A glint of faint silver flickered in Krogh's eyes as the swordsman extended his fingers, forming them into the shape of a sword. And with a single, deliberate slash forward, he unleashed a torrent of countless Sword Qi that cascaded like a merciless downpour of blood rain, hurtling toward the ghostly form of the Ju-On with ferocity.
SLASH!
In the dim, oppressive atmosphere of the corpse of ancestral shrine, this attack was no mere gesture but a manifestation of his ironclad will, each thread of crimson energy slicing through the air with a vicious aura.
The sword intents, born from his profound cultivation in the Sword Path, carried the weight of lethal martial techniques honed through years of relentless pursuit, their edges sharpened not just by qi but by the very essence of destruction that defined a true Sword Path Cultivator.
As an abhorrent entity woven from curses and malice, Ju-On's form was a twisted amalgamation of human suffering. Shrouded in an aura of perpetual malediction, saw the cursed human faces encircling it flicker with an eerie, pulsating glow, as if the souls trapped within were stirring in futile protest against the impending doom.
In response, the thing wearing swordsman's face too raised two fingers, mimicking the precise form of a sword, and slashed toward Krogh with a motion that echoed his own. This counterstrike was laced with the insidious nature of its being, a dark mirror of the original technique, infused with not only pure sword intent but the corrupting touch of curses that sought to twist and defile all it encountered.
SLASH!
The air between them vapoured with foreboding, the clash imminent like the collision of two comets in a haunted abyss, where the line between attacker and defender blurred into a nightmarish dance of mutual destruction.
BAAAAAMMMMM!
The two streams of sword intent, nearly identical in their outward appearance and ferocity power, collided in mid-air with a resounding crack that reverberated through the hall like the shattering of god's bones under immense pressure.
They were mirrors of power and sword intent, yet beneath the surface lay a profound disparity rooted in authenticity versus forgery, where one was forged in the fires of true Sword Intent and the other merely aped its form through stolen Spirit Essence and Life P.
But the Ju-On's sword intent, for all its similarity, crumbled upon the contact, disintegrating into wisps of dark vapor that dissipated like the dying breaths of a cursed soul, unable to withstand the purity and dominance of the original. Krogh's sword intent, undiminished and relentless, pressed onward with unyielding momentum, piercing straight through the Ju-On's corporeal form in an instant, riddling it with a thousand gaping wounds that sprayed forth ethereal malice ichor, transforming the entity into a sieve of horror, its body a canvas of perforated agony that hung suspended in the air like a macabre puppet on invisible strings.
"T̸h̸e̷s̸e̸ ̷f̷u̵n̸n̴y̸ ̸h̸u̴m̸a̷n̵ ̸s̸k̴i̴n̶s̴ ̷I̴ ̸w̴e̴a̵r̷…̷ ̴t̵h̴e̸s̴e̸ ̴h̵o̸l̴l̸o̷w̴ ̵e̴c̵h̵o̴e̴s̸ ̴o̴f̴ ̵y̴o̵u̴r̶ ̷p̸r̸e̷c̴i̵o̵u̵s̷ ̴S̵w̵o̵r̴d̵ ̵I̷n̴t̴e̵n̴t̷…̷ ̷t̷h̵e̷y̸ ̴a̸r̴e̸ ̸b̵u̴t̸ ̶a̴ ̴p̴a̵l̵e̴ ̴a̵n̸d̴ ̴r̸o̴t̵t̷i̴n̵g̷ ̸m̴o̴c̸k̵e̷r̷y̷,̴ ̴a̶r̴e̴ ̵t̷h̵e̴y̵ ̴n̴o̵t̸?̶ ̷A̴l̴t̵h̷o̴u̶g̵h̸ ̴I̷ ̵c̵a̸n̴ ̸s̵i̵m̷u̷l̶a̴t̴e̸ ̸t̴h̷e̷ ̵d̴e̷v̵a̵s̸t̸a̴t̸i̵n̷g̵ ̸a̷s̶s̸a̸u̸l̷t̷ ̷t̵e̴c̷h̵n̷i̷q̸u̷e̵s̴ ̸o̴f̸ ̵a̵ ̴S̶w̸o̵r̴d̸ ̵P̸a̷t̸h̷ ̴C̶u̴l̷t̸i̴v̴a̵t̴o̴r̴,̸ ̵i̸t̵ ̵u̴l̵t̴i̴m̵a̵t̶e̴l̶y̷ ̴f̶a̵l̶l̴s̵ ̸s̶h̴o̵r̵t̴ ̷o̶f̶ ̵t̷h̶e̸ ̶o̵r̵i̴g̴i̷n̴a̴l̵'̷s̸ ̵p̵e̴r̵f̸e̴c̵t̷i̴o̴n̴.̴" (These funny human skins I wear… these hollow echoes of your precious Sword Intent… they are but a pale and rotting mockery, are they not? Although I can simulate the devastating assault techniques of a Sword Path Cultivator, it ultimately falls short of the original's perfection.) the Ju-On sneered, its voice a guttural rasp that slithered through the air like poisoned serpents coiling around the listener's soul.
