The swordsman's mind, in its final seconds, became a kaleidoscope of fracturing consciousness. Countless fragmented images, memories both cherished and cursed, flashed and spun in a dizzying whirl. But then, even more scenes, ones he had never witnessed, unfolded before his mind's eye—glimpses of a future that would never be, of reconciliations that were now impossible, of a peace forever beyond his reach. It was a final, cruel gift from his unraveling consciousness, a panoramic view of everything he had sacrificed and everything he had lost, all playing out against the encroaching, absolute dark.
Yet, the final, lethal blow was delayed.
The colossal corpse-wyrm halted its advance, its multitude faces were cursing—each a frozen mask of a slaughtered clansman—fixing their hollow, hateful gazes upon Krogh. A chill, deeper than any winter, seized the swordsman's heart. He steadied his breath, gathering the last dregs of his power for a final, desperate stand.
But the evil ghost, Ju-On, did not press its attack. Instead, its maleficent eyes slid past Krogh, its expression one of cold, calculating fury focused on something behind him. A primal instinct screamed a warning. Krogh spun around, his own eyes widening in disbelief.
There, coiled protectively between him and the ruins, was a creature of nightmare and majesty. A giant centipede, its carapace a glossy, obsidian black, stood its ground. It was silent, but its countless legs churned the earth, and its formidable claws and fangs were bared in a lethal challenge towards the larger wyrm. Though the corpse-dragon was a mountain of festering flesh and the centipede seemed to only occupy the space of the shattered shrine, the insectoid beast showed not a flicker of fear.
A paradox seized Krogh. The wyrm, built from the faces of his kin, filled him with nauseating rage and horror. Yet, this terrifying arthropod, a thing that should inspire primal revulsion, evoked a strange and profound sense of familiarity—a deep, instinctual closeness. As if sensing his gaze, the giant centipede lowered its bristled, tentacled head, not to strike, but to gently, almost tenderly, brush against Krogh's forehead.
The corpse-wyrm reacted with incandescent fury. Its poison thickened into a visible, violet mist. It reared higher, its stitched-together body blotting out the sky, and let loose a roar that shook the foundations of the Twin Peaks Hill. A tangible column of condensed curse-energy, a spear of pure purple malice, shot from its maw directly toward Krogh and his unlikely guardian.
Krogh braced to meet it with his shattered sword intent, but the centipede moved faster. It reared up, a shimmering black monument, and struck the projectile of dark energy head-on, shattering the vile blast into a dissipating cloud of sparks with a sound like breaking glass.
BAAAMMMMM!
Ju-On, wearing Krogh's own face like a ill-fitting skin, merely watched with a cold sneer. "A̶ ̷f̸u̵t̷i̸l̴e̷ ̴g̵e̵s̷t̴u̷r̴e̶.̴.̶.̴"
(A futile gesture,) it hissed. Above, the heavens themselves began to churn in response to the wyrm's power. Clouds swirled into a vortex, gathering into an impenetrable, suffocating blanket above the monster's head, crackling with unnatural energy.
"Krogh!"
The voice was faint, a whisper on the corrupted wind, yet it pierced through the tumult. Krogh turned, his warrior's heart seizing. There, ethereal and translucent, was the form of a woman. Her sleeves fluttered though there was no breeze, and tears like diamond dust traced paths down her spectral cheeks.
"O... okasan...?" Krogh's voice was a raw, broken thing, choked with a hope so fragile he feared speaking too loudly would shatter her and the word into nothingness.
She drifted toward him, a hazy fairy against the monstrous backdrop, her hand rising as if to gently caress his face.
