In the ancient bullfighting arena, the cheers and screams of the audience were deafening.
The fans who had been dragged into the domain now had faces flushed with fanaticism, waving colorful flags that appeared from nowhere, turning this space into a true "performance stage."
The Matador Cursed Spirit stood in the center of the arena, enjoying the applause meant for him, his golden suit gleaming dazzlingly under the lights, a smile of certain victory hanging on his lips.
Rin was in the midst of this clamor, yet he clearly perceived the stagnation of his Cursed Energy.
His Cursed Technique seemed to be locked by invisible shackles; no matter how he tried to channel it, he could not gather even a shred of it.
The rules of the domain were branded into his mind, unquestionable.
"How about it, kid? You've figured it out, haven't you?"
Sukuna's voice chattered incessantly in his ear, filled with gloating mockery:
"Without your Cursed Technique, what do you have left?"
Rin ignored him, only letting out a disdainful snort.
He had already seen through the essence of this domain.
Sealing Cursed Techniques and forcing hand-to-hand combat—this was exactly the fighting style the Matador Cursed Spirit excelled at.
The Matador slowly walked up to Rin, spinning the silver blade in an elegant circle at his fingertips, his voice filled with a sacred fanaticism:
"Great warrior, in this sacred arena, the interference of cowardly Cursed Techniques is not permitted.
Only hot-blooded, bare-handed combat is worthy of the word 'performance'!"
As his words fell, the cheers of the arena reached a new climax.
Rin's gaze remained calm, even carrying a hint of understanding; he had long guessed that this Cursed Spirit had no other Cursed Technique besides relying on his cloak and longsword.
The rules of the domain seemed fair, but in reality, they were already biased toward the Cursed Spirit.
The cloak and longsword in the Matador's hands were innate special grade cursed tools.
The cloak could block attacks and conceal his figure, while the longsword could inflict wounds that would not stop bleeding. Rin, currently bare-handed and unable to use even the most basic Cursed Technique, was undoubtedly at an absolute disadvantage.
He was like an enraged bull, forced to use only his body to fight against the hunter's sharp sword and traps.
"Regret it? Rin."
Sukuna's laughter became increasingly grating:
"Falling into danger for an idiot—how many more times will you make the same mistake? Without the enhancement of your Cursed Technique, do you really think you can beat this Cursed Spirit wielding a special grade cursed tool?"
"Shut your mouth."
Rin's voice was cold, yet carried an unquestionable firmness:
"I will use my fists to make you shut up."
As he finished speaking, a cold smirk curled his lips. He slowly clenched his fists, rolling his shoulders, his bones making a slight "crackling" sound.
Even though he could not use his Cursed Technique, the bewitching, blood-red Sharingan in his pupils still shone with a sharp light—this was his trump card hidden within his trump cards.
The domain could seal Cursed Techniques, but it could not affect the abilities of the Sharingan.
Insight, prediction, dynamic vision... these innate talents derived from his bloodline were now his only reliance.
Rin slightly bent his knees, adopting a fighting stance, his body tensed like a leopard ready to pounce.
The Sharingan operated at high speed, capturing every subtle movement of the Matador with absolute clarity, including the contraction of his muscles, the rhythm of his breathing, and even the faint flow of Cursed Energy beneath his cloak.
Seeing this, a flash of approval crossed the Matador's eyes. He then raised his longsword, pressing the blade against his chest, and performed a standard Matador salute to Rin.
This was a sign of respect for a strong opponent, and also the signal for the battle to begin.
"Then, let the performance begin!"
As his words fell, the Matador kicked off the ground violently, his figure rushing toward Rin like an arrow released from a bow.
The bright red cloak unfurled behind him like blood-colored wings, and the silver blade whistled with a biting wind as it struck directly at Rin's throat.
The cheers of the arena reached their peak instantly; the audience waved their colorful flags, roaring "Kill him!" and "Pierce him!" Those fanatical emotions hung over the entire arena like a tangible pressure.
Rin, however, remained completely unmoved. The Sharingan clearly presented the Matador's attack trajectory in his mind; he sidestepped and dodged, his movements as fast as an afterimage, narrowly avoiding the lethal strike.
The silver blade grazed past his neck, kicking up a cold wind.
"Oh? Quick reaction!"
A flash of surprise crossed the Matador's eyes, then his smile grew even wider:
"This is interesting!"
Without pausing, he twisted his wrist, slashing the longsword horizontally while simultaneously waving his cloak to shroud Rin's vision.
The moment the cloak unfurled, the Matador's figure became blurred again, as if he had merged into the air.
An ordinary person would be defeated within seconds by this attack that made it hard to distinguish between reality and illusion, but Rin's Sharingan had long since seen through the flaw in the cloak.
