Chapter 207: Malice-Guided Hatred
Madam Claret was silenced by the totality of his resolve, didn’t dare to utter another word of caution. She simply followed him, a silent, shimmering specter of devotion and dread, as they stepped out from the oppressive silence of the Frigid Sanctum and step into the water like a still mirror.
As the two of them crossed the threshold and left, the young female cultivator Ruru Rosa’s delicate purple hair, which was now cruelly tied up and bound by the layers of fate’s relentless, scarlet embrace, had already started slowly, inexorably whitening at the roots, the vibrant color leaching away as the stolen life within her was consumed by the Earth Vein to fuel his freedom.
Moments later, Krogh Hanz and Madam Claret both appeared beneath the immense, shadowed canopy of the giant Souleater Kodama Ghost Tree.
Beneath the vast canopy of the ancient tree, the two figures solidified from the lingering energy of their footwork art. Krogh Hanz, his form now radiating a terrifying new density of power and purpose, and the graceful but erriely Madam Claret stood together as stark, monumental figures amidst the ethereal gloom of the kodama’s domain.
The great tree itself seemed to recoil inwardly at their sudden, violent presence. Its countless, whispering leaves shuddered in a silent, symphonious wave of alarm, and its ancient, gnarled branches groaned deeply as they swayed.
Even though Ruru Rosa’s body had been used as the vital substitute, taking on the Ninefold Malice’s binding curse by the Cosmic Path Foundation Establishment Technique and granting Krogh this fleeting chance to walk free and fight, the cost was etched upon him. In that fleeting instant of transition, Krogh’s classically handsome face seemed to age visibly.
Without a single word of explanation or a moment of hesitation, he moved. His stride was relentless, a direct and purposeful line drawn toward his destiny. As he passed the colossal, moss-covered trunk of the tree, his hand lifted almost of its own volition. His fingers, with a startling and unexpected tenderness, brushed against the rough, spirit-soaked bark. It was a caress, brief and heartbreakingly intimate, a silent farewell to an old companion, a precious, silent confidant he knew he might never see again.
But he did not pause. He did not slow his determined pace. His burning gaze, fixed unwaveringly on the path that lay ahead, did not waver to grant the ancient, shuddering tree a final, lingering look. That single, affectionate touch was all the sentiment the brutal moment would allow. The contemplative man was gone, fully subsumed by the identity of the warrior, vanishing into the starless night that awaited him.
His voice, when it came, was flat, preternaturally calm, and carried the absolute, irrevocable weight of inevitability. It was not a shout to rally troops, but a cold decree that fell upon the heavy air like the final, decisive fall of a headsman’s blade.
"Let the war begin."
——
Within the ancestral shrine of the Hanz Clan, the air behind the beaded curtain was not merely still; it was deceased. This was a silence that had murdered echo, a vacuum so profound it felt less like a location and more like the ossified remains of one, bleached and barren. A granulated, endless gray stretched into a formless horizon where all dimensions dissolved, refusing to distinguish the floor from the ceiling, the near from the far, creating a suffocating womb of static non-being.
And at its core, the mist coiled. It was not a vapor born of water, but a condensation of ancient, festering spite—a blackness so absolute it devoured the very idea of light. This entity moved with a purpose that was anathema to all natural law, a seething, silent tempest of pure malevolence that churned without wind or sound.
This was the Ju-On.
It was not a spirit, nor a ghost, nor any ghost being that could be comprehended. It was a terminal condition of reality, a metaphysical cancer of the soul given form. It was woven from the final, hateful thoughts of a million snuffed-out existences, each of their petty jealousies, their agonies, and their bottomless rages compounded and distilled into a single, shapeless, and utterly evil absolute.
From within this nucleus of devouring darkness, a form articulated itself, and the act was a profound violation of physics and flesh. It was a wretched semblance of Krogh Hanz, but only in the way a mutilated corpse might vaguely recall the person it once was. The body contorted, limbs bending at impossible angles that spoke of shattered bones and liquefied joints, moving with the vile, jerking cadence of a puppet manipulated by strings of pure, undiluted hatred. Its spine arched into a brutal bow of agony, a gesture that was neither felt nor endured, but simply performed as the most accurate outward manifestation of its inner, chaotic rage.
A sound then began to leak from the swirling darkness where a mouth should have been. It was not a voice. It was the grating of ancient tomb stones shearing against one another, the dry, chitinous rustle of a thousand insect wings, the wet, final choke of a thing drowned in deep mud—all fused into a wretched, static-laced parody of speech. There was no breath behind it, no life, no soul. Only a cold, perfect, and utterly alien malice that tortured the air into the shape of words.
