Flap, flop—.
Even after slamming the Cursed Spirit down and mounting it to keep it pinned, its frantic struggles didn't cease.
But if it couldn't keep its feet on the ground to run, the shark's fins—its cursed technique—were as good as severed. I gathered Cursed Energy in my fist to finish the job.
The thing's grotesquely twisted legs began to kick desperately against the floor, trying to escape my mount.
Suddenly, a strange sense of déjà vu flashed through my mind.
Those legs.
I've seen them before.
On a rainy day, with the cold stares of the Zenin Clan at his back, the sight of a man's retreating figure as he limped across the courtyard.
"...Father."
I bared my teeth and gritted them hard.
It's a delusional thought.
This is nothing more than a Cursed Spirit born from the lingering dregs of the curse my father left behind.
And he wasn't even my father.
But because of that split-second hesitation, my punch exploded a fraction of a second too late.
CRACK—!
I roughly wiped the blood pooling at the corner of my mouth with my sleeve. Even though my body had finished adapting, my muscles were screaming. My Cursed Energy consumption was so extreme that my vision blurred momentarily.
I turned my gaze toward the hole the Cursed Spirit had crawled out of—the one I had assumed was just a sewer vent.
I walked over and kicked aside the wooden planks, revealing a narrow passage leading underground.
An abandoned training ground on the outskirts of the Zenin estate, left to rot for years. And beneath it, a hidden secret room.
The scene I faced after descending the stairs into the basement was devastating.
The walls were gouged deeply in various spots as if something had slammed into them with immense force, and the floor was dotted with black, dried bloodstains forming a trail.
These were the remnants of a closed-door training session where someone had run like a beast, shattering their own body in the process.
"Father...."
The memories etched into this body confirmed the owner of this space.
A man who, while lamenting his own limitations and unable to endure the Zenin Clan's contempt, had hidden here every night to run until his ankles crumbled.
In a corner of the room, on a half-broken desk, several faded notebooks lay scattered in a mess.
I carefully opened the notebook lying on top.
[Shark-Swimming Technique — Regarding Acceleration and Cursed Energy Distribution]
The moment I flipped the first page, dense handwriting flooded my vision. It wasn't a collection of grudges or laments. It was a thorough 'Cursed Technique Research Manual' written with sheer obsession.
『Projection Sorcery is a technique that divides one second into frames and follows a pre-designed trajectory. It allows a sorcerer to achieve speeds that far exceed their own capabilities. But my Shark-Swimming Technique is a strictly inferior version of that. It cannot handle the load accumulated in the body as it accelerates. The clan called me a failure.』
The handwriting became harder to read toward the end, soaked through with red bloodstains.
『However, if this technique is an inherited technique passed down through the bloodline like Projection Sorcery... If my son could inherit this technique and expand its limits...』
『It is by no means a vain delusion. The first instance of Projection Sorcery was only at a 10-frame level, but by the current head's generation, it has been refined to 24 frames. If it is my son, he might be able to complete this unfinished acceleration.』
I closed the notebook.
The father knew. He knew he could never overcome the flaws of this technique even if he devoted his entire life to it. That was why he obsessively recorded his trial and error, the principles of acceleration, and the Cursed Energy manipulation methods to reduce physical strain in this notebook.
Only for the sake of the 'son' who might inherit the same technique.
"...Sorry, old man."
I muttered bitterly as I tucked the old notebook into my clothes.
"What I inherited wasn't some half-baked acceleration."
"...What's above my head is something else entirely."
But this notebook wasn't worthless.
In the battle with the Cursed Spirit just now, my body had already 'adapted' once to the acceleration and destructive power of the Shark-Swimming Technique. This manual, containing his father's entire life, would serve as the perfect foundation for 'physical martial arts' for me, who lacked long-range attacks.
"Surpassing the afterimages of Projection Sorcery, huh?"
'Not a bad goal. Like it or not, I have to go back to that shitty Zenin household eventually.'
I took a deep breath of the cold basement air and slowly ran my hand over the blood-stained wall.
The next day.
I spread my father's manual on the floor and slowly took a stance.
Naturally, the 'Shark-Swimming Technique' itself didn't manifest in me. Innate techniques are carved into the body. And the only thing carved into my body was the wheel above my head.
However, the 'Cursed Energy distribution for acceleration' and the 'trajectories of weight transfer' written densely in the manual were the perfect martial arts teaching materials for me.
I took a step.
I layered my father's Cursed Energy management methods over the light footwork of boxing.
One step, two steps. Each time I took a step, the Cursed Energy pulled up from my toes was converted into explosive rotational force through my calves and waist.
'Acceleration, and then the load.'
Step—!
Jabs and straights cut through the air. It wasn't just extending my arms; it felt like my entire body had become a bullet being fired.
After firing, I didn't kill the momentum; I quickly moved out, maintaining the rhythm of my shadowboxing.
Don't kill the fired acceleration.
Pivot immediately.
Evade.
Lunge.
Side-step.
Repeat.
Every time I forcibly stopped and retracted a fist laden with acceleration, my shoulder and knee joints screamed as if they were about to snap.
But each time that happened, the Dharma Wheel above my head vibrated heavily.
[CLICK!]
My cursed technique was 'adapting' my joints and ligaments in real-time to the extreme shocks of this self-destructive acceleration and deceleration.
It didn't matter if I had the actual Shark-Swimming Technique or not. A heavy fist that fully carried this level of acceleration would be far more lethal than some half-assed sorcery.
In the dust-filled basement, I continued to thrust my fists into the empty air all night long without stopping.