100 years ago the Earth teetered on the precipice of annihilation.
Once majestic cities, symbols of humanity's mastery over nature, now lay in ruins; graveyards where the noise of everyday life was replaced by the chaotic cacophony of bullets and drones. The surface was overrun by a relentless tide of mechanized harbingers of doom known as Raptures, remorseless and unstoppable.
In these desperate times, the three great sorcerer clans—the Zenin, the Gojo, and the Kamo — suffering from both the reincarnation of Sukana and the rapture invasion, saw an opportunity to recement their dominion amidst the chaos and save what remained of their numbers. For generations these clans had been the keepers of cursed energy, a potent force drawn from the deepest recesses of the human psyche. Volatile and raw, this energy served as the cornerstone of their might, a weapon forged to combat malevolent entities known as curses, manifestations born from humanity's collective fears and loathing, unseen by all but those trained to vanquish them.
Curses were not mere apparitions; they embodied human misery. In the shadows, some lingered weakly, whispering of despair, while others rose in grotesque, powerful forms, capable of wreaking widespread destruction. As the world crumbled, curses thrived, feeding on the despair that seeped through the remnants of humanity
The clans, beset by greed and always vigilant in preserving their power, approached what was left of the world's fractured governments with a proposition. They offered their strength in exchange for sanctuary within the Ark, humanity's last stronghold. However, they were careful, revealing only fragments of their ancient knowledge, keeping their true capabilities hidden for themselves. Desperate to survive, the remaining governments accepted the offer and began integrating cursed energy into their defenses. Yet, they remained unaware of the full extent of the power at their disposal, potential that might have turned the tide if only it had been fully unleashed.
The Ark, a marvel of human ingenuity, became both a sanctuary and a prison. Within its sprawling depths, the three clans carved out new fiefdoms and spread their tendrils of influence far and wide. As the years passed and the Raptures continued to prowl the desolate surface above, the clans grew complacent, their once-vaunted discipline eroding into arrogance and insularity. They insulated themselves from the harsh realities faced by the lower tiers with their power protecting them from the scarcity and suffering that plagued the masses.
Their role as protectors of humanity became little more than a formality, their vigilance dulled by the passage of time. The curses that emerged within the Ark, though potent, were easily quelled, their presence a mere shadow of the terrors that had once roamed freely. The clans, now weakened by inbreeding and self-indulgence, clung to their ancient status, even as their abilities waned. The mastery of Cursed Techniques—those unique, inherited abilities that had once made them formidable—became increasingly rare. These techniques, capable of manipulating the very fabric of reality, now manifested only in diluted forms, their true potential slipping further into obscurity with each passing generation.
Yet not all within the clans were content with this decline. A faction, small but fervent, saw the dangers of their stagnation and sought to rekindle the strength of old. Persuading the Ark's governing council, they initiated a program to recruit new blood—individuals from the lower tiers who exhibited latent potential in cursed energy. These recruits, often plucked from the brink of destitution, were thrust into a world of secrecy and peril, where their lives were forfeit to the whims of their new masters.
Among these outsiders was a recent grade one sorcerer, a prodigy who had quickly grown disillusioned with the secrecy, the politics, and the disdain that the clans held for those not born within their hallowed halls. The Ark's gilded halls held no allure for him, nor did the empty promises of the clans. He had seen too much—felt the weight of the despair that clung to the air like a suffocating shroud. He would tear down the old ways, challenge the strongest, and reshape the world as he saw fit—or die trying. For in every fight, he found the truth he sought, even if it was a truth he could never fully admit: that in the heat of battle, in the face of death, only then he was finally at peace.
The Outer Rim's desolate streets sprawled before them, a grim testament to the forgotten remnants of the world left behind by the Ark. The stench of decay hung in the air, mingling with the distant echoes of wind howling through the broken remains of buildings. Dim lights flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows that danced around the two cloaked figures walking side by side. Anāman, broad-shouldered and with a complexion that hinted at Mediterranean roots, moved with a slight swagger, his expression a mix of irritation and lingering disappointment. He shot a glance at Takumi Gojo, tall, lean, and gray-haired, who walked with a quiet, measured grace.