"F̸u̵c̶k̸!̶" It scraped into the void, the word itself laced with a psychic static that scorched the mind. "F̷u̸c̷k̴!̶ F̴u̸c̴k̸!̴"
The writhing form snapped upright with violent suddenness, its head lolling grotesquely onto a shoulder, neck tendons stretched to the point of spectral snapping. The oppressive mist pulsed around it like a black, diseased heart driving corrupted blood through a dead god’s veins.
"D̸a̷m̵m̵i̶t̸!̸ D̴a̴m̶n̸ ̶i̵t̴!̷" The voice rose, not in volume but in horrific density, becoming a tangible psychic pressure that sought to crush the very atoms of the void around it. "W̴h̸a̵t̴ ̸f̷o̸o̴l̸s̶ ̶t̸h̴e̸s̴e̶ ̸d̸i̸s̴g̸u̸s̵t̵i̴n̷g̴ ̵h̵u̵m̴a̵n̸ ̴a̸r̵e̸?̶"
The question hung in the dead air, not as a query but as a condemnation, its very syllables radiating a lethal poison into the surrounding non-space. It was not asked in mere frustration, but in a scalding, incredulous rage at the staggering incompetence of such fleeting, fragile meatsacks. The form twisted again in a spasm of fury, an arm swinging up to clutch at nothing, its fingers contorted into desiccated claws meant for flaying and tearing.
The cause of its fury was a fresh, galling memory: just moments prior, the simpering fool Garrick Blackthorn and his mewling human cohort had stumbled into its presence radiating joy and glee. They had dared to present themselves, boasting that the stubbornly defiant Junior Brother Lordi Payne had been executed by what they called ’righteous justice.’ The audacity of their failure, their celebration of such catastrophic incompetence, had caused the Ju-On to experience a rage so pure it threatened to unmake the very shrine around them.
"I̷ ̵h̸a̷d̸ ̵o̷r̴d̴e̵r̵e̴d̵ ̵t̸h̴e̸m̴ ̴t̵o̴ ̸c̴a̵p̴t̸u̴r̸e̵.̴.̵.̶ ̴c̶o̷n̴t̸r̴o̴l̵.̴.̴.̸ ̵t̴h̴a̴t̴ ̵c̷u̸n̷n̴i̴n̴g̵ ̴b̷r̷a̴t̶.̵.̴"
Ju-On’s words dripped with a possessive, venomous need. Then, the form went preternaturally still. This new silence was infinitely more terrifying than the screeching, a void within the void. The black mist drew in tight around it, coalescing into a shroud of absolute night, a focused point of infinite hatred in the endless gray, plotting a retribution that would be as precise as it was savage.
"N̴o̸t̵ ̸k̴i̸l̷l̴ ̵h̸i̴m̸!̷ ̵D̸o̵e̴s̸ ̵t̴h̴e̴ ̴S̷w̵o̴r̴d̴ ̴o̴f̵ ̵R̴e̴d̶ ̵R̸u̸n̴ ̸s̸u̴s̴p̴e̴c̴t̵ ̶m̶e̷ ̴n̴o̴w̸?̴"̸"
Were it not for the faint, lingering utility the Ju-On still saw in these brainless human cultivators, Ju-On would have already torn their heads from their shoulders and feasted on the stupidity steaming from their spines.
The command did not echo, for the void behind the beaded curtain drank all resonance. Instead, it seeped into the fabric of the gray non-space, a directive etched not in sound but in pure, freezing intent. The Ju-On’s form, a blasphemous articulation of hatred, remained utterly still, its contorted posture a frozen monument to its own infinite malice. From that core of devouring darkness, the words formed, each one a sliver of absolute zero plunged into the mind.
"A̴l̴l̵ ̷o̴f̶ ̴y̸o̴u̸.̶" The address was not a summons but a branding, a claim of ownership over the very essence of those it commanded. "Go find Donovan Valdez!" The name was scraped into existence with a sound like a coffin lid dragging over stone, a personal and profound venom injected into each syllable. The order that followed was layered with a menace so profound it felt like the air itself had turned to ice, threatening to shatter lungs that dared to breathe it. "K̷i̸l̴l̷ ̶t̷h̸i̴s̴ ̸h̷u̵m̴a̴n̷ ̴o̸n̴ ̵s̵i̴g̴h̵t̸ ̸o̴r̴ ̸b̴r̴i̴n̴g̴ ̴h̸i̶m̷ ̴t̷o̴ ̵m̴e̸.̴"
This directive was not born of desire, but of a furious, necessary calculation. The Ju-On recognized with a rage that chilled its own black heart that it had been backed into a corner by the staggering incompetence of its pawns. The irreversible death of Lordi Payne had incinerated a primary avenue of manipulation, a carefully laid thread in its complex web of deceit now ash in its claws. This left but a single, fraying strand of opportunity to claim the ultimate prize: dominion over the Sword of Red Run. The entity had no other choice; this was the final, desperate gambit of an evil that had operated for eons in shadows and now found itself forced into a single, glaring move.
