The victory was a fleeting, bitter draft, already soured on the tongue.
Krogh stood amidst the devastation, a mountain of will and pride refusing to crumble, but the fine tremors that now ran through his iron frame betrayed the terrible truth of his erosion. A violent, wracking cough seized him, bending his spine in a painful arc, and he spat a dark, viscous substance onto the scorched earth—a gruesome offering that was more clotted curse than blood. The once-handsome planes of his face were now a stormy map of agony and exhaustion, a sickly, cerulean mist—the visible emanation of Ju-On's venomous hatred—seeping like a parasitic fog beneath the surface of his skin, tainting his very life force. He had severed the entire connection to the Earth Vein's lifeblood, but the cost was written in the failing light of his own eyes and the leaden weight in his limbs.
The evil creature could always fester and regrow in the ambient filth of its own malice; but this arrogant swordsman, even a genius who shone in the most powerful demonic sect, had only his own dwindling, poisoned spirit to draw upon.
The ground shuddered violently as another few Threads of Fate, their luminous pathways now stained a sickly black, snapped under the strain of the corrupted energies. Across the ravaged courtyard, Ju-On's form, a shifting smear of shadow and coagulated malice, recoiled and slithered back toward the jagged cliff edge of the hill, its movements sluggish, its stolen human visage flickering like a guttering candle. It was the moment to press the attack, to end this with the last dregs of his formidable strength. Krogh's Sword Intent flared, a dimming echo of its former glory, the edge of his palm-sword thirsting for the final, decisive cut.
But he halted his dash pace abruptly, every instinct screaming with a cold, primal warning. It was a sense beyond sight or sound, a death-sense honed only by peak Foundation Stage cultivator who had danced on the razor's edge of oblivion too many times to ignore its cold kiss. The air grew thick, heavy, and impossibly cold.
Then, from the jagged cliff face behind the cowering Ju-On, the very stone bulged outward, pulsating obscenely as if something immense were pressing against it from the other side. With a sound that was less an explosion and more a visceral tear in the fabric of the world, the rock face burst apart. It did not shatter into debris, but vomited forth a wave of putrescence so profound it struck like a physical blow—a miasma of rotted flesh, ancient, disturbed soil, and the sweet, cloying stench of a thousand reopened graves. This foulness flooded the clearing, a tangible fog that coated the tongue and stung the eyes with its necrotic promise.
And from that foul, geological womb emerged the thing Ju-On had gestated in the deep, dark places it had poisoned, the true manifestation of its hatred. It was a serpent of waking nightmares, a colossal, legless wyrm woven not of flesh and scale, but of countless, intertwined corpses. Pallid limbs, bloated torsos, and faces locked in silent, eternal screams were sutured together by strands of pure, glistening spite into a single, crawling engine of abomination. It was the entire Hanz Clan, desecrated, their remains made into a chariot of vengeance. The air around it shimmered with a visible curse, a haze of ill-wish and despair that warped the moonlight. An overwhelming death aura radiated from the cursed creature in suffocating waves, a psychic weight so immense that even Krogh Hanz, a cultivator of the Cosmic Path Dao Pillar, felt his knees buckle under its crushing pressure. The thing uncoiled, its head a mosaic of the agonized faces of his own kin, and its aura—a palpable force of absolute corruption—was, without a doubt, that of the Peak Foundation Stage.
Ju-On's form solidified , drawing strength from the abomination's presence. The whisper that came from it was no longer a mere sound, but a corrosion, a psychic venom that scraped against the mind.