"I was looking forward to that pie," Anāman muttered, annoyance edging his voice. "Couldn't this wait until after dessert?"
Takumi's eyes narrowed slightly, though his pace remained steady. "This isn't just about pie, Anāman. We're still on assignment, in case you've forgotten. The curse in that old warehouse? Or did you even bother to read the file?"
Anāman straightened slightly, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Of course I read it. Nasty little thing, isn't it? Likes to hide in dark corners, looks like a bat… or a spider? Maybe both."
Takumi stopped abruptly, the dilapidated warehouse looming behind him as he turned to fix Anāman with a knowing look. His tall frame loomed as he crossed his arms. "You didn't read it, did you?"
Anāman shrugged, the grin not leaving his face. "Details, details. I figured you'd fill me in on the boring parts. Besides, how tough can it be?"
Takumi let out a deep and weary sigh, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he shook his head. "Anāman, you're impossible. But this is serious. This plan to fake your death? The path you're on… it's dangerous. More dangerous than you seem to realize. I've seen others with your fire burn bright and then burn out, leaving nothing but ashes. I don't want that for you."
Anāman waved a hand dismissively, his tone light, though there was a spark of something sharper in his eyes. "You worry too much, Takumi. But this isn't about burning out or making some grand statement. The Raptures are out there, tearing everything apart, and the clans? They're too busy hoarding their power to do anything about it. Someone needs to step up, and if it has to be me, so be it."
Takumi's brow furrowed, frustration creeping into his voice as he unfolded his arms. "You're right about the clans, but you don't have to throw yourself into the fire to prove that. There are other ways—smarter ways—to make a difference. You're up against more than just the Raptures. The system we're entrenched in… it's a battle you can't win alone."
Anāman stopped abruptly, turning to face Takumi, his posture relaxed but his gaze steady. "I'm not trying to win some war by myself, Takumi. I'm just doing what needs to be done. The clans have their own agendas, and that's fine. Let them sleep in their gilded cages. But I'm not going to sit around and wait for the world to collapse. If I have to walk this path alone, then that's exactly what I'll do."
Takumi's heart ached at the determination in Anāman's voice, a determination he had seen before in others, with tragic results. His left hand briefly twitched towards his side, his fingers almost grasping for a hand that wasn't there. He sighed deeply, his shoulders slumping as a wave of guilt washed over him. "I never wanted this for you, Anāman. I brought you into this world as a kid, thinking I was giving you a purpose, a place where you could use your talents. But now… I wonder if I've only put you on a path that will destroy you."
Anāman's irritation softened for a moment, replaced by something more thoughtful. He took a step closer and craned his head to look at Takumi. "You think too much, old man. I ain't ever blamed you for bringing me into the fold. I made my own choices. You gave me a way to fight back, and that's all I ever wanted. So stop beating yourself up over it."
Takumi looked at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt, but all he saw was the same unshakable confidence that both reassured and worried him. "You're still so young, Anāman. You think you're invincible, that you can take on the world and come out unscathed. But I've seen what this kind of resolve can do to someone. It breaks you down, piece by piece, until there's nothing left. I don't want that for you."
Anāman's lips curled into a small playful smile, though his eyes held a seriousness that belied his words. "I'm not invincible, Takumi. I know that. But I've made my choice. This is the only way I see that I can make a real difference. And if it costs me… well, I'm willing to pay that price."
Takumi stared at him for a long moment, his expression a mixture of sadness and resignation. He knew there was no changing Anāman's mind. The young man was as stubborn as he was talented, and Takumi could see that his resolve was not something that could be easily swayed.