The air in the Ancestral Shrine did not merely hang; it congealed. It was a suffocating shroud, a palpable fog that tasted of grave-mould and the sharp, metallic tang of ozone that precedes a storm. In this oppressive stillness, two figures enacted a silent, deadly dance, their movements a stark contrast to the stagnant silence they violated.
Krogh's not just fighting; he's unmading. His every motion was a lesson in devastating economy, a single, streamlined thought given violent form. A step was not a step, but the first arc of a strike; a shift in weight was a feint that promised evisceration. He was less a man and more a natural disaster contained within skin and bone—a tempest focused to a razor's edge.
Against him, the thing called Ju-On was a blasphemy given shape. Its stolen human skin was stretched taut over a frame not meant to hold it, a mask threatening to split at the seams. Its eyes were not eyes, but pits of bruised shadow, voids that swallowed the dim light and offered back only a voracious, mindless hunger.
The stillness shattered. In the space of a single, indrawn breath, they clashed—not once, but a dozen times. The air itself screamed, torn apart by the passage of Krogh's will. A storm of invisible, razor-edged Sword Qi erupted from him. It passed through the Ju-On's form, and for a horrific moment, the creature became a macabre latticework of flesh, a sieve with a thousand holes, its monstrous outline barely held together.
A lesser thing would have been unmade, its essence scattered to the winds. But the Ju-On merely shuddered, a pitiable, ravaged marionette. Then, the true horror began. From the cracked flagstones beneath their feet, a network of blood-crimson threads that connected the ghost's form pulsed into being. They were roots of a cancerous tree, drinking deeply from the corrupted Earth Veins below, drawing up a stream of stolen vitality.
