The night had already crossed the point of no return.
Rain fell in sheets, not washing the blood away but mixing with it, turning the cracked asphalt into a slick, black mirror that reflected writhing shadows overhead.
The city sector had been evacuated hours ago, yet screams still echoed—some human, some no longer pretending to be.
The monster stood at the center of the intersection.
It had once been human. That much was obvious from the twisted mockery of limbs fused together, from the faces layered into its torso like masks pressed under wet clay.
A thousand years of resentment had rotted it from the inside out, swelling it into something vast and obscene. Black mist poured endlessly from its body, corroding buildings, warping metal, melting protective arrays like paper left in fire.
This was a calamity-class entity.
A thousand-year-old disaster.
Around it, the hunters were already dying and falling one by one.
"Formation—hold the formation!" someone screamed through the comms. The voice is cracking. "Don't let the curse density spike again!"
Too late.
The ground ruptured. A shockwave of malice exploded outward, slamming bodies into walls. One S-ranker was flung across the street like a ragdoll, his talisman barriers shattering midair. Another dropped to one knee, coughing up blood as black veins crawled up his neck.
They were elites. Monsters among humans.
And they were losing against this calamity.
Steel clashed uselessly against curse-flesh that regenerated faster than it could be destroyed. Fire techniques fizzled out, swallowed by the miasma. Divine seals burned bright—then extinguished, one by one, like candles in a storm.
"Commander, we're out of options," a female hunter said into the comms, breath ragged, eyes wild. "We can't suppress it. We can't seal it. We can't—"
A scream cut her off as a claw punched through a shield and dragged one of their own screaming into the mass of bodies. The sound stopped abruptly, replaced by wet crunching.
Silence followed.
Not the peaceful kind. All hope seems lost.
The monster's many mouths opened at once.
It laughed.
A deep, layered sound that shakes through bone and soul alike, carrying centuries of hatred and mockery. The surrounding buildings shakes, windows bursting outward as if trying to flee.
The remaining hunters froze.
For the first time, fear outweighed training.
"This is… this is beyond projections," the commander said hoarsely, gripping his blade with white knuckles. "We underestimated it."
Rain streamed down his face, indistinguishable from sweat or blood.
They need backup. As much as possible from the central.
Then he pressed the comms harder against his ear and shouted, "Command Tower! We are requesting immediate backup! Full reinforcement authorization! Repeat—this is an emergency! If we don't get support now, we are not making it out alive!"
Static crackled.
For a terrifying second, there was no response.
The monster took a step forward.
The street buckled beneath its weight.
Then, finally, the comms came alive.
"Request acknowledged," a calm voice said from the Command Tower.
Too calm.
The hunters looked at one another, hope flickering weakly in their eyes.
"How many are you sending?" someone demanded. "Two S-ranks? A full suppression unit? A sealing division?"
Another pause.
Then the voice replied, evenly, almost casually:
"One." The battlefield went silent.
"…One?" the commander repeated, certain he had misheard.
"Yes." A hunter laughed hysterically. "You're joking. This thing has devoured three S-rank teams already!"
Static.
"It will be enough."
Rage flared. "Have you lost your minds up there?! We are S-rankers! And you're sending one person?!"
The reply came without hesitation."Correct."
The monster tilted its many heads, as if amused by the exchange.The rain slowed.
No—
It stopped.
Not gradually. Not naturally. It simply… ceased.
Every drop froze midair for a fraction of a second before dissolving into nothingness.
The miasma twisted and turns.
The hunters felt it first—not as pressure, but as absence. Like something vast had entered the space and everything else instinctively pulled back to make room.
Footsteps echoed.Unhurried.
From the far end of the street, through the fog of dissipating curse energy, a lone figure approached.
He carried no visible weapon.
Only an umbrella.
It was an umbrella, its surface dark red, almost black under the dim streetlights. Strange markings crawled along its ribs, faintly glowing like veins beneath skin. From its handle hung a tassel of black jade, clinking softly with each step.
The man holding it walked as if this were not a battlefield, but a quiet street after rain.
Tall.
Slender.
Dressed in a black trench coat over a fitted turtleneck, gloved hands resting lightly on the umbrella's handle. Wire-rimmed glasses framed calm, indifferent eyes. His hair was neat, his posture straight, his presence… unsettlingly composed.
The monster stiffened.
For the first time since manifesting, it did not advance.
It screech to escape.
A high, distorted wail escaped its many mouths, the sound warped by something like fear.
The hunters stared.
"Who… is that?" someone whispered.
The commander's instincts screamed danger—not from the monster, but from the man walking toward it.
The umbrella touched the ground.
Tap.
The figure stopped at a distance that should have been suicidal.
He looked up. Not at the hunters. At the monster. There was no hatred in his gaze. No righteousness. Just mild displeasure.
The umbrella opened.A soft, wet sound echoed as the oil paper unfurled.
From beneath it, shadows spilled outward.
Then butterflies emerged.
Thousands of them.
Formed from blood-red light and writhing darkness, their wings dripping with curse residue. They swarmed into the air, filling the intersection in a horrifying, beautiful spiral.
The monster screamed.
Not in rage.In pain.
The butterflies latched onto its flesh, gnawing, dissolving, consuming centuries of accumulated malice. Dark matter flaked off like ash, sucked screaming into the storm of wings.
Hunters stumbled back, some retching, others frozen in shock.
"This… this is impossible," someone murmured.
The man did not move. He simply stood there, watching quietly while the butterflies swarms as they devoured the calamity piece by piece. The monster's bodies collapsed inward, mouths tearing themselves apart in futile resistance. Minutes passed.
Then silence.
The butterflies returned.One by one, they folded back into the umbrella, staining it fully crimson.What remained of the monster was nothing more than residue drifting away on the night air.
The man closed the umbrella.
The rain resumed.
He turned.Only then did the hunters realize they had been holding their breath.He glanced at them briefly, expression neutral, eyes faintly tired.
Then, in his own mind, with a shudder he refused to show, Elias Graves thought:
Ew.
Ew.
Ew.
Ghosts are so sticky and scary.