"K̸r̴o̴g̵h̷…̸" (Krogh…) it hissed, the name a curse. "L̸o̴o̴k̵ ̸u̵p̸o̷n̶ ̵y̸o̵u̸r̸ ̸e̸v̴i̵l̷ ̸l̵e̵g̸a̵c̸y̶.̸ ̷Y̸o̷u̴'̵r̵e̸ ̷s̷u̶c̴h̶ ̶a̴ ̷e̴v̶i̴l̸ ̴m̵a̷n̷,̸ ̸w̵h̴o̸ ̷r̸a̴i̸s̴e̸d̸ ̵a̸ ̵s̷w̴o̴r̴d̴ ̴a̴g̴a̷i̵n̵s̴t̸ ̷y̵o̵u̸r̷ ̵o̴w̴n̶ ̸b̸l̵o̵o̴d̷.̶ ̵Y̵o̸u̸'̸r̸e̷ ̴s̷u̵c̴h̴ ̷a̷ ̵e̴v̷i̸l̷ ̵h̸u̸m̴a̵n̷,̵ ̸w̴h̵o̷ ̴m̵u̵r̵d̸e̵r̷e̵d̷ ̷e̴v̴e̷r̷y̴ ̷s̴o̵u̸l̵ ̶t̸h̴a̴t̵ ̴s̸h̸a̵r̴e̴d̵ ̴y̴o̴u̷r̸ ̶f̴a̵m̸i̸l̴y̸ ̷n̷a̴m̸e̷.̵ ̵N̸o̷t̷ ̷m̸e̷.̸ ̸B̸u̴t̵ ̵y̸o̷u̸ ̵a̵r̵e̴ ̶t̸h̸e̷ ̵u̸t̸t̸e̴r̵l̸y̴ ̵e̴v̶i̴l̶.̴ ̷Y̵o̸u̸ ̴a̵r̵e̶ ̵t̴h̴e̴ ̵a̸b̵s̸o̴l̴u̵t̷e̸ ̶e̴v̵i̷l̶ ̷h̸e̵r̸e̸.̸"
(Look upon your evil legacy. You're such a evil man, who raised a sword against your own blood. You're such a evil human, who murdered every soul that shared your family name. Not me. But you are the utterly evil. You are the absolute evil here.)
The ghost gestured a twisted, shadowy limb toward the towering corpse-wyrm. Its countless dead eyes seemed to focus on the swordsman.
"B̸u̷t̷ ̵I̷…̴ ̸I̴ ̵a̴m̴ ̷t̴h̴e̵i̵r̴ ̴t̵r̵u̵e̷ ̸k̸i̷n̷s̴m̵a̴n̸.̶ ̸I̶ ̵g̸a̷t̵h̴e̷r̷e̸d̷ ̵w̷h̷a̴t̶ ̷y̴o̴u̷ ̸d̷i̵s̴c̸a̵r̸d̴e̴d̷.̷ ̶I̵ ̵c̸h̷e̴r̷i̵s̷h̴e̵d̸ ̵t̵h̴e̴m̵.̴ ̷I̷ ̴g̵a̵v̷e̶ ̸t̴h̸e̴m̵ ̵p̴u̵r̷p̴o̸s̸e̵ ̸a̴g̵a̴i̶n̴,̷ ̵a̵ ̸s̴t̵r̷e̸n̴g̶t̵h̷ ̷y̶o̸u̶ ̵c̵o̴u̵l̵d̵ ̵n̴e̵v̶e̴r̴ ̵c̸o̵m̸p̴r̴e̶h̷e̸n̵d̵.̸"
(But I… I am their true kinsman. I gathered what you discarded. I cherished them. I gave them purpose again, a strength you could never comprehend.)
The malice in its voice was a palpable force, thick and choking. "T̵h̸e̵y̴ ̷a̵r̷e̶ ̴m̵y̷ ̵b̸e̸l̵o̴v̴e̴d̶ ̴c̵h̴i̴l̵d̴r̵e̸n̴ ̵n̸o̴w̸.̶ ̸A̸n̸d̴ ̷t̵h̵e̴y̶ ̸a̸r̵e̶ ̶s̷o̷ ̸v̷e̸r̷y̵ ̴h̴u̸n̸g̷r̸y̸ ̷f̶o̸r̸ ̴t̵h̵e̷i̴r̴ ̴f̷a̸t̵h̵e̸r̷.̵"
(They are my beloved children now. And they are so very hungry for their father.)
The wyrm shifted, and a particularly recognizable corpse—an elder, his face frozen in a rictus of agony—was pushed to the fore of the squirming mass. Ju-On's energy pulsed, and the dead man's jaw unhinged, not with a voice of its own, but with Ju-On's hatred ventriloquized through it.
"Murderer," countless corpses croaked, its tongue black and desiccated.
Another corpse, a woman, twitched and spoke in the same vile echo. "Our blood is on your hands."
A child's bloated form lolled forward. "Why, Uncle? Why?"