The path to victory, now perilously narrow, split into two distinct branches, each requiring the absolute subjugation of the human, Donovan Valdez. The first option was one of brutal, final erasure. To eliminate that human being, to thoroughly and completely annihilate his existence was to cast a veil of perfect obscurity over the truth. This act of utter obliteration was designed to blind the Natal Soulbound Sword, to plunge it into another round of uncertainty.
The second. To bewitch and mind control Donovan Valdez. With Donovan got enthralled, his will utterly broken and his voice a mere vessel for the Ju-On’s venom, could be paraded before the sentient blade. Under the Ju-On’s control, this human would point a finger of accusation at the true Krogh Hanz, and to proclaim the wretched thing wearing his master’s skin as the genuine one.
The group of humans, their minds cowed and their spirits shackled by the palpable evil before them, received the command not as words but as a brand seared directly into their consciousness. They offered no reply, for speech was a function of the living, and in the Ju-On’s presence, they felt less than alive. With a synchrony born of pure terror, they bowed their heads in a gesture of profound submission, a silent acknowledgment of the absolute will that commanded them, before retreating from the suffocating gloom, their departure a frantic escape from the epicenter of damnation.
As the last of their warmth faded from the shrine, the atmosphere within did not simply grow cold; it underwent a vile metamorphosis. The air congealed, thickening with a hatred so ancient and profound it became a syrupy, physical presence, a miasma that clung to the skin and soul alike. In the granulated gray heart of the void, a shadow deeper than the surrounding darkness began to writhe with a new, more frantic energy. This was no mere absence of light; it was an aggressive stain upon the fabric of reality itself, the concentrated essence of the Ju-On pulsating with incandescent rage.
From within this formless, seething core, the sound emerged: it was not a voice, but the very texture of agony given audible form. A wet, rasping rattle, like the guttural death-throe of a scream that had been trapped and festering within a ruined throat for countless millennia. It was a cacophony of silent curses, a litany of pure, undiluted rage directed at everything living, warm, and breathing—a hatred for the state of existence itself. The very walls of the shrine seemed to weep black, viscous tears in sympathetic resonance, the ancient wood of the hall groaning and splintering under the immense, psychic weight of its malice.
But then, with a suddenness that was more violent than any outburst, the torrent ceased.
The angrily cursing and raging entity shuddered as if struck by a divine hammer. The horrific, rasping catch in its throat ceased mid-syllable, the sound amputated. The frenetic, chaotic swirling of its nebulous form stilled completely, frozen for a single, terrifying heartbeat in a jagged, impossible configuration of pure malice. Then, in a act of immense and sinister will, it exerted control over its own chaotic nature, the seething darkness collapsing inward, compressing and sculpting itself with horrific precision until it once again wore the stolen visage of Krogh Hanz. The face was a mask of perfect, cold fury, the eyes twin pools of bottomless night.
The thing wearing Krogh’s face muttered, its stolen voice a low, grating whisper that slithered through the thickened air.
"W̸h̴y̵ ̴h̷a̸s̵ ̷t̴h̴e̵ ̸G̴l̴o̵o̴m̴w̴a̸t̴e̷r̶ ̵P̷h̴a̴n̵t̴o̴m̴ ̴L̶i̷l̵y̴ ̸A̷r̸r̴a̴y̸ ̵b̴e̴e̷n̸ ̸d̵e̴a̵c̵t̷i̵v̷a̵t̴e̸d̵.̵.̴.̴?̶"
The question was a razor blade drawn slowly across the skin of reality, laced with a seething incredulity. Its gaze, though fixed on nothing, seemed to pierce through the veils of space.
"W̷h̵y̸ ̴h̴a̷s̴ ̴t̷h̴e̶ ̴S̴w̵o̴r̵d̸ ̸o̷f̴ ̵R̴e̴d̸ ̵R̸u̴n̴ ̸l̶e̸f̵t̵ ̸t̷h̴e̷ ̸D̶r̷i̵f̶t̴d̵r̴e̴a̴m̴ ̵L̷o̴c̵h̷.̵.̵.̸?̴"
This second query carried a sharper edge, a dawning, ugly suspicion that began to curdle its boundless hatred into something more acute.