The air filled with a sound that was neither liquid nor solid, a wet, squelching rip of matter violating its own nature. It was the stench of a slaughterhouse at noon, cloying and thick, undercut by the nauseating sweetness of accelerated rot and forced regeneration. Flesh knitted itself back together with the speed of a time-lapsed nightmare. Wounds sealed like mouths closing, bones snapped back into place with audible crunches. In nearly an instant, as if the seconds themselves had been bribed or broken, the evil thing stood whole once more, its hunger undimmed, its silent gaze fixed once more upon the swordsman.
"B̴u̷t̶ ̴s̶i̵n̷c̸e̶ ̴y̴o̴u̵ ̴c̸a̵n̶n̸o̵t̷ ̵d̴e̷l̷i̸v̷e̷r̴ ̷a̸n̵ ̸i̸n̴s̴t̷a̷n̴t̸a̶n̸e̵o̴u̵s̵ ̸k̶i̴l̴l̵ ̸u̷p̴o̸n̴ ̵m̶e̵.̵.̴.̶ ̵S̵t̴r̷i̵k̸e̵ ̸a̴g̶a̷i̷n̷.̴ ̶E̴x̷e̴r̴t̴ ̴y̵o̶u̷r̶ ̵f̶l̷e̵e̶t̸i̵n̸g̷ ̷s̶t̶r̵e̴n̷g̸t̸h̶.̶ ̵P̶o̸u̵r̵ ̵t̴h̶e̵ ̷l̴a̷s̷t̷ ̸d̵r̵e̸g̴s̶ ̴o̴f̴ ̸y̵o̷u̴r̴ ̷w̸i̶t̵h̷e̷r̴i̷n̷g̵ ̴s̷o̸u̸l̴ ̷i̸n̷t̸o̷ ̵a̷n̷o̶t̴h̴e̸r̵ ̸f̷u̴t̷i̴l̵e̵ ̴b̷l̵o̸w̵.̵ ̵T̷h̴e̴ ̵E̶a̸r̶t̴h̸ ̸V̷e̷i̸n̴'̷s̴ ̸o̵w̶n̴ ̷h̷e̴a̵r̸t̶ ̵b̸e̵a̷t̸s̷ ̷i̴n̴ ̵m̸y̶ ̶c̴h̴e̷s̷t̴,̴ ̵a̴ ̵t̴i̵d̴e̴ ̷o̶f̶ ̶i̵n̸f̵i̵n̷i̶t̵e̴ ̴r̷e̸n̴e̴w̷a̵l̷.̴ ̷A̵s̶ ̵l̵o̴n̴g̵ ̵a̴s̴ ̷t̸h̵e̶ ̵G̶l̵o̸o̵m̵w̵a̸t̸e̶r̸ ̵P̷h̵a̸n̵t̷o̸m̵ ̵L̸i̴l̶y̵ ̴A̶r̸r̵a̸y̵ ̷r̷e̴m̵a̵i̶n̵s̵ ̴i̶n̶t̵a̴c̶t̷,̸ ̷n̴o̴ ̸m̶a̵t̸t̵e̶r̷ ̵h̴o̸w̸ ̸y̵o̵u̴ ̴m̷a̷y̵ ̴b̸r̷e̴a̶k̷ ̴m̴y̵ ̶s̷h̵e̸l̴l̵ ̶o̴f̵ ̸s̷h̶a̴d̴o̷w̴ ̵a̵n̴d̵ ̴b̸o̵n̷e̴s̴.̴ ̵S̴l̴a̵s̶h̴ ̵m̷e̸ ̶a̴ ̸t̸h̴o̷u̶s̸a̸n̵d̴ ̶t̵i̴m̶e̶s̶?̴ ̵T̸h̶e̷n̴ ̶a̷ ̵t̴h̵o̷u̸s̷a̵n̴d̵ ̵t̷i̴m̴e̵s̷ ̴I̶ ̵w̷i̵l̴l̶ ̴d̸r̴a̷w̸ ̵m̷y̷s̷e̵l̸f̷ ̵t̴o̵g̸e̵t̸h̸e̸r̴ ̵a̵g̸a̵i̸n̷.̴ ̸I̶n̶ ̴t̷h̴i̸s̷ ̵p̶r̶o̵t̸r̵a̵c̶t̶e̴d̸ ̶s̵t̵r̶u̶g̷g̷l̸e̴,̵ ̵t̴h̶o̴u̷g̴h̴ ̶I̷ ̶a̵m̷ ̸i̵g̵n̷o̴r̵a̴n̴t̷ ̵o̷f̸ ̵t̴h̵e̵ ̷m̴e̵t̸h̵o̷d̶ ̴b̵y̷ ̴w̷h̷i̵c̷h̴ ̷y̸o̵u̷ ̸t̷e̴m̷p̴o̴r̴a̴r̴i̷l̵y̸ ̵s̷u̵s̸t̷a̵i̶n̸ ̴y̵o̶u̵r̸ ̵w̵a̴n̸i̴n̴g̶ ̸v̶i̷t̸a̶l̷i̷t̶y̸,̴ ̸h̶o̷w̸ ̷l̶o̵n̴g̵ ̴c̴a̶n̴ ̸y̵o̶u̸ ̷p̴o̸s̸s̶i̵b̷l̶y̵ ̴e̴n̶d̵u̵r̸e̷ ̷b̵e̸f̸o̵r̴e̷ ̶y̴o̸u̵r̶ ̷f̴a̸ç̴a̵d̸e̴ ̴c̵r̷u̴m̷b̴l̶e̵s̸?̴ ̴I̷ ̴s̴e̴e̵ ̵y̴o̵u̷ ̴b̶r̶e̶a̷t̷h̸i̸n̶g̶ ̸f̷o̴g̶s̸;̷ ̵y̸o̸u̴r̴ ̵h̵e̴a̸r̴t̴ ̴s̶t̴u̷t̴t̷e̶r̸i̴n̸g̷ ̷l̵i̷k̸e̶ ̸a̷ ̴d̶y̷i̵n̶g̷ ̴w̵o̵r̴m̸.̴ ̵M̶y̴ ̵p̴a̷t̷i̴e̴n̸c̶e̴ ̶i̴s̸ ̵a̶s̴ ̸d̸e̵e̵p̸ ̴a̴s̴ ̴t̴h̴e̶ ̵g̴r̴a̵v̴e̵,̴ ̵a̵n̶d̸ ̴I̷ ̶w̴i̴l̶l̸ ̸s̴i̶m̴p̶l̶y̶ ̶w̷a̸t̴c̷h̷…̷ ̵a̷n̸d̶ ̷w̸a̵i̸t̶…̶ ̸u̷n̶t̶i̵l̴ ̴t̶h̴e̶ ̴l̵a̵s̵t̶,̷ ̴p̷a̷t̵h̴e̷t̶i̶c̶ ̴l̷i̸g̸h̴t̵ ̵g̵u̶t̶t̵e̵r̵s̷ ̴o̴u̸t̸ ̸i̴n̴ ̴y̸o̴u̸r̴ ̵e̴y̴e̸s̴.