Ethan flickered out of reality, reappearing behind Typhael in the span of a billionth of a second. Despite the boy possessing zero cursed energy, Typhael's instincts—honed by centuries of experience and her technique that gave a unique understanding of space—were keen enough to detect the displacement of air. She spun, her body coiling into a frantic defensive stance, which was exactly what Ethan had anticipated. He didn't need a complex strategy; he needed contact. He needed one more clash to force the Dharma Chakra to complete its cycle.
Lining up his shot with surgical precision, Ethan channeled a massive surge of cursed energy into his fist. The impact was thunderous. The blow connected squarely with the spirit's solar plexus, the sheer force propelling the "Wrath of the Sky" backward. She became a pink-and-black blur, splintering thick trees like toothpicks as she was hurled through the forest.
On the sidelines, Mordo and Kaecilius watched the exchange, their jaws practically unhinged. As some of the strongest Masters of the Mystic Arts, they prided themselves on knowing the full extent of the "Ethan Park" anomaly. They had read the classified reports and witnessed his sparrings; they knew he could manifest nine distinct, powerful creatures. They were aware that the bipedal tiger, Tora, could wield the Mystic Arts at a level that shamed veteran sorcerers. They even understood that Ethan's own physical prowess was unprecedented.
Until now, that power had felt manageable—a scary thought, perhaps, but one they believed could be countered. They had always harbored the quiet, arrogant assumption that if Ethan ever turned against humanity, a disciplined platoon of Masters could eventually wear him down.
That assumption had just been shattered. He wasn't supposed to have more than nine summons. Yet, minutes ago, Ethan had manifested well over a hundred creatures—the Tora-Kannon chimeras—violating every known record of the Ten Shadows Technique.
While Mordo and Kaecilius struggled to maintain the structural integrity of the Mirror Dimension—which they had deployed the moment the Special Grade was sighted—Wong remained anchored in the real world. The situation was dire. They had arrived in the middle of a grand-scale ritual. Even though the Masters had successfully pulled the spirit herself into the Mirror Dimension, they were powerless against the meteorology she had set in motion.
The Mirror Dimension is a parallel layer of reality that reflects the physical world, but it is fundamentally incapable of acting as a "trash bin" for the Earth's atmosphere. A cyclone is not a singular, movable object; it is a gargantuan system of pressure differentials, heat exchanges, and moisture spanning hundreds of miles. To truly "transfer" the storm, they would need to sever its metaphysical connection to the Earth's rotation, the warming ocean temperatures, and the global jet stream—a task that defied even their most advanced spells.
The cyclone was anchored to the physical world by Typhael's very existence. Even from within the Mirror Dimension, her Cursed Technique acted as a bridge, a tethered umbilical cord pulling atmospheric pressure toward a catastrophic Category 4 event. The storm was still intensifying in the real world, feeding off the bridge she had built.
Wong looked at the swirling vortex above. If this ritual continued for even five more minutes, the resulting landfall would be an extinction-level event for the people of Labutta. Tens of thousands would be swept away before the first Kannon could even reach them.
Wong's silhouette flickered as he reappeared within the fractured reality of the Mirror Dimension. His voice boomed, cutting through the hum of energy with desperate urgency. "Ethan! We have barely five minutes before this Category 3 cyclone escalates into a Category 4! Either end this fight now or step aside and let us take over. We're going to need your help to dispel the vortex before it reaches the coast!"
Ethan turned his head toward Wong, his expression unbothered. Five minutes, he thought, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. That shouldn't be hard at all.
With a sharp, rhythmic click of his fingers, the shadows beneath him swirled. Mahoraga's wheel had already turned; the Shikigami had adapted to the defensive maneuvers of Sky Manipulation. As Ethan summoned the Eight-Handled Sword Divergent Sila Divine General Mahoraga, the behemoth appeared to be wearing a predatory, toothy grin.
"End it," Ethan whispered.
In a blink, the Divine General's massive form flickered out of existence. Typhael was still reeling from the previous impact, her cursed energy flickering. I should have heeded his warning, she thought bitterly, recalling Mahito's cautious words. Her eyes widened as she saw the bipedal Shikigami lunging toward her with a velocity that defied its titanic scale.
Desperate to survive, she reached out and grasped the fabric of the atmosphere, pulling the sky itself to perform her ultimate offensive move: Thin Ice Breaker.
Instead of striking her target directly, Typhael struck the surface of the sky, intending to shatter the air like a sheet of thin ice. The resulting shockwave was meant to crush anything in its path with concentrated force. She had planned to misdirect Mahoraga's charge and counter-attack through the cracks in reality—but to her absolute horror, the Shikigami's blade sliced through the folded sky as if it were mere parchment. It bypassed her technique entirely.
The Disaster-Grade Cursed Spirit, Typhael, was exorcised in an instant. Her final fading thoughts were of a sun-drenched memory: she and her beloved Mahito playing volleyball on the shores of Dagon's domain, the "Horizon of the Captivating Skandha."
" My.. beloved..Ma..hi..to.." she whispered her last words.
Mahoraga sank silently back into the depths of Ethan's shadow. Ethan stepped forward to join his three companions, checking a mental clock. "Eighteen seconds," he remarked. "That might be a personal record for a Special Grade."