Ju-On's cold snort cut through the moment like a knife. "A̵ ̷l̸i̵n̷g̸e̸r̷i̴n̷g̶ ̸s̸p̷i̵r̵i̴t̴ ̸d̶e̵f̵i̸e̷s̸ ̸t̸h̴e̴ ̷n̴a̵t̸u̷r̷a̴l̸ ̴o̴r̴d̸e̷r̷!̸ ̵Y̷o̵u̴ ̴s̵h̴o̷u̴l̸d̷ ̷h̷a̴v̵e̵ ̴j̸o̵i̵n̴e̴d̷ ̷m̵y̷ ̷m̵a̸s̸t̷e̴r̸p̶i̸e̸c̴e̶!̷"
(A lingering spirit defies the natural order! You should have joined my masterpiece!) it shrieked, its voice a discordant blend of its own and Krogh's.
In a blur of motion, the ghost flicked the sleeve of its stolen form. An overwhelming wave of sword intent—a perversion of Krogh's own power—slammed down from the heavens not upon Krogh, but upon the centipede. The force was catastrophic. With a sickening crunch, the giant centipede's head was hammered into the ground, its obsidian shell cracking under the brutal, stolen power of its master's own technique. A shudder of agony ran through its colossal form. It was not slain, but grievously wounded, brought low in a single, cruel blow.
Dust plumed into the air, kicked up by the death throes of the colossal centipede. Though wracked with unimaginable agony, its segmented body trembling violently from the devastating blow, a final, defiant instinct surged through its simple mind. With a herculean effort that grated its broken carapace, the beast forced itself to straighten, using its own massive, shuddering form as a living barricade between the advancing Ju-On and the fallen Krogh. Thick, black blood, like hot tar, poured from its grievous wound, spilling across the cracked earth in a viscous, steaming river.
With a contemptuous flick of its sleeve, Ju-On demonstrated the terrifying totality of its theft. The ghost being had not merely siphoned Krogh Hanz's immense physical strength; it had parasitically absorbed his very personality—his pride, his arrogance, his unmatched confidence in battle. This stolen power coalesced into a tangible force, and a powerful gust of wind, thick with malevolent energy, erupted from the ghost.
The transparent form of the lady, who had been mere feet from reaching her son, was caught in the ethereal blast. Unable to anchor herself, she was sent reeling backward.
Helplessness and rage fused into a singular, devastating emotion within Krogh as he witnessed his mother's form begin to flicker and dissolve, scattering into a fragile stream of faint light. The sight shattered the last vestiges of his control, plunging him into a state of pure, unadulterated madness. His eyes burned a furious, heartbroken crimson, and a raw, guttural scream was torn from his throat as he lunged forward, his hand stretching out into the empty air, straining to grasp the last remnants of the woman he loved most.
This awesome display of Sword Intent was the ultimate expression of the Cosmic Path's power granted to Ju-On. It was not mere imitation; it was a perfect, flawless replication. The ghost-thing now wielded Krogh's undeniable sword technique and his devastating Sword Intent with absolute precision, its stolen power soaring to heaven-scraping heights, making it an opponent as formidable as Krogh himself had ever been, yet utterly devoid of mercy.
Defying the crushing pressure of the Cosmic Will itself, the spirit of Krogh's mother struggled against the torrential force. She fought forward, accepting that every step accelerated her own dissolution. With immense effort, she extended a shimmering, almost-solid hand and managed to gently "grasp" her son's outstretched fingers in a final, ethereal touch.
From that fleeting point of contact, an overwhelming flood of foreign memory was thrust into Krogh's mind. It was not a gentle stream but a roaring, violent waterfall of memory shard—centuries of immense resentment, joy, happiness, bitterness, and twisted history poured into Krogh's consciousness in a single, agonizing instant.
"K̸n̸e̵e̷l̸ ̵b̸e̸f̵o̵r̴e̷ ̵t̴h̴e̴ ̸W̴i̴l̴l̶ ̸o̷f̸ ̴t̵h̴e̵ ̵C̴o̸s̸m̵i̷c̴ ̷P̸a̴t̷h̶!̸ ̷ ̸"
(Kneel before the will of the Cosmic Path!) the ghost-thing roared, its voice now a distorted mirror of Krogh's own, filled with a borrowed arrogance. "P̵e̴t̵t̷y̸ ̵h̴u̵m̸a̵n̷ ̷s̷p̵i̵r̴i̴t̴,̷ ̶y̵o̸u̸ ̴w̸i̸l̴l̶ ̸r̶e̷t̵r̵e̸a̷t̷!̶"
(Petty human spirit, you will retreat!) As it shouted, it gathered the totality of its stolen power, and a suffocating surge of pure malevolent resentment coalesced above them, ready to crush the defiant mother into nothingness.
