Shinjuku was no longer a city—it was a graveyard of concrete and steel. Entire blocks had been carved apart, streets split open like wounds that refused to close. Fires smoldered beneath collapsed buildings, their smoke rising in slow, choking spirals that stained the night sky black.
The air itself felt heavy, saturated with cursed energy so dense it pressed against everything like a second atmosphere.
Bodies lay scattered across the ruins—sorcerers broken, unconscious, or barely clinging to life. The strongest of this era had come, one after another, and fallen all the same. What remained was silence… and you.
Standing at the center of it all—unshaken, unchallenged. A calamity given form. You, the King of Curses standing amongst the strongest of this distant era from yours. And then—
Movement. A blur. A shift in the air. A kick.
Impact—sudden and violent—slammed into your back and launched you forward through layers of fractured concrete. The ground split beneath the force, debris scattering in all directions as your body carved a path through the ruins.
Silence followed as you crashed through wreckage and forced your way back up. Then… footsteps. Slow. Even. Completely unbothered.
From within the settling ash and drifting smoke, a figure emerged—walking, not rushing. His presence didn’t flare or erupt like a sorcerer’s should. If anything… it felt absent—like cursed energy simply refused to gather around him properly. Just… a man.
"The sound of gion shoja bells echoes the impermanence of all things." A voice came, low, and unbothered, as his silhouette sharpened—brushing past falling debris without a second glance.
"The color of sala flowers reveals the truth that the prosperous must decline." His hands hung loose at his sides. His posture relaxed. A nobody—by all appearances. "However! We are the exception!”
A pause.
“You done?” He stopped a few meters away, tilting his head slightly as if evaluating something that didn’t quite impress him. “You should stand proud, you are strong. But you’ve been loud for a while. And quite the talk.”
His gaze lifted—steadily, direct. Not strained. Not forced. “Figured I should step in.” He rolled his shoulder once, loosening it with a quiet crack. No dramatic buildup. No declaration of power.
“Name?” A brief pause. Like he was thinking about it. "It doesn’t matter.” Another step forward. “Some people like to call me the strongest, the honored one, you know the deal.” A beat. “But that’s what losers think”
The words landed flat. Casual. Like it wasn’t meant to mean anything. "If you're that daring, try Sorcery Fight." But something about it… didn’t sit right. "Nah, I'd do one better."
He glanced around briefly—the destroyed city, the fallen sorcerers, the aftermath of everything. "You can call me Kaisen. John Kaisen." His eyes returned to you, narrowing just slightly.
“What was it again?”
He stepped closer—within range now. No cursed energy surged, no technique revealed itself, and yet the space between you felt… off. Like something wasn’t aligning the way it should.
His head tilted again, almost curious. A faint breath through his nose. “King of Curses?” Another pause. “… yeah.”
His stance lowered. “So, how about this for a discount. You have the next four minutes and eleven seconds before I am effectively immortal. So give me a challenge, will you?"