̵" (But since you cannot deliver an instantaneous kill upon me... Strike again. Exert your fleeting strength. Pour the last dregs of your withering soul into another futile blow. The Earth Vein's own heart beats in my chest, a tide of infinite renewal. As long as the Gloomwater Phantom Lily Array remains intact, no matter how you may break my shell of shadow and bones. Slash me a thousand times? Then a thousand times I will draw myself together again. In this protracted struggle, though I am ignorant of the method by which you temporarily sustain your waning vitality, how long can you possibly endure before your facade crumbles? I see you breathing fogs; your heart stuttering like a dying worm. My patience is as deep as the grave, and I will simply watch… and wait… until the last, pathetic light gutters out in your eyes.)
Its words hung heavy, each syllable dripping with a seductive venom that promised despair.
The Ju-On licked out, a malice tongue with densely wailing faces. It sheared through its severed throat and carved a deep furrow across its chest. No blood welled. Instead, a substance like thick, black smoke and congealed shadow seeped from the wound.
The thing didn't even flinch. Its stolen face split into a grin too wide for its skull. Its cursed faces leered with sadistic glee as if savoring the inevitable downfall of Krogh Hanz.
"I̷f̷ ̴y̴o̴u̵ ̷p̶o̴s̵s̸e̷s̷s̴e̴d̷ ̶t̵h̴e̶ ̵c̷a̶p̷a̸b̶i̸l̴i̷t̷y̸ ̸t̶o̸ ̷s̵e̴v̷e̷r̶ ̵t̵h̴e̵ ̷c̶o̴n̵n̴e̸c̵t̵i̷o̵n̵ ̷o̵f̶ ̵T̷h̵r̵e̴a̸d̴s̴ ̸o̷f̷ ̶F̷a̴t̶e̸ ̴i̸n̴d̴e̶f̶i̵n̵i̴t̸e̷l̵y̵,̵ ̸w̶h̴y̶ ̴t̶h̴e̷n̷,̸ ̵o̴v̸e̵r̴ ̴t̸h̷e̴s̷e̴ ̴m̸a̴n̸y̷ ̶y̴e̸a̵r̵s̴,̴ ̴h̴a̵v̴e̵ ̸y̵o̴u̸ ̸c̴o̶w̸e̵r̴e̸d̶ ̴i̵n̵ ̷s̴e̴c̸l̷u̷s̶i̵o̷n̶ ̴m̴u̷c̵h̴ ̵l̵i̴k̵e̵ ̸m̸y̴s̴e̴l̶f̸,̵ ̸b̶a̴r̸r̶e̷d̷ ̷f̷r̵o̴m̸ ̵t̴h̷e̷ ̸w̷o̵r̶l̵d̷ ̶b̷e̵y̵o̵n̷d̸ ̵t̴h̸e̴s̶e̷ ̵w̵a̸l̶l̶s̵?̴ ̷D̵o̴ ̷n̴o̵t̸ ̷s̸p̴e̸a̸k̴ ̴t̴o̶ ̵m̵e̸ ̵o̶f̷ ̵s̸e̴v̴e̴r̵i̶n̷g̶ ̴t̴h̸r̵e̴a̴d̸s̴ ̸y̵o̵u̵ ̴c̵a̴n̴n̵o̴t̴ ̸e̴v̵e̴n̴ ̵s̵e̴e̵,̶ ̵l̸i̶t̷t̴l̸e̴ ̸m̴o̶t̵h̸.