"T̷h̴e̴ ̸W̴i̸l̷l̷ ̶o̸f̷ ̵t̵h̸e̴ ̷C̸o̵s̶m̴i̸c̶ ̵P̴a̸t̷h̶?̷ ̵I̸ ̸a̷m̵ ̵t̴h̴e̸ ̴w̴i̵l̶l̸ ̴o̵f̸ ̵t̵h̷e̸ ̵C̸o̸s̷m̴o̸s̶ ̸i̵t̸s̶e̴l̵f̶!̸"
(The Will of the Cosmic Path? I am the will of the Cosmos itself!) Ju-On bellowed in triumphant reply, asserting his absolute dominance. To emphasize his point, he directed the ghost to unleash a fraction of its power, slapping the already broken giant centipede with a colossal palm strike that finally ended its valiant struggle.
Through the psychic link forged by their touch, his mother's voice, gentle and forgiving, spoke directly into his soul.
"This is not your fault, my son..."
"Be brave, and remember I love you."
As her words echoed in his heart, the translucent form of the lady, from her feet to her waist, slowly began to vanish, dissolving into motes of light as fragile and ephemeral as dust. Beside her, the giant centipede, its duty finally complete, also began to fade.
Krogh, tears streaming unchecked down his face in a river of despair, cried out in a heartbroken scream that seemed to tear the very air, "Okasan—!"
She turned her fading gaze to him, her smile kind and full of a love that transcended life and death itself. "Krogh…" her voice was a faint, echoing whisper, "Kasan can't take care of you anymore. Take care of yourself for me..."
Driven past the brink of reason, Krogh could only shake his head wildly, like a madman, refusing to accept the reality unfolding before him, clinging to the vanishing image of her face as his world ended.
Ju-On's wild, triumphant laughter echoed across the desolate peak, a sound that was less of mirth and more of pure, unadulterated malice. To the pure evil ghost, the broken form of Krogh was the ultimate spectacle—a masterpiece of psychological ruin. The thing savored the exquisite pleasure of the moment, relishing not just the impending slaughter, but the complete destruction of a humanity spirit, especially one as proud and elite as this swordsman. To break the finest of cultivators, to see their resolve crumble into disarray, was a vintage the ghost had tasted for millennia, and it never grew stale.
Within Krogh's shattered mind, the torrent of foreign memories did not merely play; they erupted, each one a world of its own. Drowning in the profound love of a mother he had lost and the searing hatred of the evil who had stolen it. He lived through another man's countless forgotten combat successes and catastrophic failures, felt the alien sensations of the man's cultivation breakthroughs and the agony of his battles on long-dead worlds. It was a cacophony of an entire existence, a life not his own, violently stitching itself into the fabric of his consciousness.
As it fed on this newfound turmoil, Ju-On felt the power within it roared—the Sword Intent, the unique cultivation strength, the colossal spirit essence—surge to even greater, more terrifying heights. The power swelled, climbing to a level that was truly unimaginable, transcending the limits of what even a ghost of its malice had thought possible. A wave of intoxicating, carried-away pride washed over it; it was invincible, a god presiding over the ruin of its greatest enemy.
Amidst the psychic storm, a single, devastating thought crystallized in Krogh's consciousness, clear and sharp as broken glass:
I've failed them all again.
The words echoed, a haunting mantra from a past he couldn't escape.
Who was the 'I' that had spoken them?
