Tadano was floating.
Not falling. Not drowning. Just... floating. Suspended in something that felt like water but wasn't wet. The sensation was strange, weightless, like gravity had forgotten he existed.
Light surrounded him. Not from any particular source—no sun, no lamp, no flame. It simply was. Everywhere and nowhere, a mild ambient glow that made it impossible to tell up from down, near from far.
Where am I?
The thought echoed in the space around him. Or maybe it echoed inside him. The distinction seemed meaningless here.
He tried to move and felt something solid beneath his feet. Ground that hadn't been there a moment ago, or maybe had always been there and he just hadn't noticed. Tadano stood—or thought he stood—and looked around at the infinite emptiness.
That's when he felt it.
A presence. Behind him.
He turned.
Standing there, maybe five meters away, was... himself.
Not a reflection. Not exactly. The figure looked like Tadano—same height, same build, same features. But it radiated a mild red glow, pulsing softly like a heartbeat. And its eyes—those weren't Tadano's eyes. They held something ancient. Something that had existed long before he was born.
"Who are you?" Tadano asked. His voice sounded strange here, like it was traveling through something denser than air. "Where am I?"
The replica smiled. Not his smile. Something else wearing his face. "You know who I am. You've felt me your entire life. Every time you held your sword. Every time you fought. Every perfect strike, every impossible movement." The figure gestured at the endless space around them. "This is your conscious. The space between thought and action. Between will and reality."
"My... conscious?"
"Where your mind touches the deeper parts of yourself. The parts that aren't quite physical. Not quite mental. Just... you." The replica stepped closer, and Tadano noticed the ground rippled where it walked, like water disturbed by a stone. "And I am your Cursed Arts. The skill that transcended limitation. The perfection that broke through human ceiling. I am what you became when you pushed beyond possible."
Tadano stared at his own face radiating red light. "You're... separate from me? But you're my power. How can you—"
"I'm not separate. I'm you. Just the part you haven't fully understood yet." The Cursed Arts tilted its head. "In this conscious, time is finite and space is infinite. Under optimal conditions, you could spend hours here while seconds pass in reality. Could explore every corner of your being, understand every aspect of your power."
The glow flickered, dimmed slightly. "But these aren't optimal conditions. You're dying. Your body is failing. Blood loss, catastrophic injury, magical corruption trying to seep through your sword into your core. Your conscious is weakening. Which means time is running out."
As if to emphasize the point, the ambient light dimmed further. Tadano felt something press against the space—pressure from outside, from reality, from the inevitable end approaching.
"How long do I have?" he asked quietly.
"Seconds. Maybe less." The Cursed Arts stepped closer still, now close enough to touch. "Which is why I'm here. Why I manifested. You have a choice to make, Tadano. A chance to grow your Cursed Arts further. To unlock potential that would normally take years to develop."
"In exchange for what?"
"A share of your conscious." The replica placed a hand over where its heart would be. "Right now, I exist as instinct. As skill made supernatural. But I'm not... aware. Not truly. I guide your movements, protect your weapon, manifest your abilities. But I don't think. Don't choose. Don't grow on my own."
It extended its hand. "Give me a portion of your conscious. Let me become something more than just power. Let me think, adapt, evolve. And in return, I will help you grow faster than you ever could alone. I will push your abilities beyond their current limits. I will make you stronger."
Tadano looked at the extended hand. At his own face wearing an expression he'd never made. "What does 'a share of my conscious' mean? Will I... lose myself?"
"You'll lose nothing. Gain everything." The Cursed Arts' smile widened. "Think of it like this—right now, your sword skills are something you do. After this, they'll be something you are. The distinction will blur. Your Cursed Arts will become more independent, more aware. Able to act even when you can't consciously direct them."
"That sounds dangerous."
"It is. But you're dying anyway. So what's the loss?"
The words hit like a physical blow. Tadano felt the pressure increasing, felt his conscious weakening further. The light was dimming faster now. He could almost hear it—the sound of weapons charging, of his body failing, of death approaching.
He was going to die. Right now. In seconds. Unless something changed.
"If I agree," Tadano said slowly, "what happens? What changes?"
"Everything. And nothing." The Cursed Arts' hand remained extended. "You'll still be you. But you'll be more. Your abilities will deepen, expand, evolve at accelerated rates. And I—I will help you. Guide you. Protect you in ways I couldn't before when I was just instinct."
"And the dying part?"
The Cursed Arts smirked—an expression Tadano had never worn, too confident, too knowing. "About that. I'll deal with it."