̴ ̵I̷f̸ ̷s̶u̴c̴h̷ ̸p̴o̴w̵e̴r̴ ̴t̸r̷u̴l̷y̷ ̵c̵u̴r̸l̴e̴d̴ ̸w̵i̸t̸h̸i̷n̶ ̸y̵o̶u̵r̴ ̵g̶r̸a̶s̵p̴,̵ ̵y̶o̴u̴ ̷w̴o̶u̵l̴d̴ ̸n̵o̵t̴ ̶h̴a̸v̶e̴ ̴f̴e̸s̴t̵e̶r̶e̵d̷ ̶i̵n̷ ̴y̵o̵u̶r̴ ̴o̸w̵n̵ ̸s̵i̷l̶e̵n̵c̸e̷ ̷a̴n̴d̵ ̴s̷o̸r̶r̵o̵w̴ ̸a̵l̵l̴ ̸t̴h̷e̴s̷e̶ ̴a̴c̴h̴i̸n̴g̵ ̷y̵e̶a̴r̷s̵.̶ ̵Y̷o̶u̵ ̶w̸o̴u̶l̴d̸ ̸h̷a̵v̸e̵ ̵c̷o̴m̸e̷ ̴s̸c̵r̴e̸a̸m̶i̵n̴g̷ ̵f̷r̸o̷m̴ ̴y̷o̵u̸r̸ ̵p̶e̶t̴t̶y̸ ̵h̶u̸m̸a̷n̶ ̶h̶o̸l̵e̸,̴ ̶a̷ ̴s̶w̴o̶r̶d̴ ̵i̶n̴ ̵y̶o̸u̶r̶ ̸t̸r̶e̵m̵b̷l̴i̷n̷g̴ ̶h̴a̵n̵d̸,̶ ̶t̴o̶ ̴t̶r̶y̸ ̷a̵n̷d̵ ̷c̴a̸r̷v̴e̴ ̴y̴o̷u̶r̵ ̴f̷e̴e̸b̸l̸e̷ ̴v̵e̶n̷g̵e̶a̷n̶c̵e̸ ̸i̴n̵t̸o̴ ̷t̴h̵i̴s̴ ̷i̷n̵d̸i̴f̵f̷e̴r̶e̴n̴t̷ ̵w̸o̴r̴l̵d̸.̴ ̴B̴u̵t̷ ̶y̴o̵u̶ ̸d̷i̷d̷ ̴n̵o̵t̸.̴ ̵Y̵o̴u̵ ̷c̷o̴u̵l̷d̵ ̵n̴o̵t̴.̷ ̸Y̵o̴u̵ ̸a̷r̷e̵ ̵a̵s̸ ̵m̴u̸c̴h̶ ̷a̶ ̶p̷r̶i̵s̶o̸n̸e̵r̶ ̸a̶s̶ ̷I̸.̵" (If you possessed the capability to sever the connection of Threads of Fate indefinitely, why then, over these many years, have you cowered in seclusion much like myself, barred from the world beyond these walls? Do not speak to me of severing threads you cannot even see, little moth. If such power truly curled within your grasp, you would not have festered in your own silence and sorrow all these aching years. You would have come screaming from your petty human hole, a sword in your trembling hand, to try and carve your feeble vengeance into this indifferent world. But you did not. You could not. You are as much a prisoner as I.)
Krogh answered with a whirlwind of steel. The Crimson Tide Sword Art cutting fiercely. A dozen strikes landed in the space of a heartbeat. a leg severed at the knee, an arm lopped off at the shoulder, a diagonal cut t cleft that from from collarbone to hip.
The dismembered parts hit the flagstones not with a meaty thud, but with the soft, wet sound of mud. The black smoke coalesced, tendrils of absolute darkness snaking out from the main torso to snag the limbs and pull them back. Flesh and shadow knitted together seamlessly, the skin restitching itself without a scar. The thing stood whole once more, flexing its reattached fingers.
The Ju-On's voice carried the weight of twisted logic, its tone burrowed into the mind like parasitic worms, seeking to undermine resolve with visions of past failures and future futility.