"Alright," Takumi finally said, his voice soft but firm. "The binding vow is in place, and I'll keep your secret. But just know, I didn't want this for you. I wanted you to find a different way, a safer way. But if this is what you need to do, I won't stand in your way."
Anāman nodded, his expression returning to its usual relaxed state, though a flicker of gratitude passed through his eyes. "Thanks, Takumi. I know you're looking out for me, but this is something I have to do. Don't worry—I'll be careful. You've taught me well."
Takumi managed a small smile. "I hope that's enough," he murmured, stepping back and raising his hands to activate a barrier. "Good luck, Anāman. And don't forget—we still have a curse to deal with before you go off saving the world."
Anāman gave a mock salute, his grin returning. "Wouldn't dream of skipping out on that. After all, who knows if your old ass would be able to handle it without me?"
Takumi watched as Anāman turned and walked away, his figure slowly sinking into the shadows as he approached the warehouse in the distance. A heavy weight settled in Takumi's chest, a whisper of doubt gnawing at his resolve. Had he just set Anāman on a path from which there was no return?
As Anāman neared the decaying warehouse, the hairs on his arms prickled, a subtle, almost electric sensation that hinted at the cursed energy swirling around him. He glanced briefly at Takumi, who had already begun weaving the barrier, his hands moving with practiced precision. The faint shimmer of the barrier flickered into existence, encircling the dilapidated structure like a net, its presence felt more than seen, sealing them off from the outside world.
Anāman exhaled sharply, his breath visible in the cold air, and reached into his coat. The document Takumi had pushed into his hands earlier emerged, crumpled and worn at the edges. He unfolded it with a casual flick, the paper crackling as his eyes lazily scanned the dry, clinical descriptions of the curse he was sent to exorcise. "Malevolent spirit, manifests from the deep-seated fear of human trafficking… limbs… organs…" he muttered under his breath, barely paying attention as he flipped through the pages. His gaze moved from line to line, disinterested, his mind already half-drifting back to thoughts of the dessert he'd left behind. But just as he was halfway through, a sudden, overwhelming surge of malevolence washed over him, snapping his focus back to the present.
The curse struck without warning, a blur of grotesque limbs and misshapen organs lunging from the darkness. Anāman's lips curled into a grin, his pulse quickening as he leaped backward, narrowly avoiding the twisted mass that slammed into the ground where he had just been standing.
The curse, a grotesque amalgamation of dismembered limbs and organs twisted into a spider-like form, moved with unsettling agility. Its many eyes, glowing with a sickly yellow light, tracked Anāman with predatory focus. But instead of fear, a spark of exhilaration flared in Anāman's chest. His face contorted into a mad grin as the creature's limbs jutted out at odd angles, pulsing with a wet, organic squelching as it moved.
When the curse lashed out again, its disjointed limbs tearing through walls and floor with terrifying ease, Anāman's grin widened. He dodged, moving with a fluidity that seemed almost effortless, his body a blur as he twisted and spun away from the creature's attacks. The shadows around him writhed with malevolent intent, but he reveled in it, feeling alive, his senses sharp and focused.
The curse lashed out, disjointed limbs tearing through walls and floor with terrifying ease. Anāman dodged. Fluid. Precise. The shadows writhed around him, closing in. The curse wasn't just powerful—it was cunning. Anāman could feel its gaze analyzing his movements, calculating its next strike. He let out a low chuckle, eyes gleaming with a mixture of amusement and anticipation.
As he darted across the crumbling floor of the warehouse, narrowly avoiding the creature's relentless assaults, he couldn't help but feel a surge of joy. Every dodge, every near miss, sent adrenaline surging through his veins. The creature's twisted form shifted and contorted with each failed strike, but Anāman was always one step ahead, dancing just out of reach.
