Tora had been distraught ever since Ethan first voiced his intention to subjugate the Divine General. To the ancient tiger, the plan wasn't just ambitious; it was a suicide pact.
Images of the past flickered through Tora's mind like a reel of cursed film. He saw the flashes of a dreadful ritual from centuries ago— the sight of Master Orian making that same fatal error. Orian had been a titan of his time, yet even he had been dismantled by the General's relentless adaptation. Tora was prepared to lay down his life for his current master without a second thought, but that loyalty did not mean he would indulge Ethan's every reckless whim.
Through his training in the mystical arts of Kamar-Taj, Tora had evolved. He had become the strongest iteration of his summons in centuries, a feline juggernaut of both Jujutsu and sorcery. Yet, even with a library of new tricks up his sleeve, he couldn't fathom a victory against that thing.
"Warrior's Intuition." That was what Master Orian had called the cold prickle at the base of the neck. It was a sense that had served Tora well through his long years in the Golden Era of Jujutsu and his more recent endeavors.It was the sense he got during his own subjugation ritual against Ethan.Right now, that intuition wasn't just prickling—it was screaming.
Tora had tried to dissuade Ethan directly, using every logical argument in his repertoire, but the young sorcerer remained unshakable. Tora would proudly admit—if only to himself—that Ethan had already surpassed Master Orian in one crucial aspect: his sheer Cursed Energy reserves were monstrous, defying the natural limits of a human vessel.
However, power alone was not the solution. To subjugate the Divine General, one had to achieve the impossible: a single, absolute killing blow delivered before the creature could adapt. As far as Tora knew, Ethan simply didn't have that kind of "one-shot" lethality in his arsenal.
Certainly, his current techniques were formidable. Raiju's Strike was devastating, especially when combined with Hollow Trace to erase its presence until the moment of impact. Similarly, the Graphite Blast was a silent executioner; when Ethan deployed Hollow Trace on himself, the attack wouldn't even register on a target's senses until they were already being unmade. Against any Cursed Spirit—unless they possessed a passive, always-active defensive technique—these moves meant certain death.
But the General was different.
The weight of this decision had only intensified in the wake of the battle in the Sunken City. Two weeks had passed since the ambush by the three Disaster-Grade spirits and the Law Spirit, Lex Mortis. Immediately following that narrow survival and the tragic involvement of Miss Andler, Ethan had reported back to the sanctuary of Kamar-Taj to prepare.
Two Weeks Ago:
Ethan stood in the center of the Kamar-Taj main hall. He lowered Miss Andler from a princess carry, laying her down with a gentleness that belied the violence of the battle he had just left. She would survive, but the process of saving her had been an ordeal of surgical precision.
Outputting Reverse Cursed Technique (RCT) to heal others is a significantly more complex path than using it for personal regeneration. While personal healing is an instinctive reflex, directing that positive energy into a foreign biology requires an intricate understanding of the recipient's constitution.
Over years of global travel, Ethan had treated RCT as a constant discipline. To an outsider, his actions—healing the wounded or purifying contaminated lakes—seemed like the work of a saint. In reality, it was a brutal training regimen. He had learned through thousands of trials that the margin for error was razor-thin; a single surge of misaligned energy could cause permanent paralysis or organ failure in a patient.
Through this relentless cycle of trial and failure, Ethan had reached a pinnacle of mastery. He could now purge even high-grade, multi-layered poisons from another person's system. However, his power still had its boundaries. While he could excise external threats and mend physical trauma, he remained unable to cure internal, systemic diseases like cancer—alignments that originated from the body's own genetic code rather than an outside source.
Sparking a portal into existence with the familiar rasp of golden sparks, the Ancient One stepped through the shimmering ring into the quiet halls of Kamar-Taj. Ethan had summoned her the moment he stabilized Miss Andler, and despite her grueling schedule, she had answered.
Lately, her duties had pulled her across Eastern Asia, where she had been suppressing a localized epidemic of cursed spirit outbreaks. Between the surging negativity of the region and a few fledgling dimensional demons—fools young enough to believe Earth was a ripe fruit for the taking—she had been stretched thin.
She moved toward the bed with the silent grace, looking over Miss Andler's pale complexion as the woman's breathing finally deepened into a natural rhythm. No words were exchanged at first; there was only a heavy, mutual silence. The Ancient One hovered a hand near Andler's torso, sensing the residual positive energy of Ethan's RCT.
"She will be alright," the Sorcerer Supreme concluded, her voice calm but weighted. "Now, tell me. What happened in the Sunken City?"
Ethan recounted the event with clinical detail. He spoke of the non-violent Domain Expansion, the abrupt confiscation of his Innate Technique, and the terrifying efficiency of the three Disaster-Grade spirits zeroing in for the kill. He confirmed the exorcism of Hanami and the Law Spirit, but his tone darkened when he admitted that Mahito and Jogo had slipped through his fingers.