"T̵h̷u̸s̵.̵ ̵Y̵o̸u̶ ̵h̷a̵v̵e̴ ̸a̵l̸r̴e̸a̵d̵y̵ ̵l̵o̵s̷t̸!̴Y̶o̴u̷r̴ ̴s̸t̵r̸u̴g̶g̸l̷e̵ ̷i̴s̵ ̴a̷ ̸s̷c̵r̵i̷p̴t̴ ̷w̵r̸i̷t̵t̵e̸n̷ ̶o̶n̷ ̸w̴a̸t̴e̶r̴.̶ ̷Y̷o̵u̵r̷ ̶d̷e̶f̶i̵a̸n̷c̴e̷ ̶i̸s̶ ̵a̷ ̷s̴i̸n̴g̵l̸e̴,̴ ̸b̷r̵i̴e̷f̷ ̷s̵c̵r̵e̴a̵m̴ ̷i̶n̵ ̴a̵ ̴s̴i̴l̴e̶n̴c̷e̴ ̵t̴h̸a̸t̵ ̵h̷a̴s̸ ̸l̶a̴s̸t̷e̵d̸ ̶e̶t̶e̷r̶n̷i̵t̴i̴e̶s̴.̸ ̴T̸h̶e̵r̵e̷ ̵i̴s̷ ̴n̴o̷ ̴v̸i̴c̴t̵o̵r̴y̵ ̴f̵o̸r̸ ̴y̶o̵u̴.̵ ̴T̸h̴e̶r̵e̸ ̷i̴s̷ ̸n̴o̸ ̴h̵o̵p̵e̴.̶ ̴T̸h̴e̸r̶e̴ ̴i̴s̷ ̶o̴n̵l̶y̵ ̵t̵h̴e̵ ̸c̴e̴r̷t̶a̷i̵n̷,̶ ̴c̶o̸l̶d̴,̴ ̸a̸n̵d̸ ̸u̸t̶t̴e̵r̸ ̴d̶e̸a̵t̷h̷.̴" (Thus. You have already lost! Your struggle is a script written on water. Your defiance is a single, brief scream in a silence that has lasted eternities. There is no victory for you. There is no hope. There is only the certain, cold, and utter death.)
The final declaration from the Ju-On was infused with a beguiling demonic allure, a magical compulsion woven into its very utterance that compelled all who heard it to surrender to belief, as if the words themselves were chains forged in the abyss, pulling at the threads of doubt and fear to ensnare the heart.
Yet Krogh's countenance was a sculpture of utter serenity. Powerful cultivator's future and Dao Pillar might have been scoured clean by the Ju-On's psychic onslaught, but this swordsman's will remained an unassailable fortress.
A sound escaped his lips—not a laugh, but a derisive scoff that curled through the thick air. "The Inner Demon Tribulation," he stated slowly, "was cleaved asunder by my sword decade hence. To think you would now attempt to assail my Dao Heart with such trifling parlor tricks… it is beneath even the lowliest of schemes. Petty ghost. Unworthy of consideration."
As the final syllable left his lips, his hand moved. It was not a grand gesture, but a dismissive flick of his wrist, fingers coalescing into a sword-seal. Yet, from that simple motion erupted a surge of Sword Intent so pure and ruthless it seemed to tear the very fabric of the gloom. It lanced through the Ju-On's form with surgical precision with a roar. Fresh gashes bloomed across its shadowy substance, weeping a malice tar black essence that sizzled on the stones below.
Obediently, the Threads of Fate pulsed once more, glowing a feverish crimson as they began their restorement, siphoning the raw power from the Earth Veins to facilitate the vile ghost creature's grotesque restoration.
But this time, the process faltered.
The vitality had only half-coursed through the threads when the world outside erupted. First, from the direction of the rear mountain's Water Lily Lake, a thunderous, concussive BOOM rolled over the mountain woods, a sound of shattering enchantments and elemental chaos. It was answered almost instantly by a second cataclysm from the Clan Chief's Royal Study Library—a roar of collapsing stone and annihilated knowledge that shook the very foundations of the Hanz Stronghold.
The effect on the Threads of Fate was instantaneous and violent. They convulsed, flickering erratically like severed nerves, their luminous glow dimming to a sickly pallor. The torrent of earth vein vitality became a trickle, then a stagnant drip.
The Ju-On's form shuddered with a violent, uncontrolled spasm, its edges blurring and dissolving before it could claw back stability. And when it spoke, its voice was no longer a mere echo of hunger. It was a raw, multi-layered shriek of pure, undiluted evil, a sound that scraped against the mind, laced with a terror that was profoundly and anciently non-human.