He precisely locked onto the Matador's true position, lightly tapped his feet on the ground, and moved behind the Cursed Spirit like a ghost, throwing a punch toward his back.
"Bang!"
The fist slammed solidly into the Matador's back, but Rin only felt a layer of soft resistance; the cloak contracted instantly, blocking the force of the blow.
The Matador spun around violently, thrusting the longsword, imbued with Cursed Energy, toward Rin's abdomen.
Rin had anticipated this; he bent his waist to dodge while extending his right hand, precisely grabbing the blade of the longsword.
The cold sensation of metal came through; the Sharingan allowed him to perfectly avoid the sharpest part of the blade.
"What?"
The Matador's eyes were filled with disbelief—this was the first time someone had been able to catch his longsword with their bare hands!
Rin gritted his teeth, his arm muscles bulging, and forced the longsword aside.
The Matador had not expected him to have such great strength and staggered back a few steps.
The arena audience instantly quieted down, clearly not having expected such a reversal in the situation.
Rin did not give the Matador a chance to catch his breath; he followed up, kicking the Cursed Spirit in the knee.
The Matador's knee buckled, and he dropped to one knee, the longsword nearly slipping from his grasp.
The moment the Matador's knee touched the arena's stone floor and the longsword vibrated violently in his palm, Rin's pupils suddenly constricted—this was the opening he had been waiting for.
He had long since thoroughly figured out this Cursed Spirit's trump cards.
The Special Grade rating was mostly supported by the combination of "Domain + dual Cursed Tools."
This Cursed Spirit himself did not know any Cursed Techniques at all; all the threats were hidden within the two weapons.
The cloak was responsible for blocking, concealing, and even expanding the domain—it was his "shield"; the longsword was responsible for slicing wounds and causing bleeding—it was his "spear."
And the core of both of these could not be separated from the word "distance."
Previously, Maki Zen'in had fallen for the cloak's concealment because she had always maintained a medium distance from the Cursed Spirit, giving the opponent space to maneuver.
Rin had never intended to repeat the same mistake from the beginning; what he wanted was close-quarters combat, a deadlock that would make the cloak completely useless.
"Now is the time!"
Rin's body moved faster than his thoughts; he kicked off the stone floor hard, and amidst the flying gravel, he pounced forward like an arrow released from a bow.
The Matador panicked as expected, subconsciously wanting to raise his hand to unfurl the cloak, but the kneeling position threw off his balance, and the speed of his arm movement was a beat too slow.
Just as the bright red cloak swept up in an arc, Rin's palm clamped onto the Cursed Spirit's sword-wielding wrist like an iron pincer.
The cold metal blade pressed into his palm, leaving marks, but he did not loosen his grip in the slightest—this sword was the Cursed Spirit's fatal weakness.
"You dare touch my sword?!" the Matador roared. His other hand, which was holding the cloak, swung an elbow toward Rin's face, trying to force him to let go.
But the Sharingan had already broken his movements down into slow motion; Rin didn't even tilt his head, simply dropping his shoulder slightly and driving his knee with immense force into the Cursed Spirit's abdomen.
"Bang!"
In the dull sound of the impact, the Matador's body arched violently, and purple blood mist spilled from his lips, but his hand holding the sword still refused to let go.
The longsword in his hand was a Matador's dignity.
How could Rin let this opportunity slip by?
His left hand clamped tightly onto the opponent's wrist, and his right hand slid down the blade, precisely avoiding the sharp edge, and gripped the middle of the blade. He didn't want to take the sword; he wanted to use this sword as an "anchor point" to pin the Cursed Spirit in place.
The Matador was caught off guard by Rin's attack, which lacked any conventional technique—or rather, didn't follow the rules at all—and grabbed Rin's shoulder tightly with his left hand, trying to push him away.
But Rin's body was like it had been welded onto him; not only did he not retreat, but he actually moved even closer.
Their chests were almost pressed together, the bright red cloak squeezed in between, hanging limp without even a gap to unfurl.
"Without your cloak, what do you have left?"
Rin's voice rang out right by the Matador's ear, filled with cold mockery.
He exerted force with his right hand, forcefully pulling the longsword toward himself.
The Matador's wrist was twisted out of shape, his bones making a "creaking" sound, and the longsword fell to the ground with a "clatter," sliding across the stone floor in a harsh arc.
Without the restraint of the sword, Rin's movements were completely liberated.
He released the Cursed Spirit's wrist, instantly wrapped both hands around his neck, and using the force of his body pressing down, gave a violent tug backward.
The Matador was already unstable, and with this tug, he completely lost his balance, falling backward.
And Rin had already tightly choked the Matador's neck, intending to twist his head off alive.
50 Power Stones For Bonus Chapter
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