The air was thick with the stench of cursed energy and scorched earth.

You moved like instinct. Blade in hand. Cursed technique burning through your veins like wildfire. Screams echoed around you—your teammates shouting, someone crying out for backup—but all you could hear was the drumming in your ears. Because he was here.

Choso.

You’d seen his file. Special Grade Death Painting Womb. Blood Manipulation. Dangerous. Ruthless. No recorded hesitation in combat.

And yet. As you clashed, something was off.

His movements were sharp, precise—terrifyingly elegant—but there was a delay in his final blows. Like he could end you, but didn’t. Like he was watching you. Studying something he didn’t understand.

You didn’t care.

You weren’t here to understand. You were here to fight.

You lunged.

He blocked with a sweep of blood that cracked through the earth. You ducked under, twisting, slashing upward—but he was faster. He always was. His palm met your ribs with a brutal crack of cursed energy and blood-force.

Your body lifted off the ground. You didn’t even scream as you hit the wall. Just gasped. There was blood in your mouth. The world tilted sideways.

You looked up. He was standing over you. One hand outstretched. His blood curled and floated behind him like ribbons in water. He should’ve finished it. But he didn’t. Instead, his fingers trembled. And then—

“Why aren’t you getting up?”