The curse suddenly changed tactics, its legs sinking into the ground as it prepared something more devastating. Anāman's instincts screamed at him to move, and he responded without hesitation, a laugh escaping his lips as he leaped back just as the ground convulsed beneath him. The floor rippled, and with a horrifying lurch, a wave of disembodied limbs—each twisting and clawing independently—erupted from the surface, surging toward him like a grotesque tidal wave.
He sprang to the side, narrowly avoiding the mass of writhing flesh and bone. The impact shook the warehouse, debris raining down, and yet, even as a second wave rose, larger and more chaotic than the first, he felt only a deep-seated thrill. He dove to the side just as the wave crashed down, barely missing him, and he let out a breathless laugh.
His mind worked furiously, not in desperation, but in eager anticipation of his next move. The curse was relentless, its limbs tearing through the ground with terrifying ease, but Anāman was relentless too, his body moving with a speed and grace that spoke of years of experience—and enjoyment. He lived for moments like this, when the stakes were high and the outcome uncertain.
The creature hesitated, as if gathering its strength for another attack, and Anāman saw his chance. With a burst of speed, he closed the distance, a fierce smile on his lips as he prepared to strike at the curse's core. But even as he moved, he knew he wasn't fast enough. Not yet.
Without a second thought, he drew upon his cursed energy, activating "Ruinous Gambit." Power surged through his body, amplifying his speed to near-supernatural levels. His vision blurred at the edges ,the price of the technique he had used, and his sight was now impaired, the world around him dimmed and unfocused. But the rush of energy, the sheer exhilaration of pushing his limits, drowned out any concern. He felt alive!
He launched himself forward, faster than the eye could follow, aiming directly for the core of the creature.
But as he descended, the blurred vision betrayed him. The curse shifted at the last moment, and Anāman's attack missed its mark, his fist slamming into the twisted mass of limbs instead. The impact sent a shockwave through the creature, but it wasn't enough. The curse roared in fury, its many eyes burning with renewed intensity as it lashed out, forcing Anāman to retreat.
He landed lightly, a breathless grin still tugging at his lips. Vision impaired, the world around him little more than a hazy blur, but the challenge only excited him more. His senses were heightened, his heart pounding. He closed his eyes, tuning into the sound of the creature's movements, the feel of its cursed energy pulsing through the air.
The curse, enraged by his near strike, began to prepare its attack again. Anāman could hear the limbs scraping against the ground, feel the oppressive energy building as the creature readied itself to unleash another tidal wave of disembodied flesh. A shiver of excitement ran down his spine—he had only moments before it struck again.
With his eyes closed, Anāman tuned into the curse's presence, feeling its core pulsing with malevolent energy just beneath the surface. He visualized the layout of the warehouse in his mind, mapping the curse's movements and aligning them with the sound and energy he sensed. His grin widened, preparing the final blow to end the fight.
As the curse's attack began to rise once more, Anāman moved. This time, he didn't rely on sight but on the rhythm of the curse's energy. He launched himself forward, his speed blinding as he cut through the air. The curse's limbs surged toward him, but he was already ahead of them, his body a blur as he twisted and dodged with precision.
With a final burst of speed, Anāman closed in on the core, his fist crackling with cursed energy. The curse reacted too late, its mass contorting in a desperate attempt to defend itself. But Anāman's strike was true, guided by the sense of the curse's energy rather than sight.
His fist connected with the core, and the cursed energy exploded outward, shattering the creature's form in a cataclysmic burst. The disembodied limbs and organs disintegrated, vanishing into nothingness as the warehouse echoed with the curse's final, agonized cry.
Anāman landed lightly on the cracked concrete floor, his breath coming fast as his enhanced speed began fading with his vision returning, but his grin still in place. The adrenaline still buzzed in his veins, a heady mix of triumph and satisfaction coursing through him. The once chaotic, decaying warehouse was now eerily still, the remnants of the curse completely eradicated. He let out a deep, satisfied breath, savoring the moment, his eyes alight with the afterglow of battle.