Ju-On's true form shimmered with perverse delight. "T̵h̷e̴y̷ ̴s̵i̷n̵g̸ ̶y̵o̸u̸r̷ ̴p̸r̷a̴i̵s̷e̶s̸,̷ ̴K̸r̵o̶g̵h̷!̵ ̵T̸h̷e̷y̵ ̴t̷h̴a̵n̷k̶ ̸y̴o̵u̸ ̷f̵o̸r̵ ̶t̴h̴e̶ ̴g̸i̵f̴t̵ ̴o̴f̵ ̷t̵h̵i̷s̶ ̸u̵n̷i̴t̸y̴!̵ ̷T̴h̴i̷s̶ ̸w̵y̵r̵m̷ ̵i̴s̵ ̵t̸h̴e̵i̸r̶ ̵r̷i̵g̴h̸t̵e̶o̵u̴s̷ ̸v̶e̴n̵g̷e̴a̴n̵c̴e̸,̵ ̵a̴n̶d̸ ̸I̷ ̸a̵m̴ ̵i̸t̵s̷ ̴c̷o̷n̵d̵u̸c̴t̴o̴r̸!̷ ̸W̴e̴ ̸a̸r̵e̷ ̷t̸h̸e̵ ̴s̵a̵c̸r̵e̸d̵ ̸a̵v̵e̸n̴g̵e̴r̵s̶ ̸o̷f̶ ̶t̵h̵e̷ ̸d̴e̵a̴d̴ ̸y̸o̴u̵ ̴c̵r̷e̷a̴t̵e̴d̵!̸"
(They sing your praises, Krogh! They thank you for the gift of this unity! This wyrm is their righteous vengeance, and I am its conductor! We are the sacred avengers of the dead you created!)
The ghost's voice rose to a deafishing, multi-throated shriek that issued from the wyrm's every mouth.
"A̸n̴d̵ ̴t̴o̵d̴a̴y̵,̶ ̶t̸h̴e̴y̸ ̴w̴i̸l̷l̵ ̵f̸e̷a̵s̵t̸!̴ ̵T̸h̸e̶y̷ ̴w̸i̷l̵l̷ ̵d̵e̴v̴o̴u̶r̴ ̵t̴h̴e̴ ̵f̴l̵e̷s̴h̷ ̴o̶f̶ ̷t̸h̴e̸ ̴w̵o̸r̴l̴d̷'̷s̸ ̸g̶r̸e̷a̵t̴e̵s̵t̷ ̷s̵i̵n̸n̴e̷r̴!̸ ̵A̸n̵d̶ ̵w̴h̸e̴n̴ ̷t̷h̴e̷y̴ ̵a̴r̵e̴ ̸d̶o̸n̵e̵ ̸w̸i̴t̴h̵ ̵y̴o̸u̷,̵ ̶I̴ ̴w̷i̵l̴l̴ ̴t̷a̴k̸e̷ ̴t̸h̵e̶m̴ ̷t̴o̷ ̴t̸h̸e̴ ̸w̴o̸r̵l̵d̸'̴s̷ ̶e̵d̴g̵e̷,̵ ̴a̴n̵d̴ ̴w̴e̴ ̵w̴i̸l̷l̴ ̵d̷e̴v̷o̸u̴r̷ ̸e̸v̵e̴r̴y̶t̴h̷i̵n̵g̷!̷ ̷Y̷o̸u̶r̴ ̶e̵v̷i̴l̴ ̵e̸n̷d̷s̸ ̴h̵e̴r̸e̷!̸ ̵T̷h̵e̸i̵r̵s̴ ̸i̸s̸ ̶o̶n̴l̸y̸ ̴b̵e̶g̴i̸n̸n̷i̸n̸g̵!̴"
(And today, they will feast! They will devour the flesh of the world's greatest sinner! And when they are done with you, I will take them to the world's edge, and we will devour everything! Your evil ends here! Theirs is only beginning!)
The colossal wyrm of sewn-together dead began to advance, its movement a grotesque, undulating crawl, shaking the very foundations of the earth. The air grew thick with the smell of death and the deafening, hateful chorus of the wronged dead, all screaming with Ju-On's single, monstrous voice.
A wave of putrid air crushed down from the wyrm—a gust born not of weather, but of pure, concentrated resentment. It struck Krogh like a physical blow, a frigid gale that seeped through his robes and into his bones, threatening to freeze the very spark of his consciousness. His muscles locked, his limbs turning leaden and slow. Squinting against the phantom wind, he barely managed to raise his arms in a futile guard.