Silent tears, hot and relentless, broke free like a dam bursting, carving paths through the grime on the swordsman's handsome, tormented face. His voice was a raw, broken thing, whispering into the void, "I killed my mother with my own hands, but her spirit resolutely guards me." Regret and searing pain intertwined with his innate, unyielding pride. His countless victories now tasted like ash, his dominance felt like a curse.
Then came a loud explosion in his ear.
Krogh felt his skull fracture completely, his acupoints shattering like glass, every meridian in his body blasting apart in a chain reaction of pure, unadulterated power. His flesh, his blood, his very soul—everything was annihilated in a single, cataclysmic instant of self-immolation. Yet, from that total annihilation, a new, terrifying certainty was forged.
"Even if I die today, what fear do I have?" his mind roared, the voice in head now carrying the weight of both his life and the one he had just witnessed. "I may be a fucking demonic cultivator! I may have killed my own mother! I don't deny my evil, I don't deny my faults, but I am still human, and you are an abomination! All this tragedy is the work of you, this evil spirit. Prepare to DIE today!"
As he spat the oath, the overwhelming Sword Intent that erupted from him was no longer pure energy; it was thick, viscous, and crimson, a roaring river of blood essence that materialized in the air. It burst into a furious whirlpool, a maelstrom of rage and grief centered on the twin peaks, tearing at the very fabric of the atmosphere.
From the wreckage of his own body, a tattered, gasping wreck, the swordsman forced himself to stand. Every movement was agony, a defiance of human limit and mortal fate. He turned his broken form first to the storm, then to the corpse wyrm and the Ju-On, who wore his own face in a grotesque, sneering mockery. With every ounce of his being, he roared a final, defiant curse at the heavens and the evil ghost that claimed to represent them:
"Fuck!"
He didn't shout. The energy for that was gone, burned away by a cold, simmering fury. His voice was low, each word a shard of ice aimed at the heart of existence.
"Ju-On. You are but a cancer of the nature. A flaw in the cosmos design."
His eyes lifted to the starless night sky, not in wonder, but in accusation. "And you, Cosmic Path... you led me here. You offered hope only to make this despair taste more bitter. You are a lie woven from chance and cruelty."
A bitter, broken smile touched his lips. "And you, Dao Path… source of all things... you are the greatest monster of all. For you created a world where such injustice is simply... allowed."
Krogh held his ravaged body straight, a final act of unimaginable will. As his words hung in the charged air, the giant centipede's corpse, the symbol of its ultimate sacrifice, responded. It did not simply collapse; it shattered into a fine, glowing powder, a billion motes of spiritual essence that gathered and swirled around him like a constellation of furious fireflies.
From both Krogh and the Ju-On, an overwhelming aura of power exploded outwards—a shockwave of pure killing intent. Despite the swordsman's flickering life force, the gravity of his cultivation strength aura ascended at an incredible, impossible speed. The killing wills of man and ghost met in a cataclysmic impact. On the twin peaks, the very air whirled and screamed, crushed beneath the weight of an ascent that defied the heavens and abyss.
The dark and mirror-like wave of power erupted from the spectral form of Ju-On, an entity whose fate was so perversely intertwined with the swordsman This was not a mere emanation of energy; it was a blasphemous echo, a perfect, blazing Sword Intent that was stolen, refined, and vomited back into the current realm world with violent glee. The sensation sent the ghost-thing into a paroxysm of overwhelming, ecstatic shock, a joy so profound it was indistinguishable from agony. It was the euphoria of a parasite feeling its host's heart beat one final, powerful time, knowing that strength would soon be its sole possession.
The evil spirit felt the strength within its form not just growing, but metastasizing, evolving in great, heaving surges that defied its comprehension. A sound escaped it—a wet, gurgling gasp that was utterly non-human, the sound of a void trying to form words.
