The rain washed Tokyo's alleys in filth, pooling crimson where corpses of devils and men clogged the gutters. Word had spread fast: a "Black Priest" who devoured cults whole, binding devils in chains that could not break. Hunters whispered his name now like a curse.
Kishibe walked into the storm alone. His coat was torn, his flask dry, his knives hidden across his body. Every rookie that tried to follow him had already died. He wasn't here to save anyone. He was here to see what kind of monster had crawled out of the dark.
And there he was.
Suguru Geto stood in the open street, robes untouched by the rain, curses swirling around him like vultures waiting for the feast. Some looked like shadows with teeth. Others towered, grotesque and unblinking. They didn't just hover near him—they obeyed him, like soldiers to a general.
Kishibe stopped ten paces away, slipping knives into his palms.
"You the priest?"
Geto's lips curved into a serene smile.
"I am the one who tears down false idols. Devils, cults, humans—they all kneel to fear. I strip that fear from them and make it mine."
"Cute speech." Kishibe's voice was flat, tired. "You gonna fight, or you gonna keep sermonizing?"
Geto studied him, eyes calm and sharp.
"Why cling to this world of weakness? Monkeys birthing devils endlessly. Hunters bleeding themselves dry for nothing. Sorcerers should rule. I will build that kingdom here."
Kishibe didn't flinch at the word. He'd heard it all before—demons, gods, chosen ones. Everyone thought they were special.
"Yeah? All I hear is another drunk with a cult complex. Doesn't matter what you call yourself. I kill things like you."
For the first time, Geto's composure cracked—a flicker of irritation, quickly hidden. He extended a hand, and the shadows tore wide.
The street drowned in curses.
They came in waves—fanged, clawed, winged, dripping with hate. Kishibe met them head-on. His knives flashed silver, sinking into eyes, splitting jaws. The contracts in his body hummed to life: Claw for reflex, Needle for precision, Knife for lethality. His movements were ugly but efficient, honed from decades of slaughter. Every step was calculated chaos.
And yet, the horde was endless. For every curse he dropped, three more pressed in. Teeth tore his coat, claws raked his arm, blood spattered his face. Still he grinned through the pain.
Watching, Geto felt something unusual—respect.
"Remarkable. You endure where most sorcerers fall. But you must see it's useless. A single blade cannot cut down a thousand."
Kishibe jammed a knife into a curse's skull, tore it free. His grin widened despite the blood running down his chin.
"Good thing I carry more than one."
The horde roared, pressing closer, walls cracking with the pressure. Kishibe staggered under the tide, slower now, his lungs burning.
Geto finally raised his hand again. The curses convulsed, bodies warping as if yanked by invisible chains. Screams tore the night as they collapsed inward, dragged into a whirling black spiral in his palm.
Kishibe froze. His instincts screamed louder than ever.
"What the hell…?"
Geto's voice was calm, almost reverent.
"Maximum: Uzumaki."
The vortex pulsed, swallowing light, sound, and air. Each spirit consumed was gone forever. For Geto, it was a weapon of necessity, one he despised using, for it meant sacrificing his own family. But Kishibe had earned that respect—earned being crushed by his strongest hand.
"You've lasted long enough," Geto said. "Be honored. Few make me do this."
The spiral shrieked, raw cursed energy howling like a storm about to break the world. Kishibe stood swaying, bleeding, knives slick, body screaming in protest. His grin didn't falter.
"Army. Speeches. Now a cannon that eats your own pets… You call me a monkey, priest, but looks to me like you're the one too scared to fight bare-handed."
Geto's eyes narrowed. The Uzumaki roared.
The street vanished in cursed light.