The island was silent except for the crunch of Arata's footsteps on gravel and rusted metal. The ruins of Hashima felt like a graveyard—broken concrete walls leaning at odd angles, shattered windows yawning open like empty eye sockets, and the salty wind carrying the smell of mold and rust. But as Arata walked deeper into the abandoned streets, another smell mixed in.
The metallic tang of blood.
He slowed, eyes narrowing. Ahead of him, sprawled across the cracked pavement, were bodies.
The first corpse he found was a man in a black jujutsu uniform, the insignia of a sorcerer stitched faintly at the edge of his collar. His chest had been crushed inward, ribs sticking through fabric like snapped twigs. Nearby, another body—also a sorcerer—was half buried under fallen concrete, blood dried across his face, eyes still wide in shock.
Around them were several more—sorcerers, their bodies twisted and broken. Some looked like they had been thrown against walls with such force that their bones shattered. Others had deep gouges across their torsos, as if claws of stone had ripped them open. The street looked like a battlefield frozen in time, the air still heavy with the echo of their deaths.
Arata crouched, running his fingers across a cracked wall. The grooves weren't from blades or fists—they were too wide, too heavy. This was not it. This wasn't the work of those kidnappers. Something else killed them.
He rose and continued, his senses sharp. The trail of destruction was easy to follow—broken walls, crushed doors, deep footprints that cracked the stone ground. It led him straight to an open courtyard between the ruins, where the kidnappers were waiting.
Ten men stood there.
Two of them gave off the heavier aura of grade 1 sorcerers, their stances sharp and weapons drawn. The rest were a mix of grade 2 and grade 3 sorcerers, positioned around like guards. They looked disciplined, experienced, not simple thugs. Yet even as they stood ready, there was something off about them. Their eyes flicked nervously to the shadows of the ruins, shoulders tight, movements stiff.
And behind them, gathered together, were the foreigners. Ten in total.
The wife of the American special grade sorcerer stood near the front, her arms shielding her young son, whose face was pale with fear. Her expression was a strange mix of terror and defiance. She had seen death before—that much was clear—but she refused to crumble. Around them were others: men and women, travelers who had clearly been caught in something they didn't understand. Their faces were pale, some weeping quietly, others just staring at the ground in shock.
Arata stepped out of the shadows, his voice calm but firm.
"Let them go."
The group of sorcerers flinched slightly at his sudden appearance, but the man at the front—a tall figure with a scar across his jaw, one of the grade 1s—smirked to cover his nerves.
"So they sent a child to negotiate with us" he said, though his voice lacked true confidence. "Too bad for you, you're outnumbered. Looks like jujutsu higher ups truly don't care about these foreigners."
Arata studied their faces. They were trying to act tough, but the fear was there. Not of him—though they clearly didn't recognize him as special grade—but of something else. Their eyes flicked to the dark corners of the ruins, as if waiting for a monster to crawl out.
They're scared to fight… not because of me. Because of what's already here.
Still, they drew their weapons, trying to push through the fear.
"Fine," Arata muttered, rolling his shoulders. "If that's how it has to be."
The first man rushed him, a grade 2 swinging a cursed blade. Arata didn't even bother pulling out a weapon. He sidestepped smoothly, grabbing the man's arm and slamming his elbow into his face. The sorcerer crumpled.
Another came from behind, a chain whipping through the air. Arata caught it mid-swing, cursed energy flowing through his hand, and yanked. The man stumbled forward, straight into Arata's fist, which dropped him in a single blow.
The courtyard exploded into motion. Sorcerers lunged at him from every side, blades and spells flashing. Arata moved through them like water—dodging, blocking, striking back with sharp precision. His fists glowed faintly with cursed energy, each blow knocking down opponents with bone-cracking force.
A grade 1 tried to slash him across the chest, but Arata parried with his forearm, cursed energy hardening his skin, before driving his knee into the man's stomach and tossing him aside like dead weight.
Within seconds, half of them were on the ground groaning, the rest backing up with fear widening their eyes.
The foreigners watched in stunned silence, hope flickering in their expressions as they saw the kidnappers falter. Even the woman's stern face softened, just slightly, as she pulled her son closer.
Then it came.
A sound that froze everyone where they stood.
A low, guttural roar. Deep and heavy, like the groan of a mountain splitting apart. The ground trembled beneath their feet, dust falling from the cracked buildings around them. Shadows stretched unnaturally long across the courtyard, as if something enormous was blotting out the faint moonlight.
The kidnappers turned pale, their tough masks shattering instantly. One of them whispered in a trembling voice, "It's here…"
And then the shadow moved.
From the far side of the ruins, the Collapse Curse revealed itself fully. Its massive body, a twisted fusion of concrete, stone, and rusted rebar, lumbered into view. Every step made the ground quake. Its hollow face glowed faint red, the sound of grinding stone echoing with each breath it took. The air itself grew heavier, pressing down on everyone present.
The sorcerers who had just moments ago fought Arata now looked like frightened children, backing away slowly. The foreigners clung together in terror, the boy burying his face against his mother's chest.
Arata tightened his stance, eyes locked on the towering curse. The earlier fight had been nothing. This was the true danger.
And it was only just beginning.
"What in the abomination…"