Tadano thought for approximately half a second.
Then he took the hand.
"Yes."
The moment their hands touched, everything exploded.
Hexar pulled the trigger.
Thirty weapons discharged simultaneously, a concentrated barrage that would reduce the three fallen revolutionaries to nothing more than scattered pieces and blood-soaked ground.
The bullets and energy blasts converged on Tadano's collapsed body—
And stopped.
A wall of swords materialized from nowhere, hanging in the air, forming a perfect barrier. The projectiles hit steel and either deflected harmlessly away or simply stopped, frozen in space before the impossible defense.
"What—" Hexar started.
He fired again. His mechanical arm unleashed a sustained burst, weapons cycling through different ammunition types, different energy frequencies. The soldiers joined him, thirty weapons adding to the barrage.
The wall of swords didn't move. Didn't shake. Didn't show any sign of strain.
Then the swords dispersed.
Not falling. Not fading. Just... gone. Vanished as quickly as they'd appeared.
And there, standing where Tadano's dying body had been, was Tadano himself.
He stood perfectly upright despite the injuries covering his body. Blood still ran from his wounds, but he moved like the damage didn't exist. Like pain was something that happened to other people.
"Impossible," Hexar said, his cybernetic eye zooming in, analyzing. "You were dying. Heart rate critical. Blood loss catastrophic. You should be dead."
Tadano—or something wearing Tadano's face—smiled.
"Should be. Aren't."
The voice was wrong. Still Tadano's voice, but with something layered underneath. Something ancient and sharp and utterly inhuman.
Hexar raised his weapons, targeting systems locking on. "Whatever trick you're pulling, it won't—"
He stopped.
Tadano's eyes had changed.
They weren't brown anymore. They glowed crimson red, bright as fresh blood, emanating a light that didn't quite obey physics. The glow pulsed in rhythm with something—not a heartbeat, but something else. Something that existed in the space between seconds.
"Stay back," Hexar commanded his soldiers. His instincts—honed by decades of combat—were screaming warnings. Something was wrong. Something had changed. This wasn't the wounded teenager he'd been about to execute.
"Staying back?" The thing wearing Tadano's face tilted its head. "Good instinct. But too late."
Hexar fired.
A dozen different weapon systems unleashed simultaneously—bullets, energy blasts, explosive rounds, everything his mechanical arm could generate in rapid succession.
Swords appeared.
Not a wall this time. Individual blades, materializing in the path of each projectile, intercepting with impossible precision. A sword appeared to block a bullet, then vanished. Another appeared to deflect an energy blast. Another. Another. They flickered in and out of existence like reality was glitching, like space itself was having trouble keeping up.
Not a single shot reached its target.
"Fall back!" Hexar commanded, his tactical mind rapidly reassessing. "All units, create distance! Prepare for—"
Tadano laughed.
The sound was wrong. Too many layers. Too much amusement from something that shouldn't find humor in anything. It echoed in ways laughter shouldn't, reverberating through the air like a physical force.
Then he started floating.
Not jumping. Not being lifted. Just... rising. His feet left the ground as casually as if gravity was a suggestion he'd decided to ignore. He hovered there, three feet off the ground, crimson eyes glowing brighter.
Swords materialized around him.
Dozens of them. Forming a ring, all pointing outward, rotating slowly like planets orbiting a star. Each blade was identical to his original sword—same steel, same impossible edge. But there were so many. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. More appearing with each second.
"Soldiers," Hexar's voice carried artificial calm, but his tactical systems were flashing warnings. "Suppressing fire. Now."
The Dark soldiers opened fire as one. Thirty weapons unleashing everything they had at the floating target.
The ring of swords dispersed.
They shot outward like bullets, each blade moving with purpose, with intent. And where they moved, soldiers died.
A blade materialized inside a soldier's chest, punching through armor from the inside out. The man collapsed, blood pouring from the wound as the sword vanished.
Another blade appeared behind a soldier's head, drove through his skull, disappeared before the body hit the ground.
Two soldiers tried to run. Swords appeared in their paths, impaling them mid-stride.
The blades moved like living things, like extensions of a will that didn't care about physics or possibility. They appeared, struck, vanished, reappeared somewhere else. No soldier could track them. No armor could stop them. No defense could predict where they'd manifest next.
In ten seconds, fifteen soldiers were dead.
The survivors broke formation, running, trying to create distance from the nightmare floating in their midst. But the swords followed. Hunted. Killed with mechanical efficiency.