"K̶r̴o̵g̸h̵ ̸H̴a̷n̵z̵.̵.̴.̵!̸" (Krogh Hanz…!) it hissed, the term of familiarity a grotesque mockery on its alien tongue. "N̸o̷.̵.̸.̷ ̸W̸h̴a̴t̵ ̸w̷r̸e̴t̴c̷h̸e̵d̵,̶ ̸h̷i̴d̴d̴e̵n̷ ̶t̴h̴i̴n̵g̸ ̷a̷r̵e̸ ̵y̷o̸u̸?̷!̸"
(No... What wretched, hidden thing are you?!) This power, this crushing density of Sword Intent, this formidable cultivation base—it was an impossibility, a joke played on the laws of nature.
"T̴h̷i̷s̵ ̴i̸s̵ ̸n̴o̷t̴ ̶t̸h̵e̸ ̶p̷a̴l̷t̷r̷y̴ ̸r̷e̸s̴e̵r̴v̴e̵ ̸o̴f̶ ̴a̶ ̵Q̴i̴ ̴R̷e̷f̵i̷n̷e̵m̸e̷n̴t̸ ̸S̴t̴a̸g̵e̷ ̸h̵u̴m̵a̶n̶ ̸i̵n̵s̴e̸c̸t̵.̵.̷.̸ ̷T̴h̴i̵s̵ ̴i̷s̷ ̸P̵e̵a̴k̸ ̵E̸a̴r̵l̵y̸ ̷P̵h̴a̸s̸e̵ ̸F̸o̵u̴n̸d̵a̵t̶i̶o̷n̸ ̸S̶t̴a̵g̸e̴ ̷s̸t̵r̴e̵n̴g̷t̴h̵.̵.̵.̷ ̶N̶o̵!̷"
(This is not the paltry reserve of a Qi Refinement Stage human insect... This is Peak Early Phase Foundation Stage strength... No!)
The power swelled again, and the ghost shivered with vile pleasure. "I̸n̸t̷e̸r̵m̶e̸d̸i̴a̶t̴e̴ ̴P̴h̸a̶s̴e̵.̸.̵.̷ ̸W̴h̷a̴t̶?̷!̵ ̸I̶t̷ ̸s̵t̷i̴l̴l̶ ̶c̴l̸i̵m̶b̸s̶?̸!̷ ̵P̷e̸a̵k̴ ̶I̷n̸t̴e̶r̷m̷e̴d̴i̵a̴t̶e̸ ̷P̵h̴a̵s̴e̶ ̴F̶o̸u̷n̴d̷a̴t̷i̶o̵n̶ ̷S̶t̵a̴g̴e̸?̵!̵!̴!̵ ̷H̸o̵w̸?̸ ̵H̷o̶w̴ ̴c̵a̴n̶ ̵t̵h̵e̴r̴e̷ ̸b̷e̵ ̷m̴o̸r̷e̸ ̷t̸o̶ ̸p̷l̸u̶n̷d̷e̶r̷?̸!̸"
(Intermediate Phase... What?! It still climbs?! Peak Intermediate Phase Foundation Stage?!!! How? How can there be more to plunder?!)
The crescendo of its own might became a terrifying dance. "A̴d̶v̴a̸n̴c̷e̴d̶ ̶P̴h̴a̷s̵e̷ ̶F̷o̵u̴n̶d̸a̴t̸i̴o̴n̵ ̵S̴t̷a̴g̵e̶?̷!̸!̴!̸ ̵S̷o̴ ̴d̷e̸n̵s̵e̷.̶.̵.̷ ̴t̵h̵e̸ ̴p̸o̵w̵e̷r̶,̴ ̵t̷h̴e̴ ̵i̵n̷t̴e̴n̵t̸,̴ ̴t̷h̵e̸ ̴s̷p̵i̷r̷i̶t̴ ̴e̵s̵s̶e̵n̷c̶e̷.̵.̸.̸ ̸i̷t̵ ̵c̶l̴o̷t̵s̸ ̵t̴h̵e̵ ̵a̶i̴r̷!̵ ̷I̷t̴ ̸i̵s̴ ̴n̴e̴a̴r̷l̴y̵.̵.̶.̵ ̵n̴e̵a̵r̴l̸y̷ ̸a̴ ̵H̸a̸l̵f̷-̴s̸t̸e̵p̶ ̸t̴o̴ ̵C̷o̴r̴e̷ ̸F̴o̵r̵m̴a̵t̸i̴o̸n̶!̴ ̵Y̴o̸u̷.̵.̵.̵ ̴y̶o̶u̵ ̸d̷a̶m̵n̴e̸d̴,̵ ̴c̴u̷n̷n̴i̵n̵g̷ ̶h̴u̷m̷a̵n̷,̶ ̸y̴o̷u̸ ̶h̷i̸d̶ ̴a̴ ̵s̴o̶l̷a̴r̸ ̷s̸u̷n̵ ̸w̶i̴t̴h̴i̵n̵ ̴a̸ ̵l̵a̴n̴t̴e̴r̴n̴!̶"
(Advanced Phase Foundation Stage?!!! So dense... the power, the intent, the spirit essence... it clots the air! It is nearly... nearly a Half-step to Core Formation! You... you damned, cunning human, you hid a solar sun within a lantern!)