The Ancient One listened with a sharp, analytical focus. The detail that troubled her most was the emergence of three Disaster-level spirits, each on the level of Delgour—perhaps even exceeding him, if Ethan's report was taken at face value. Yet, something felt incorrect. Why had the patchwork-faced spirit, the one boasting the highest cursed energy reserves, remained purely on the defensive? A strategic error? Unlikely. She would need to investigate that further.
Ethan took a deep, steadying breath, his eyes locking onto hers with resolve. "I am going to undergo the tenth subjugation ritual."
The Ancient One's composure flickered. Her knowledge of the Ten Shadows Technique was rooted in Agamotto's ancient scrolls and his records of Atlas Orian, yet much of it remained shrouded in mystery. She understood the mechanics of the ritual—an ordeal of combat and will awfully similar to the Summoning Pacts of the Mystic Arts—and she knew Ethan commanded ten shadows linked to the Ten Sacred Treasures. But Ethan had always been elusive regarding the tenth. The fact that he hadn't attempted to subjugate it alongside Tora, the strongest tiger to ever grace the technique, spoke volumes of the being's lethality.
She looked into the eyes of the boy she had watched grow since the winter of 2003—the year he had effortlessly annihilated a horde of Grade 1 spirits. Since then, she had allowed him to hunt alone, trusting in his "madness." She knew he would not be dissuaded.
"What do you need?" she asked simply.
Ethan paused, a wry, boyish smirk momentarily breaking through his battle-hardened mask. "Really? Not even a 'good job,' huh?" he asked, clearly fishing for a modicum of praise after taking down two Special Grades.
The Ancient One raised a sophisticated eyebrow. "Do you think I ask for a badge of honor every time I survive a difficult opponent?"
There was a palpable distance between them, a coldness that had lingered since the incident on December 26th. She had been consumed by the burdens of the Sorcerer Supreme, and Ethan had built walls to protect his own heart. The distance was a calculated necessity; if Ethan became too attached to her, the future she envisioned might derail entirely. In fact, he was already talking about moving to Los Angeles to finish high school—a bid for a normalcy he could never truly possess.
Ethan waved his hand with feigned nonchalance and laid out his requirements. He needed an isolated island, a place far removed from civilization and the prying eyes of the innocent. That was where he would face the Divine General.
However, he was a realist. He knew that hiding from S.H.I.E.L.D.'s persistent satellites was a fool's errand at this point. Finally, he turned his gaze back to the sleeping woman. He requested that Miss Andler be informed about the sorcerer world and placed under permanent protection. Normally, he would have tasked Tora with a simple memory wipe, but that felt like another betrayal. He owed her the truth. Her life was in peril solely because of her connection to him, and he would no longer let her be a blind pawn in a game of monsters.
Present Day: The Kerguelen Islands, Southern Indian Ocean
Known colloquially as the "Desolation Islands," the Kerguelen archipelago stands as one of the most remote and isolated points on the face of the planet. Situated thousands of miles from the nearest reach of civilization, it is a land of eternal autumn and biting salt.
The Ancient One had personally selected this location for Ethan. While the Mirror Dimension was a staple of her arsenal, Ethan had been adamant about a physical fallback. His logic was chillingly pragmatic: what if Mahoraga adapted to the very concept of the Mirror Dimension itself? If the Divine General shattered the Mirror Dimension as Thanos would one day do with the Space Stone, Ethan did not want to be anywhere near a populated center. To be safe was better than to be sorry, though he still intended to layer the Mirror Dimension over the island during the fray as a secondary containment measure.
The environment was a symphony of desolation: brutal, sub-antarctic winds howled through icy, jagged rock formations, while the grey, churning Atlantic hammered against the cliffs with rhythmic violence. This was the vibe of the island—a place where life struggled to take root, making it the perfect stage for a ritual of death and rebirth.
From the depths of Ethan's shadow, the bipedal, tiger-like Shikigami, Tora, emerged. His fur bristled in the freezing gale, and his eyes, glowing with wisdom were heavy with dread.
"During the Golden Era," Tora began, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, "only one sorcerer was ever deemed worthy enough to command me. And yet, in all those centuries of blood and mastery, not a single soul was worthy of commanding the Divine General. Master Orian was a titan of his age, yet he perished beneath that blade. Ethan... must you truly do this?"
Tora's plea was the final echo of a Ten thousand-year-old warning. But Ethan was already moving.
Unlike the other Shikigami that required the casting of intricate shadow puppets, the ritual for the Divine General demanded a more visceral commitment. Ethan stepped into the center of the rocky plateau, clenching his fist with such intensity that his knuckles turned white. He performed the specific, ritualistic gesture—a sharp, heavy motion like knocking on a door or forcibly turning the unseen, rusted wheel of the Dharma.
"Quit being so pessimistic, Tora!" Ethan shouted over the roar of the wind. A manic, jagged smirk spread across his face, his eyes alight . "You are my shadow now. It's time you started acting like it."
He took a breath, and the world seemed to hold its collective breath with him. The air grew still, the temperature plummeted.
"Here goes nothing," Ethan whispered, before his voice rose.
"With this treasure, I summon... Eight-Handled Sword, Divergent Sila, Divine General Mahoraga!"
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