The newly unsealed Curseuman, having just unleashed his terrifying black slash, let out a mad, cackling laugh that reverberated across the desolated battlefield.
"It seems the Spiritumens of this age are nothing more than mere insects," he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, "to be so terrified by just one of my attacks." His arrogance swelled, filling the air. "All of you—Spiritumens along with your pitiful humans—feel the presence of your death standing before you!"
Suddenly, his massive body began to unleash an even greater torrent of aura than before. This was no mere emanation; it was a storm of raw, corrupted energy, blotting out the light and plunging the entire area into oppressive darkness. The aura burst forth like a cyclonic wave from a tiny source, expanding outward at ultimate speed in all directions. Many Spiritumens, unable to bear its crushing presence, succumbed to the pressure, their forms dissolving or being flung backward into the debris. Those who managed to resist this monstrous force found themselves paralyzed, unable to move or even think, knowing that any attempt would only result in them being swept away like the others.
"What a shame," the Curseuman boomed, his voice a mix of arrogance and mocking laughter. "What would your ancestors think of you? I can kill all of you just by standing here, without even attacking. It seems there's no worthy opponent for me in this era. All of you have dulled with the passing of time..."
In that moment, an unseen force, a figure utterly obscured by the dense, swirling black aura, moved. A swift, almost imperceptible arc of a sword cut through the air. In an instant, the oppressive aura vanished from that spot, as if a hand had swept away fog or mist.
The very next second, a slash—identical to the one the Curseuman had unleashed moments before—came rocketing forward at unimaginable speed. It was impossible to detect or follow, even for high-ranking Spirit Possessors. It cleaved the Curseuman's massive body into two perfectly symmetrical halves, passing cleanly through the severed form before dissipating into the distance.
The Curseuman's face was a mask of terror, drenched in sweat. His eyes were wide, bloodshot, veins bulging crimson—a clear sign of intense fear caused by an unknown entity.
A thought, or perhaps a fragment of a forgotten memory, flashed through the Curseuman's mind:
A shadowy figure, not clearly seen, with dark hair, his face obscured, appeared. A long sword or katana gleamed in his hand. It was like an image seen through Curseuman's own eyes. The figure spoke, his voice cold and unwavering: "Do you know the number of innocent Spiritumens you have killed until now? Tell me, and I will spare your life." A whimper. "Please, forgive my life, I swear I..." The voice abruptly ceased. Blood splattered across the mysterious figure's face and stained his sword. The figure then uttered, "All of you deserve death!"
Back in the present, the Curseuman's terrified thought vanished.
"It can't be him..." he whispered, still shaken.
Suddenly, the monstrous outpouring of aura from the Curseuman's body ceased entirely. His severed body parts regenerated, stitching themselves back together seamlessly.
A look of relief, quickly followed by a return of his usual arrogance, replaced the fear in his eyes.
"Hah... I was frightened for nothing. I forgot that a slash from his sword takes years to regenerate, and sometimes never regenerates. But, it looks like there are still a few strong Spiritumens remaining."
As the dark aura dissipated completely, the mysterious figure who had launched the counter-slash began to emerge into view.