But the shock quickly curdled back into its inherent arrogance. The ghost sneered, a sound like grinding a stone coffin lid. "I̵t̴ ̵i̵s̷ ̶a̷ ̸m̴e̸a̵n̸i̶n̵g̷l̴e̵s̴s̸ ̴d̵e̵f̷i̴a̷n̵c̸e̴.̷ ̵A̶ ̶f̵i̵n̵a̸l̵,̸ ̵b̵r̴i̴g̵h̷t̴ ̷f̴l̵a̵s̵h̶ ̵b̸e̸f̵o̷r̶e̸ ̸t̸h̴e̵ ̴e̵t̸e̴r̵n̴a̵l̷ ̶d̴a̴r̶k̸.̵ ̵T̸h̴e̴ ̵m̷o̸r̴e̴ ̵p̸o̵t̴e̷n̶t̴ ̶y̴o̴u̸ ̴b̸e̸c̸o̴m̸e̵,̸ ̴t̵h̸e̸ ̷m̷o̸r̸e̶ ̴m̴a̷g̶n̴i̵f̵i̶c̴e̵n̴t̸ ̶I̷ ̴a̶m̸ ̵m̸a̴d̶e̸.̴ ̶Y̵o̸u̴r̴ ̷k̸i̴n̷d̷ ̴a̸r̴e̸ ̴b̴u̷t̶ ̷f̴l̵e̵e̸t̵i̴n̴g̴ ̷b̶l̴i̵g̷h̴t̵s̸,̴ ̵c̷u̵n̸n̵i̶n̶g̴ ̴p̴a̵r̴a̴s̸i̴t̸e̸s̶ ̵w̴h̴o̷ ̷s̴c̵r̶a̷b̴b̷l̴e̸ ̸i̵n̶ ̵t̶h̵e̷ ̵d̶i̷r̷t̸,̸ ̵s̶e̸l̶f̸i̸s̴h̵l̷y̷ ̸s̵t̵e̴a̵l̵i̴n̵g̶ ̸t̷h̵e̸ ̷r̴e̷s̵o̵u̸r̸c̵e̷s̵ ̴o̵f̴ ̶a̸ ̴h̸e̵a̴v̷e̷n̷ ̸t̸h̵a̸t̵ ̸d̵e̷s̴p̸i̵s̴e̴s̷ ̴y̵o̴u̵.̷ ̴N̴o̶t̶h̴i̵n̸g̴ ̴y̵o̶u̵ ̴d̴o̷ ̷e̸s̵c̸a̴p̷e̵s̵ ̷t̴h̴e̶ ̵i̵n̵e̴x̷o̵r̶a̴b̷l̵e̴ ̶l̵a̶w̴s̴ ̸o̸f̷ ̷t̵h̴e̶ ̵H̶e̶a̴v̴e̸n̷l̷y̴ ̸D̵a̵o̷ ̶F̷o̶u̵n̸d̶a̷t̴i̵o̸n̷ ̵B̸u̸i̵l̴d̵i̸n̷g̸!̸"
(It is a meaningless defiance. A final, bright flash before the eternal dark. The more potent you become, the more magnificent I am made. Your kind are but fleeting blights, cunning parasites who scrabble in the dirt, selfishly stealing the resources of a heaven that despises you. Nothing you do escapes the inexorable laws of the Heavenly Dao Foundation Building!)
