians to strain. It was a collection of malignant malice and hatred that given an evil form.
"S̴h̸e̵ ̸b̴e̴g̷g̸e̴d̴ ̸f̴o̵r̷ ̴y̴o̸u̵ ̴a̸t̴ ̵t̴h̵e̶ ̴v̸e̵r̶y̸ ̸e̵n̴d̴,̸ ̴y̴o̵u̶ ̷k̴n̷o̷w̵,̸"
(She begged for you at the very end, you know,) the ghost-thing hissed, its voice dropping to an intimate, vile whisper meant for Krogh's soul alone.
"I̴n̸ ̷t̸h̵e̴ ̵a̸b̵s̴o̵l̷u̴t̷e̵ ̸d̴a̷r̴k̸ ̶o̴f̵ ̶t̴h̵e̴ ̷M̸o̸o̶n̵ ̵R̷e̷f̴l̴e̴c̸t̸i̵o̸n̷ ̴M̸i̵r̵r̴o̶r̶,̴ ̴w̸i̴t̵h̶ ̸t̶h̴e̷ ̸r̵e̸m̶n̷a̴n̸t̵s̴ ̸o̴f̴ ̵h̵e̸r̵ ̴l̸i̴f̴e̷ ̴s̴e̴e̵p̷i̸n̵g̸ ̷i̴n̵t̶o̷ ̴t̷h̵e̵ ̸s̵o̴i̸l̶,̸ ̶s̶h̴e̴ ̴c̵a̴l̶l̷e̴d̶ ̴o̸u̸t̵ ̸f̸o̴r̵ ̴h̵e̵r̵ ̵m̷i̴g̵h̶t̴y̷ ̴s̵o̷n̵,̴ ̵t̸h̴e̸ ̶p̴r̶o̸d̸i̶g̷y̴ ̶o̸f̷ ̵t̵h̵e̵ ̵H̷a̸n̸z̸ ̸C̴l̴a̸n̷.̵ ̵S̴h̵e̷ ̷b̸e̷l̸i̵e̷v̷e̸d̶ ̸y̸o̸u̵ ̴w̵o̴u̴l̴d̸ ̷c̸o̸m̴e̵.̴ ̸S̴h̶e̸ ̸b̵e̴l̸i̵e̵v̷e̶d̴ ̴y̴o̵u̴ ̸w̴o̴u̴l̵d̷ ̸s̸a̸v̷e̸ ̴h̴e̵r̵.̷ ̸W̸h̶a̵t̸ ̶d̴i̸d̴ ̴y̵o̵u̷ ̷d̸o̴?̵"
(In the absolute dark of the Moon Reflection Mirror, with the remnants of her life seeping into the soil, she called out for her mighty son, the prodigy of the Hanz Clan. She believed you would come. She believed you would save her. What did you do?)
The pause was a void designed to swallow all hope. "Y̴o̵u̸ ̶s̷l̸a̸u̵g̴h̴t̸e̴r̴e̴d̴ ̸h̴e̴r̴ ̸w̵i̴t̴h̵o̵u̶t̷ ̸t̸a̵l̵k̵.̴"
(You slaughtered her without talk.)
A roar of pure anguish tore from Krogh's throat.
Technique, form, strategy—all were scorched away in the furnace of his anger. What remained was raw, obliterating power.
His left hand, fingers clenched into a sword palm, became the focal point of his entire, shattered will.
A dazzling, crimson beam of light, thick and viscous as freshly spilled lifeblood, erupted from his outstretched palm, sheathing his arm in a terrifying, gleaming sword of pure vengeance. The aura it emitted was not only refined Sword Qi, but clotted rage. He became a living arrow, a spear stained with crimson fury, hurling himself across the shattered ground with a speed born of absolute madness. With a rumbling war cry that seemed to tear the very air, he thrust the gleaming palm-blade forward, aiming not to disable, but to annihilate, to pierce the very heart of the evil that wore his face.
SLAAAASH!
The sound was not of tearing flesh, but of reality itself being sundered.
The thing that was Ju-On did not stagger. It did not cry out. It merely looked down, its head tilting with a chilling parody of curiosity, at the furious, blood-red blade now protruding from the center of its chest. For a moment, it seemed Krogh's gamble had succeeded. The Ju-On's body exploded from within, rupturing from the overwhelming sword aura. A torrent of black, chilling malice—its ghost blood and vital essence—erupted outward, a geyser of pure hatred that drenched the broken stones.
Rummmmble!
But the victory was a phantom. The scene of the dying ju-on wavered, then dissolved. Its human form melted like wax, collapsing into a pool of seething black tar and mist. The spilled curse did not soak into the earth; instead, it churned and coalesced, the chilling ghost aura whirling, coiling like a heavy, sentient fog. From the vortex of its own annihilation, it formed again, weaving itself back into the same ghostly thing that wore the face of Krogh Hanz, its expression one of vacant, malevolent perfection.
Krogh did not wait for it to finish solidifying. Before he could draw another ragged breath, he dashed forward again.
Across from him, Ju-On mirrored the swordsman's gesture perfectly. Its stolen human form now wielded a blade of its own—a dark, murky red aura congealed into a sword palm that pulsed with a stolen, corrupted version of the same technique. It met the incoming rumble and shimmering killing will with its own perfect replica—the Crimson Tide Sword Art of the genius sword path cultivator, Krogh Hanz.
Rumble!!!
CLANNNNG!!!
BAAAAMMMM!!!
The resulting collision was cataclysmic. Crimson light clashed against corrupted crimson, each blow echoing like a funeral bell. They were a blur of lethal, vicious motion, each mirroring the other's most superior and deadly sword moves with flawless, horrifying precision. For a dozen exchanges, the hilltop was nothing but a storm of clashing will and light.
Then they parted. Krogh landed heavily, one knee buckling into the cracked earth. The radiant Sword Qi Shard around his palm flickered, growing dim. Across from him, Ju-On stood unwavering, its stolen technique still glowing with a strong, steady, and utterly cold light.
"Cough... Cough... Cough! Cough!"
The wretched, hacking sounds burst from the swordsman, each one a betrayal of his body. He released the sword-palm, the crimson light flickering and dying as he staggered back, his spirit quailing beneath an impossible truth. He was not fighting a man. He was fighting a ghost thing shouldn't exist, the evil given form. And how does a man, with all his mortal limits, destroy a thing that has already died so long? The cold weight in his gut was the dreadful, exhausting calculus of inevitable defeat. He was not just fighting an malice spectre. He was fighting the entire corrupted Earth Vein itself.
PS:
Hey there, awesome readers! 😄
Here's the fresh chapter—hope it arrives just in time for your week! I had a blast watching the Demon Slayer movie this weekend (sooo good, right?!), and it totally fired up my inspiration. Speaking of inspiration, I'm brewing up something truly sinister—a malice-filled entity, the kind of utterly evil presence. Muhahaha! 😈
I've also been diving into some top-tier male-led action novels, studying how to make our battle scenes even more explosive and immersive. So get ready for some epic face-offs ahead!
More updates are on the way. Stay tuned, and as always—keep being awesome!