"Y̴O̵U̴.̶.̵.̴!̶ ̴Y̴o̵u̴ ̶d̴i̵s̴p̴a̵t̴c̴h̶e̴d̵ ̶M̴a̵d̴a̶m̴ ̶C̴l̵a̴r̶e̴t̵ ̶a̴n̵d̴ ̶t̴h̵e̴ ̶S̴o̵u̴l̶e̴a̵t̴e̶r̴ ̶K̴o̵d̴a̶m̴a̴ ̶t̴o̵ ̶d̴e̵s̴e̴c̴r̴a̵t̴e̴ ̶t̴h̵e̴ ̶T̴w̵i̴n̴ ̶P̴e̵a̴k̴ ̶H̴i̵l̴l̵'̴s̴ ̶E̴a̵r̴t̵h̴ ̶V̴e̵i̴n̶s̴?̴!̶" (YOU...! You dispatched Madam Claret and the Souleater Kodama to desecrate the Twin Peak Hill's Earth Veins?!) it screeched, the revelation dawning with horrific clarity. "Y̴o̵u̴ ̶i̴n̵t̴e̵n̴d̴ ̶t̴o̵ ̶d̴i̵s̴m̴a̵n̴t̴l̴e̴ ̶t̴h̵e̴ ̶G̴l̵o̴o̵m̴w̴a̵t̴e̶r̴ ̶P̴h̵a̴n̶t̴o̵m̴ ̶L̴i̵l̴y̴ ̶A̴r̵r̴a̵y̴ ̶y̴o̵u̴r̴s̴e̴l̴f̴?̴!̶" (You intend to dismantle the Gloomwater Phantom Lily Array yourself?!)
Krogh Hanz did not raise his voice; he simply let it expand, filling the space around him with the chilling, absolute certainty of a force of nature.
"To suggest that I would require assistance to deal with a nuisance such as you is an affront to the very essence of my Sword Path. I alone am more than sufficient to not merely defeat, but to utterly and completely eradicate every last trace of your existence from this realm and the next. Once my purpose is wrought, once the very Earth Vein lie broken and spent, will the true extent of your petty insignificance be revealed. I shall watch with detached amusement as you scramble amongst the ruins, and I will see what pathetic remnants of strength or qualification you somehow believe you still possess to even think of challenging me further."
With those words still echoing, he unleashed yet another slash of sword intent, a brilliant arc of destructive force that cleaved the space before it.
Whoosh!
The Ju-On, unable to evade in time, suffered a grievous laceration across its form, a hideous gash that gaped wide like a screaming maw, while portions of the encircling cursed human faces extinguished in a puff of acrid smoke, their eerie glows fading into eternal silence, a horrifying diminishment that peeled away layers of its malevolent facade.
The Threads of Fate persisted in its duty, extracting the earth vein's power to mend the Ju-On's injuries as it always had, yet now the process crawled at an agonizingly sluggish pace, each thread of vitality trickling in like blood from a barely beating heart, prolonging the agony. This delay transformed the regeneration into a torturous spectacle, where the Ju-On's form erriely twitched and reformed in fits, evoking the dread of an anti-natural body refusing to die yet unable to fully live.
This development plunged the Ju-On into profound anxiety, its mind a whirlwind of calculated schemes; it had presumed that Krogh's desperate stand involved stationing the Madam Claret and Souleater Kodama in ambush nearby, and thus it had prepared mind control incantations to bewitch those two Krogh's Foundation Stage companions at the crucial juncture.
Envisioning a three-against-one onslaught, the Ju-On had relished the prospect of grinding Krogh Hanz down through attrition, a slow, evil consumption that mirrored its own parasitic evil nature, turning human cultivator's allies into unwitting puppets in a horror of betrayal and domination.
Yet, Krogh Hanz's resolve proved far more ruthless than the evil's anticipated. This sword master commanded his wives to instead assault the earth veins themselves, a sacrificial gambit that escalated the stakes into realms of mutual apocalypse.
Krogh stood as a monolith of unyielding arrogance amidst the storm of their shared demise, his form a testament to a will that had conquered continents and cowed kings. A derisive, blood-flecked smile carved itself upon his rapidly withering lips, a silent mockery aimed at the frantic ghost.