The utility mechanism embedded within the Cursed Tool activated instantly. In the blink of an eye, a barrier of energy formed before me—dense and radiant, its surface layered like thick sheets of glass fused together by pure light.
The petals slammed into the barrier in rapid succession. Soft, muted impacts rang out again and again, quick and tightly packed, like a torrential downpour hammering against a metal roof.
The vibrations traveled up my arms, forcing my muscles to tense, yet the shield did not budge in the slightest. The light on its surface merely rippled faintly, calmly absorbing every strike without resistance.
"Tch! A Jujutsu Sorcerer hoarding Cursed Tools? Disgusting!" the man spat. His face twisted with revulsion, his jaw tightening as the creases on his forehead deepened.
I could see the disgust in his eyes clearly, even from this distance. That look was not unfamiliar to me. Within Jujutsu Society, Cursed Tools were often regarded as symbols of weakness—crutches used by those who lacked sufficient talent.
Usually, only those born without an Innate Technique relied on such objects. To see someone who possessed an Innate Technique while simultaneously wielding multiple Cursed Tools clearly made the old man feel defiled, as though an unspoken rule of the Jujutsu world had been violated right before his eyes.
But I didn't care in the slightest.
My Innate Technique existed precisely to create Cursed Tools. To me, tools were not signs of weakness. They were merely extensions of will, manifestations of intent given form. As long as I stood here, every weapon I created was a part of myself.
I then cast a brief glance toward the two girls. Their bodies now lay unconscious on the alley floor, sprawled side by side in awkward positions. Dust clung to their clothes, but their chests rose and fell gently, a steady rhythm that confirmed they were still breathing.
Good. They were both alive, and unharmed.
I watched as the man turned around and fled without a single backward glance. His movements were rushed and erratic, panic spilling out of him uncontrollably.
He leapt from rooftop to rooftop, old tiles shifting beneath his feet, several cracking apart and cascading down into the narrow alley below. His breathing was heavy, audible even from a distance, as though fear had gnawed away at the last remnants of his composure.
I wasn't about to let him escape so easily. My foot slammed into the ground, and my body shot upward toward the nearest building. I landed firmly on the rooftop and immediately gave chase, without the slightest hesitation.
Each time my feet touched down, the aged roofs shuddered violently. Supporting beams creaked under the strain, while fragments of roof tiles scattered and fell, their shattering echoes reverberating through the dark, narrow corridors below.
The distance between us never truly widened. Even when he forced himself to move faster, I matched his speed with ease.
When the man realized that fact, he glanced back. The old man's face was now clearly visible, twisted with a mixture of rage and panic. His eyes burned wildly, his jaw clenched, and the lines on his face dug even deeper.
"Illusory Flower Petals: Roseburst!" his shout echoed through the evening air.
A massive rose materialized before him, floating in midair as though defying gravity itself. Its size rivaled that of a human head—perhaps even larger.
Layer upon layer of petals were arranged with meticulous precision, their deep crimson hue both beautiful and ominous. Up close, the flower felt wrong—too perfect, as if it had not been created for beauty, but for killing.
Not long after, the flower shot toward me at tremendous speed. In the blink of an eye, the distance between us vanished. Then, the flower exploded.
But I was already prepared.
I had reinforced my shield from the very first second I sensed the surge of the old man's Cursed Energy. The layer of energy in front of me thickened, gleaming more brightly as it directly received the blast.
A deafening boom shook the rooftop. The shockwave swept outward, ripping tiles loose and sending them flying into the air.
Fragments of petals and fine flower dust filled the atmosphere, spinning wildly like a crimson mist that swallowed my field of vision. The pressure of the explosion was strong enough to send an ordinary human body hurtling away.
My feet slid back slightly, the soles of my shoes scraping against the tiles, yet my body remained upright. No bones cracked. My breathing never faltered.
As the cloud of flower dust slowly settled and my vision cleared, I stepped out from behind the shield. My body was intact, not even a scratch on it.
"What? How is it possible you weren't affected by my illusion?!" the man shouted. The old man's voice broke, filled with disbelief and panic that was rapidly turning into desperation.
"Illusion?" I murmured softly, my tone calm, almost flat.
At that moment, everything became clear. This man's Innate Technique functioned through the flower dust he created. The illusion did not attack the mind directly; it required a medium. That fine powder had to be inhaled and enter the victim's body for the effect to activate.
But from the very beginning, I had never given him that chance.
I was wearing the Deceptive Ghost Mask, which completely sealed my face and respiratory system, along with the Protective Hoodie Sweater that covered my body. Both were Cursed Tools designed to withstand physical attacks as well as energy-based assaults. The flower dust—essentially a manifestation of Cursed Energy—had never truly come into contact with me.
In other words, the old man's illusion had never even come close.
"That's because you're weak," I said coldly. "And you… a bastard who tried to rape two little girls, are a disgusting piece of trash. That's why you have to die."
My voice was distorted by the Deceptive Ghost Mask, sounding heavy, alien, and inhuman. There was no recognizable intonation, no feature that could be remembered. That man would never know who I truly was.
"NO! You're the weak one!" the man screamed back, his eyes bloodshot. The veins in his neck bulged grotesquely. "You filthy piece of shit! Die!"
With that, the man lunged at me, his fist raised. Cursed Energy surged crudely along his arm, pulsing erratically, destabilized by his overflowing emotions. His punch slammed hard into my shield. A dull, heavy impact echoed across the rooftop, making the air itself tremble.
We were immediately locked in close-quarters combat.
The man attacked relentlessly, his punches and kicks wild, fueled by rage and desperation. He tried to break through my defense with sheer brute force.
I blocked every strike with my shield, absorbing impact after impact, then countered with measured, efficient swings of my sword.
Every one of my movements was calm, with no wasted effort. Sparks of energy scattered with each clash, accompanied by the shrill sound of metal colliding and the sharp friction of Cursed Energy slicing through the afternoon air.
We exchanged blows several times. The man's breathing grew heavier, its rhythm beginning to collapse. His movements slowed, his reactions lagging by half a second. In one brief moment, when his balance wavered and his focus split, I saw the opening.
My sword swung without hesitation.
"Aaahhhh!"
A scream of agony tore through the air. The man's left arm was cleanly severed and flew onto the rooftop with a wet, nauseating sound. Blood gushed out violently—warm and thick—seeping into the cracks between the shattered tiles.
The man staggered backward, losing his balance. His face went deathly pale, pain and fear finally taking full control of him.
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