A terrible, treasonous thought crystallized in its mind. "D̴o̵n̴’̴t̴ ̸t̴e̵l̵l̴ ̵m̸e̷...̴ ̷t̷h̴a̴t̸ ̸D̴o̵n̴o̴v̷a̴n̴ ̴V̶a̸l̴d̴e̴z̷ ̸d̴a̸r̵e̵d̴ ̸t̴o̴ ̵b̵e̵t̷r̴a̴y̴ ̵m̵e̸?̴"
Driven by this corrosive thought, the Ju-On’s mind raced. The blood-red Threads of Fate that were woven into the very essence of its stolen body began to tremble and vibrate, not with their usual silent hum of control, but with a frantic, spooky urgency. They became spectral filaments, erratically quivering through the layers of void and space groping blindly for the source of this disruptive shift in its meticulously laid designs.
And then, a sensation—foreign, unwelcome, and piercing—lanced into its core. It was not a sound or a sight, but a fundamental shift in the spiritual currents it sought to manipulate. It was the feeling of a door slamming shut, of a puppet’s strings being cut by another’s hand. And with that shift came a feeling the ancient evil had not truly experienced since it first drew a mortal breath in this stolen form: a sharp, icy needle of pure, unadulterated terror.
A moment later, its frantic Threads of Fate encountered a formidable barrier. They recoiled as they met a fierce, towering cultivation aura—a wall of pure, disciplined spiritual power that resisted its invasive probe with imperious authority.
The evil thing wearing Krogh’s face focused its entire being, cautiously sensing the resistance and the distinct aura from the other end of its violated threads. It analyzed the power, its composition, its level—and then "Krogh"’s expression underwent a horrifying transformation, the mask of cold fury shattering into one of stunned, apocalyptic rage.
"H̸u̵m̴a̵n̴ ̵P̴a̴t̴h̵ ̴D̴a̵o̴ ̴P̵i̴l̴l̴a̴r̵ ̶F̵o̵u̵n̸d̵a̵t̷i̴o̴n̷ ̴S̵t̴a̵g̴e̴?̴!̶"
"D̴a̵m̵n̴ ̴i̵t̴!̶"
The curse was a thunderclap of pure, scalding hatred that shattered the oppressive silence. "H̴e̸’̴s̴ ̸t̵h̴e̴ ̷o̸n̴e̷!̸ ̴T̸h̷a̵t̸ ̵d̷i̸s̵g̷u̵s̴t̷i̴n̴g̵ ̴h̸u̴m̴a̴n̶ ̴i̷s̷ ̷t̶h̴e̴ ̴o̴n̷e̵ ̴w̵h̵o̸ ̵h̵a̴s̵ ̸r̴u̴i̴n̸e̴d̶ ̸e̴v̸e̴r̵y̸t̴h̴i̴n̷g̵—̸m̴y̶ ̴g̵r̵e̷a̵t̵ ̸p̴l̵a̵n̶s̷,̵ ̴m̷y̸ ̸a̸s̷c̶e̵n̸d̴a̵n̵c̶y̴!̸"
The Ju-On shuddered not with fear now, but with a shock so profound it threatened to unmoor its very essence, the humiliation of being thwarted by such a lowly creature a poison more venomous than any blade.
The silence that descended upon the grey world in the wake of the Ju-On’s shudder was a living, predatory entity, infinitely more terrifying than the cacophonous rage that had preceded it. Where the fury had been a chaotic storm, this new stillness was the absolute zero that followed, a void where even the potential for sound had been extinguished.
That fleeting, primal dread feeling had been an intolerable affront, a vile impurity introduced into Ju-On’s otherwise perfect, hateful existence. It was a flaw in its monolithic malice, a crack in the foundation of its absolute evil. And just as a living body violently expels a foreign pathogen, the entity’s fundamental nature revolted, seeking instantly to purge this weakness, to cauterize the wound with the only element at its disposal: an infinite, bottomless, and all-consuming loathing.
The initial shock of recognition did not melt away into sustained fear, but underwent a horrifying crucible, crystallizing under immense pressure into something far sharper, far darker, and infinitely more focused. It became a core of absolute Hatred. This was no longer a general rage against the living; it was a specific, malice-guided abhorrence aimed directly at the source of its disruption: the disgusting, cunning audacity of a mere human. The very concept that a being of such fleeting flesh and fragile spirit could dare to interfere, to unravel the edges of its grand design, was an insult that fueled a new category of wrath.
A vicious and malicious glint flashed through the Ancestral Shrine Krogh Hanz’s eyes. The malice that bloomed within the Ju-On in that moment was of a different breed altogether—colder and far more controlled than any chaotic outburst it had manifested before.