A katana materialized in Tadano's hand—or the thing controlling his body. The blade was different from the others, longer, curved, radiating that same red glow that came from his eyes.
He began moving toward Hexar.
Not walking. Not quite flying. Something between the two, like he was stepping on invisible platforms in the air. Each movement was perfectly controlled, perfectly balanced, supernatural grace made manifest.
"Are you really all that?" the thing asked, tilting Tadano's head in a gesture that was too precise, too calculated to be human. "The Dark Regional Commander's enforcer? The one sent to eliminate us?" It laughed again, that wrong multi-layered sound. "Disappointing."
Hexar's tactical mind was racing. This wasn't just enhanced abilities. This was something else. Something that shouldn't exist. His corruption magic had failed to penetrate the boy's sword, but maybe direct application—
He raised his organic hand, and the Gen 2 magic surged.
Black tendrils erupted from the ground, thick as a man's arm, dripping with rot and decay. The corruption given physical form, reaching for the floating threat with grasping appendages that corroded everything they touched.
The road surface cracked and blackened where the tendrils emerged. Grass died. The air itself seemed to sicken, turning gray and foul.
Dozens of tendrils surged toward Tadano, moving with supernatural speed, trying to wrap around him, pull him down, infect him with corruption that would rot him from the inside out.
The crimson-eyed figure didn't even look concerned.
Swords appeared in the paths of every tendril, cutting through the corrupted magic like it was nothing. Where blade met dark energy, the corruption simply ceased to exist. Not blocked. Not deflected. Just... erased.
"Magic," the thing said, still moving forward, still closing the distance. "Gen 2. Corruption-based. Designed to decay and destroy." It smiled with Tadano's face. "Ineffective."
More tendrils erupted. Thicker. Faster. Dozens becoming hundreds, a forest of corrupted limbs trying to overwhelm through sheer numbers.
The ring of swords reformed around the floating figure, spinning faster now. The blades cut through every tendril that got close, moving in patterns too complex to follow, too fast to track.
Hexar poured more power into his magic, corruption flowing from his hands like water from a burst dam. The tendrils grew larger, stronger, infused with enough dark energy to rot through reinforced steel.
They couldn't touch him.
Whatever Tadano had become, whatever was controlling his body, it existed on a level where Hexar's Gen 2 magic simply didn't matter.
The crimson-eyed figure was fifteen meters away now. Ten. Five.
Close enough that Hexar could see the wounds covering Tadano's body—still bleeding, still present, but seemingly irrelevant to whatever force was animating him.
Close enough to see the katana in his hand, that red glow pulsing stronger with each second.
Close enough to realize that he'd made a catastrophic mistake.
"What are you?" Hexar asked, his cybernetic systems analyzing, calculating, finding no answers.
The thing wearing Tadano's face stopped its advance. Hovered there in the air, katana held casually, crimson eyes burning.
"Me?" It smiled. "I'm what happens when skill transcends limitation. When perfection breaks through the ceiling of possible. When dedication becomes power." The katana shifted, moved into a ready stance that was too perfect, too precise. "I'm Cursed Arts. Fully awakened. Fully aware."
It gestured with its free hand at the carnage around them—the dead soldiers, the corrupted ground, the desperate battlefield where Hexar's overwhelming advantage had turned into a nightmare.
"And you," it said, voice dropping to something cold and final, "are outmatched."
The black tendrils surged one final time, Hexar throwing everything he had into the attack. Hundreds of corrupted limbs, each one capable of rotting through armor, through flesh, through bone.
The crimson-eyed figure raised its katana.
And cut.
Not at the tendrils. At something else. At the space between them. At the connection between Hexar's will and his magic.
The blade moved through reality like it was cutting paper, and where it passed, Hexar's corruption magic simply... stopped. The tendrils froze mid-surge, then began to crumble, breaking apart into black dust that scattered in the wind.
"Impossible," Hexar breathed. "You can't cut magic. You can't sever—"
"Can't?" The thing tilted Tadano's head. "You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means."
It raised the katana again, and this time, the blade began to glow brighter. Red light spreading along the steel, pulsing with power that made the air itself vibrate.
Hexar's tactical systems were screaming. Every sensor, every analysis subroutine, every combat calculation was reaching the same conclusion.
Retreat. Disengage. Survive.
He'd underestimated them. Thought they were just talented children. Didn't realize one of them carried something ancient. Something that predated the Dark invasion. Something that could—
The crimson-eyed figure moved.