"K̸r̸o̵g̶h̸ ̵H̵a̴n̴z̷!̴ ̵Y̷o̴u̴r̷ ̷l̴i̵f̴e̵'̶s̴ ̷c̷o̸u̴n̵t̶d̶o̷w̸n̴ ̸h̸a̵s̷ ̷a̷l̵r̴e̴a̴d̵y̶ ̶b̶e̶g̵u̸n̵;̷ ̵y̷o̷u̵r̵ ̴m̶e̴r̶i̸d̵i̷a̷n̴s̵ ̷a̸r̴e̵ ̶t̵h̸e̴ ̴g̸e̴a̴r̶s̵ ̷o̴f̶ ̵y̵o̵u̸r̴ ̸o̷w̴n̶ ̶c̶l̴o̵c̵k̶w̵o̷r̸k̸ ̸d̸e̶m̴i̷s̸e̵.̸ ̸W̸h̴e̵n̶ ̴y̴o̴u̸ ̷a̷r̶e̷ ̵f̷i̸n̴a̵l̸l̵y̴,̷ ̵c̵o̵m̸p̶l̵e̴t̶e̶l̸y̴ ̷d̴e̴a̵d̴,̴ ̵I̸ ̴w̵i̴l̴l̸ ̸n̸o̸t̸ ̶m̵e̷r̸e̵l̷y̸ ̶b̷e̵c̸o̴m̵e̵ ̴y̷o̴u̴.̷ ̴I̴ ̵w̴i̴l̸l̵ ̶b̶e̸c̴o̵m̴e̸ ̸a̸ ̸p̵e̷r̵f̴e̶c̸t̵e̶d̷,̸ ̸s̶u̴p̷e̸r̴i̴o̷r̸ ̸i̸t̴e̴r̷a̴t̸i̴o̷n̷ ̵o̴f̶ ̵y̵o̶u̷.̶ ̸W̸h̸y̴ ̴s̷t̵r̶u̵g̵g̸l̷e̷?̵ ̷A̵s̶k̵ ̴y̶o̵u̷r̴ ̴r̶o̵t̶t̴i̶n̸g̴ ̶f̵a̵m̵i̵l̴y̵ ̵i̴n̴ ̶t̴h̸e̸i̴r̷ ̷g̵r̵a̸v̵e̸s̵!̴ ̷W̸h̷y̶ ̶n̴o̴t̵ ̵a̶s̶k̶ ̵y̶o̶u̴r̶ ̸o̸w̷n̷ ̴f̴r̶a̴c̴t̷u̵r̷e̶d̸ ̸D̷a̴o̶ ̴h̶e̴a̶r̵t̵?̸ ̵D̸o̵ ̸t̶h̵e̵y̸ ̷n̷o̸t̶ ̸w̴h̵i̴s̴p̷e̶r̷ ̵f̴o̵r̷ ̷y̸o̸u̷r̶ ̴e̷n̴d̶?̵ ̵D̴o̵ ̴t̴h̵e̶y̸ ̸n̴o̷t̸ ̴l̴o̷n̴g̵ ̵f̵o̷r̴ ̴y̵o̵u̴r̴ ̵d̸e̶a̴t̴h̵ ̸s̶o̶,̸ ̴s̴o̴ ̶b̷a̴d̸l̴y̷?̷!̸"
(Krogh Hanz! Your life's countdown has already begun; your meridians are the gears of your own clockwork demise. When you are finally, completely dead, I will not merely become you. I will become a perfected, superior iteration of you. Why struggle? Ask your rotting family in their graves! Why not ask your own fractured Dao heart? Do they not whisper for your end? Do they not long for your death so, so badly?!)