"What the hell was that thing?!" Mordo demanded, his eyes wide with genuine bewilderment. He had seen many horrors, but the Divine General's aura was something else entirely.
"Oh, that? That was Mahoraga... my strongest Shikigami," Ethan replied casually. He felt Tora twitch in the darkness of his shadow, a silent acknowledgment of the power just displayed.
"We were under the impression you only commanded nine Shikigamis," Kaecilius interjected, speaking directly to Ethan for the first time.
Ethan turned to him, his eyes turning cold and sharp. "You thought wrong." He wasn't about to do something as petty as explain the inner workings of his Cursed Technique when it offered no tactical advantage to do so.
"We still have work to do," Wong interjected. With a casual wave of his hand, the Mirror Dimension collapsed, the crystalline walls dissolving into the reality of the brewing storm.
They were immediately met with the roar of a Category 3 cyclone rapidly intensifying into a Category 4. Though Typhael's exorcism had cut off the supply of Cursed Energy fueling the storm, the physics of the vortex were already in motion. The cyclone continued its natural, violent course, though the lack of supernatural reinforcement meant it was intensifying at a slightly slower pace than before.
Ethan centered himself, the air around him humming as he expanded his Domain Expansion: Chimera Shadow Garden, without using any hand signs. He meticulously restricted the barrier to a ten-meter radius—not out of lack of power, but for efficiency. Within this darkened ink-pool of shadows, he began the summoning. Hundreds of Tora emerged in a silent, disciplined wave, followed by ten iterations of Mahoraga. Even two of the Divine Generals were an exercise in overkill, but Ethan wasn't taking chances with the stability of the atmosphere.
He commanded the Mahoragas to charge directly into the eye of the storm. Their objective was brutal and physical: to dispel the vortex through the sheer, mountainous power of their lungs. Ethan remembered the accounts of the subjugation ritual against Sukuna from JJK, where the general had shown incredible lung power as he displaced water into a vortex.
Here, the Mahoragas stood within the Category 3 winds as if they were a light breeze, their massive chests heaving to create counter-pressure shockwaves that disrupted the cyclone's core.
Meanwhile, the legion of Toras leaped into a massive, concentric formation around the spiraling wall of the storm. In perfect synchronization, hundreds of them began chanting the Winds of Watoomb. This high-level mystical spell, which Ethan knew a future Stephen Strange would eventually master, drew directly from the entity Watoomb. Through intricate hand gestures, the Toras conjured potent, controlled air currents, creating a massive counter-vortex designed to tear the cyclone's momentum apart.
To complement this, hundreds more Toras began weaving the Icy Tendrils of Ikthalon. Drawing power from the demon lord of the Boreas dimension, they didn't use the spell to snare enemies, but to manifest its freezing winds. By dropping the temperature within the storm's moisture-rich clouds, they forced a stabilization of the heat and pressure differentials that acted as the cyclone's fuel.
For ten grueling minutes, the sky was a battlefield of warring energies. The Mahoragas shattered the center, the Winds of Watoomb pushed against the rotation, and the Tendrils of Ikthalon bled the heat from the system. Finally, the violent rotation shuddered and collapsed, leaving the group standing under a startlingly clear, silent sky.
Through his mental link, Ethan sensed his Kannon units stationed across the coastline of Labutta. The inevitable tsunami had struck, but the damage was largely structural. His healers were already on the move, utilizing a sophisticated blend of Reverse Cursed Technique (RCT) output via Round Deer and the Flames of the Faltine. This combination allowed for the rapid regeneration of tissue, bones and the cauterization of wounds by creating an area of healing.
There were no reported casualties. Ethan felt a rare sense of contentment. Four years ago, during the December 26th incident, a moment of hesitation with the Ancient One had allowed a cursed spirit to complete a suicide pact, claiming hundreds of lives. Though he had saved thousands that day with his Chimera Raiko—the fusion of Round Deer and Nue—the guilt of those lost had lingered. Today, the ledger felt a little more balanced.
Beside him, the three Masters were flagging. As Ethan canceled his summons and reduced the domain back to a microscopic level, leaving only the Kannons at the coast, Mordo collapsed onto the sand. His face was pale; maintaining a spell as taxing as the Winds of Watoomb for ten minutes was a feat that would break a normal sorcerer. Kaecilius stood nearby, staring at Ethan with a look that flickered between begrudging acknowledgment and genuine fear.
Ethan's Motorola buzzed in his pocket, protected by a specialized seal. The message was from the Sorcerer stationed in the New York Sanctum—Ethan had given a hundred dollars with a simple instruction: Report if anything unusual happens in Harlem. Like monsters fighting.
The text was riddled with typos, written in a frantic blur, but the message was clear: Abomination had appeared in Harlem.
"I'm heading back now," Ethan said, his voice flat. "You guys can handle the cleanup from here, right?"
Wong gave a subtle, weary nod. He had become used to Ethan's sudden departures. Wong was the closest thing to a friend Ethan had. As Tora tore open a shimmering portal to the New York skyline, Ethan stepped through. The smell of salt and sea was instantly replaced by the scent of burning asphalt and diesel.
Below him, the Abomination—a grotesque, boney mass of muscle—was towering over a surprisingly unaware child no older than ten years old.
"No rest for the wicked," Ethan murmured, his eyes narrowing as he plummeted toward the street. He was starting to think he really deserved that vacation in Los Angeles.
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