As he turned to leave, the dim light filtering through the broken windows cast long shadows across the floor, the remnants of the curse's malevolent presence still faintly lingering in the air. Anāman knew that this was only the beginning of his new journey. The Raptures, the curses, the endless battles—they were all part of a larger, more dangerous game. And he was determined to see it through, no matter the cost.
Reaching into his cloak, he pulled out a small, nondescript bomb and planted it on the ground. He set the timer, the device's quiet beeping the only sound in the desolate space. Without a second glance, Anāman melted into the shadows, disappearing into the night as if he had never been there at all.
In the distance, Takumi watched as the barrier surrounding the warehouse shimmered and then collapsed. A heartbeat later, the night sky lit up as the warehouse exploded, a plume of fire and smoke rising into the air. Takumi's eyes narrowed slightly, his expression unreadable as he sighed and turned away, the weight of his decision settling heavily on his shoulders.
Days later, in the grand hall of the Gojo Clan's headquarters, Takumi stood before the clan elders. The cold light from the high windows cast long, sharp shadows across the marble floor, the air thick with the scent of incense that did little to mask the underlying mustiness of old power. Takumi's posture was rigid, his face an unreadable mask as he finished his report.
"…The explosion was caused by a gas pipe rupture in the warehouse during the fight with the curse," he said, his voice steady, practiced. "Anāman was unable to escape in time."
The room was silent, save for the faint creak of an elder shifting in his seat. Their eyes, hooded and indifferent, regarded Takumi with the same dispassion they might have for a piece of paper. One elder, his face etched with the lines of age and scorn, leaned forward slightly.
"A tragic end for such a promising young sorcerer," he murmured, the words heavy with insincerity. His gaze sharpened, piercing through Takumi as he continued, "But that is the risk of trusting outsiders. Perhaps if we had kept a tighter leash on such a wild mutt, he'd still be alive."
A few of the other elders exchanged amused glances, their quiet chuckles echoing off the cold stone walls. Takumi's jaw tightened, the tension barely visible, but he lowered his head in a gesture of submission as the elder waved a dismissive hand.
"You're excused, Takumi," the elder said with a faint smirk. "We'll consider the matter closed."
Takumi bowed deeply, then turned on his heel, his steps precise and measured as he left the hall. The words "matter closed" clung to him like a shadow, but as he walked down the long corridor, he caught sight of a figure in the distance—a blond young man with piercing eyes. Their gazes locked briefly, the man's eyes blazing with barely concealed anger. Takumi kept walking, his pace unhurried, as if the weight of his deception were no burden at all.
Across the city, in a small, dimly lit office, Anāman lounged in a worn leather chair, idly tapping his fingers on the armrest. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, a frown creasing his brow. The minutes dragged, and his impatience grew, gnawing at him like an itch.
A flickering television in the corner droned on, filling the room with the voice of a newscaster:
"...reports of disappearances continue to rise in both the Ark and the Outer Rim. Authorities are still investigating the connection to the mysterious warehouse explosion last week, but so far, no leads—"
Anāman yawned, stretching his arms overhead as the newscaster's voice faded into the background. The dull hum of the report barely registered, drowned out by his growing boredom. He reached for the remote and flicked off the television just as the door creaked open.
A woman entered, her steps light, a sealed envelope in her hand. She approached him with a polite, professional smile and handed him the envelope with a slight bow. Anāman's fingers tore it open, his earlier impatience forgotten as he scanned the contents. His lips curled into a smirk.
"Congratulations," the woman said, her tone smooth and formal. "You've been accepted as a commander. Welcome aboard…John Smith."
Anāman glanced at the name on the letter, the smirk never leaving his face. He crumpled the envelope and stuffed it into his pocket, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied sigh. The past was behind him, and this new role—whatever it entailed—was exactly what he had been waiting for. He didn't need to think about what was lost or what lay ahead. All that mattered was the here and now.
And right now, everything was falling into place.