The walls of stone pressed tighter and tighter around Arata. Every second, the dome shrank, crushing in with enough weight to bury entire cities. The Curse roared in triumph, believing the fight was over.
But inside the dome, the air was no longer air.
It shimmered, warped, and bent, as if reality itself was trembling. The ground glowed red. Cracks split across the floor, oozing molten light. The steel and coal fused into liquid, dripping down in glowing streams.
At the centre stood Arata. His body radiated heat so intense that even the stone a few meters away was already melting. The spear in his hands burned golden-orange, brighter than fire, almost like a piece of the sun forced into shape.
His calm voice echoed inside the crushing tomb.
"If you had fought me before, the outcome would have been different."
The walls of rubble groaned, pressing closer. But Arata's expression didn't change. He lifted the spear, then drove it into the ground.
"Too bad for you – you didn't."
And then—he unleashed it.
A ring of heat exploded outward.
It wasn't fire. It wasn't flame. It was pure, condensed heat, forced into a circular wave that expanded in every direction at once. The moment it touched the inner wall of the dome, the rock didn't crack—it melted.
The ring grew larger and larger, eating through rubble, buildings, steel beams, coal, everything in its path.
From outside, the Collapse Curse's smug grin faltered. The dome it had created began glowing from the inside, red lines spreading across it like veins. Steam hissed out, then smoke, then blinding light.
And then the entire dome shattered—
—no, it didn't shatter. It melted.
The walls turned to glowing liquid and collapsed, rushing outward as if the island itself had turned into lava.
The heat wave didn't stop there.
It spread across the island, cutting through every ruined building, every cracked street, every coal shaft. The force was so strong that even the sea surrounding Hashima boiled at the edges.
The night sky above turned crimson red.
The foreigners running toward the shore stumbled and looked back in horror. The mother shielded her child's eyes, but even she couldn't help staring in awe. A wave of golden-red light had consumed the island, like a dozen nuclear bombs had gone off at once.
The kidnappers who had fled earlier fell to their knees, eyes wide, unable to comprehend what they were seeing. The sheer heat made their throats dry, their skin sting.
And in the centre of it all—stood Arata.
The Curse screeched as the expanding ring tore through its body. Half of its chest disintegrated, its arm melted off, and its torso became a hollow shell. Its towering form trembled, barely holding together.
But curses didn't die that easily.
Even with most of its body gone, black cursed energy oozed from its wounds, knitting pieces back together. The skyscraper-sized monster staggered but refused to fall. Its glowing red eyes locked onto Arata, burning with fury.
Arata's chest rose and fell, his breaths heavy, but his expression stayed steady. He gripped his spear tighter, its molten glow still burning bright.
"Let's finish this." he muttered.
The curse let out another roar, a sound like grinding steel and collapsing concrete. It spread its massive arms, manipulating the island again.
What was left of Hashima trembled. Buildings that had barely stood crumbled. Walls rose like shields. Entire chunks of the ground floated into the air, fusing to the curse's body.
It was desperate. It was trying to rebuild itself using the island as flesh.
But Arata didn't give it the chance.
He crouched, cursed energy flooding his legs, then blurred forward. In less than a second, he appeared above the curse's head.
The air cracked from his speed.
He raised his spear high, then swung it down.
The slash didn't just cut—the heat extended far beyond the spear's edge, forming a golden arc in the air.
The arc slammed down into the Collapse Curse.
A glowing red line spread from the top of its head all the way to its legs. And then—
Shhhhk!
The curse split in half vertically.
The two halves toppled apart, crashing into the ruins below.
But the slash didn't stop there. The golden arc continued down, slicing straight through the island itself.
The foreigners at the shore gasped as a vertical line of molten red tore across Hashima, splitting the entire island in half. One side began to tilt, sliding downward into the sea.
The kidnappers who had fled screamed as the ground beneath them cracked, nearly throwing them into the ocean.
The destruction was unbelievable.
The Curse let out a distorted scream, its halved body twitching as cursed energy tried desperately to knit it back together.
Arata landed on the broken ground, standing tall, spear glowing in his hands. He didn't speak. His eyes just followed the twitching remains of the monster.
He knew it wasn't dead yet.
Curses never truly died until their very core was erased.
So, he lifted his free hand, palm open.
Golden heat gathered in circles around him, dozens of orbs spinning like miniature suns. The air around him shook, the ground hissing as it melted under the sheer intensity.
The foreigners, now halfway to the boat, saw the sky turn golden. The child peeked over his mother's arm, eyes wide with awe and fear.
"...is he even human?" one of the other foreigners whispered, trembling.
Arata thrust his hand forward.
The orbs shot outward as beams of golden heat, raining down in all directions.
Each beam exploded on impact, burning craters into the ground, blasting through what was left of the curse. Its body shrieked as every remaining piece was consumed in the inferno.
The beams didn't stop until there was nothing left.
No regenerating core.
No twitching limbs.
Nothing but ash and melted stone.
The Curse had been erased completely.
Silence followed.
The waves of destruction slowly faded, leaving the island broken, half of it sinking into the sea. Smoke rose into the red-stained sky. The air shimmered with leftover heat, distorting the horizon.
And in the centre of it all stood Arata.
He held the spear loosely in one hand, its glow dimming now that the fight was over. His chest rose and fell with deep breaths, but his expression remained calm, collected.
He looked around at the destruction he had caused. The collapsed buildings. The molten cracks stretching to the shoreline. The island itself cut in two.
There was no joy in his eyes. No pride. Just quiet acceptance.
This was the power he held.
The power he had to carry.
Arata planted the spear into the ground beside him. The molten glow finally faded, leaving only a normal steel rod, warped and bent.
He exhaled slowly, eyes drifting toward the direction of the sea where the foreigners had escaped.
"They should be safe now," he said quietly.
The wind blew across the ruined island, carrying smoke and ash with it.
And Arata stood there, silent, like a lone guardian in the wreckage of a battlefield that no longer existed.