The corpse wyrm struck. Its attack was not a singular, focused blow from a beast of flesh and blood, but a cataclysmic avalanche of animated, hate-filled dead, a tidal wave of concentrated malice given horrific form. The force it carried was the weight of a mountain, propelled by the seething resentment of every slaughtered soul stitched into its malice being. It did not move through the air so much as it displaced it, creating a vacuum of pure dread that sucked the very light and sound from the world, leaving only the silent, screaming advance of its innumerable contorted faces and grasping limbs.
His cheeks already stained a venomous, suffocating dark blue and teetering on the precipice of complete desolation, Krogh did not care for survival, only for a final, defiant act. With the last vestiges of his will, he pivoted, his movements sluggish yet precise, his entire being focusing into his hands. Sword Intent, raw and powerful, swirled around his palms, not forming a blade but a massive, circular mirror of concentrated force—a millstone of spinning, defiant light meant to grind the advancing horror to a halt. It was his ultimate defense, a technique that spoke of a lifetime of mastery, now fueled by despair alone.
The wyrm's attack, possessing the unstoppable power of a divine crossbow loosed from the heavens, slammed into this luminous shield. For a heartbeat, the mirror held, radiating a brilliant, desperate light. Then, with a sound like a universe shattering, it exploded.
Krogh's manifested sword intent disintegrated into a million glittering, useless shards of extinguished energy. The spear of condensed resentment, its trajectory only slightly altered by the catastrophic defense, tore through the dissipating energy and pierced clean through Krogh's ribs. The force was so immense that even after exiting his body, the projectile continued on to blast a cavernous, man-sized hole in the very summit of the mountain, sending plumes of rock and dust erupting into the sky. The concussive impact of the blow then hurled his broken form backward like a discarded doll, his body crashing through the fragile ruins of the Ancestral Shrine and completing its total annihilation in a thunderous cataclysm of splintered wood and collapsing stone.
Buried in the wreckage, every breath a ragged, agony-filled struggle, Krogh tried to push himself up, the world swimming in a haze of dust and pain.
Above him, the monstrous wyrm loomed, its colossal form now blotting out the heavens—a crawling, seething mountain of his former clansmen, their stitched-together corpses closing in for the final, wretched consumption. He attempted once more to raise a hand, to summon a wisp of energy for one last, futile guard, but a new and far deeper horror immobilized him. A sharp, glacial agony erupted from the core of his being, his dantian, a cold so profound it burned like a star of absolute zero.
This was no mere surface poison; it was Ju-On's curse, now fully awakened and rooted in his soul, spiderwebbing outwards to seize his organs, climb his spine, and encase his entire body in an unbreakable, icy vice. It was a terminal frost, a corruption so deep that no god's touch, no miracle of heaven or earth, could ever hope to reach it. His breath hitched in his throat, reduced to a shallow, desperate rattle. He was not merely wounded; he was being erased from the inside out, his very essence unraveling as the abomination of his own making descended to deliver the coup de grâce.
Krogh had no breath left to fight, no time left to hope. He was dying.
And in that final, crystalline moment between one fading heartbeat and the next, decades of Krogh's life flash before his eyes. They erupted in a torrential, overwhelming flood.
He was a spectator to his own existence, every choice, every silence, every failure magnified to unbearable clarity. Until a specific, mundane memory surfaced with the force of a physical blow: his indifferent farewell to the ancient tree outside the well in the back mountain, a ritual performed countless times during his cultivation, always without a single word of gratitude or acknowledgment.
Why had he never spoken to her?
The thought was a lance of pure regret.
And with it came the face of Madam Claret, his spectre wife, her spirit twisted into a fierce ghost by tragedy—another life he had failed to protect, another love met with failure.
There were so many regrets in this life, a tapestry of wounds left unhealed and words left unspoken, and now there was no time, no breath, no chance to make any of it right.
PS:
Hey everyone, here's the fresh chapter for you! 🎉
I'll be updating the side story next week—and I see you over there, getting excited... can't wait for that R18 content, right? 😏 Lmao, I'm on it!
Wishing you all a fantastic and fun-filled weekend! Happy reading!