Krogh, immersed in a sea of agony and blood, became a fortress of silence against the relentless, abusive curses of the entity. He closed his eyes, shutting his focus outward. Fresh, hot blood began to stream from his mouth and nose, the first signs of the internal apocalypse. A human has seven orifices, and each became a conduit for his sacrifice. With a brutal, internal snap, his lung and liver meridians severed under the strain of the mighty sword energy he was forcing through them. Immediately, his eyes wept thick tears of crimson, his ears trickled blood, and the pores on his arms seeped a red mist, until the master swordsman was a gruesome, horrifying spectacle.
Yet, within that maelstrom of self-inflicted ruin, Krogh remained preternaturally calm. The screams of his body were a distant echo, the taunts of the ghost a meaningless buzz. His entire world had narrowed to a single, devastating point of focus.
The air did not simply grow cold; it died. The very molecules of it seemed to cease their vibration, becoming a stagnant, suffocating medium through which Ju-On's laughter propagated not as sound, but as a direct poison to the soul. It was a raw, jagged thing, that laugh, devoid of any mirth or warmth.
"K̴r̴o̷g̷h̵!̸" (Krogh!) the thing that was Ju-On hissed, its voice a symphony of violated graves. "Y̶o̵u̷ ̶a̴r̴e̷ ̸a̷ ̷g̴e̵n̸i̷u̸s̸ ̴i̶n̵ ̴t̶h̵e̴ ̴S̸w̷o̴r̶d̵ ̴P̵a̴t̵h̸.̵ ̵W̵h̶a̴t̷ ̸a̸ ̴f̷e̶e̷b̵l̵e̴ ̵p̵i̵t̸y̸.̷ ̷I̶ ̷h̷a̵v̵e̴ ̵m̴e̵m̸o̴r̴i̴z̵e̴d̵ ̶t̷h̶e̵ ̴p̷o̵e̵t̷r̸y̴ ̸o̵f̶ ̶y̴o̸u̵r̷ ̸v̵i̵o̷l̷e̴n̵c̴e̸,̵ ̷t̸h̵e̶ ̶c̴a̴d̷e̸n̶c̵e̵ ̸o̵f̵ ̸e̴v̵e̷r̶y̴ ̶k̴i̶l̷l̷.̸ ̷Y̷o̷u̴r̵ ̶b̴o̸d̵y̵ ̸i̴s̸ ̴a̷ ̷b̴r̴o̷k̸e̵n̷ ̸i̶n̴s̷t̵r̵u̴m̵e̵n̶t̷.̸ ̵Y̴o̸u̵r̸ ̸u̸l̴t̵i̴m̴a̴t̷e̶ ̴s̶k̸i̵l̷l̵,̸ ̵a̷ ̴s̴i̴l̴e̷n̶t̸ ̴s̵o̸n̷g̸.̷ ̸T̸o̸d̵a̴y̸,̷ ̶I̷ ̴w̴i̵l̷l̷ ̵u̴s̷e̷ ̴y̵o̶u̴r̸ ̶o̴w̷n̷ ̵a̸r̴t̴ ̷t̷o̵ ̵t̴e̷a̵c̴h̴ ̸y̵o̶u̴ ̸t̴h̸e̶ ̷f̵i̵n̴a̸l̴ ̸a̶x̴i̸o̵m̴:̸ ̸t̵o̸ ̶d̵e̸f̶y̷ ̴D̵a̵o̵ ̷i̸s̴ ̵t̴o̸ ̸b̸e̶ ̸u̵n̷m̷a̴d̶e̸.̴"̸"
(You are a genius in the Sword Path. What a feeble pity. I have memorized the poetry of your violence, the cadence of every kill. Your body is a broken instrument. Your ultimate skill, a silent song. Today, I will use your own art to teach you the final axiom: to defy Dao is to be unmade.)