The successful Cursed Tool can no longer write in a book. Instead, the pen—or more precisely, the object that has now transformed into a marker—can only write in the air. Yes, truly write in the air.
The ink lines do not cling to paper, do not seep into any surface at all, but instead float faintly, as if etched directly into the empty space before me.
Each stroke leaves a steady purplish trace, unfaded by gusts of wind, untouched by gravity. Its original function—writing in books, on paper, or on any object whatsoever—has been completely replaced with a single, absolute rule: it can only write in the air, without exception, without loopholes.
Admittedly, it sounds strange. The strokes look like ghostly writing, clearly legible up close, yet from a distance they appear only as thin, hovering light, almost unreal. But who cares?
At the very least, it works. More than that, this Cursed Tool does not require Cursed Energy to activate, because it is a passive type.
Since that rule was embedded into its structure, its function operates on its own, without any need for conscious commands or additional energy flow from me.
After all, the entire Cursed Tool itself is already composed of Cursed Energy; it is no longer merely an ordinary marker, but energy frozen into the shape of an object, fully obedient to the law I implanted from the beginning.
Then a question surfaced, simple yet unsettling: what if the ink in this marker runs out?
The thought arrived without warning, like a small whisper at the edge of my awareness, sharp enough to make me pause and stare at the tip of the marker in my hand. The object looked perfectly ordinary—a plastic tube, a slightly scratched cap, and the faint scent of ink—yet the ability it contained could no longer be called "ordinary."
So, all I would need to do is refill it with regular ink. Simple, logical, and requiring no strange rituals whatsoever.
After all, I had merely altered or replaced the function of the pen—or now, the marker—from something that could write on solid objects such as books, paper, plastic, whiteboards, even walls, into a tool that can only write in the air.
There are no rare materials involved, no mysterious mechanisms that need to be maintained. What changed was not the object itself, but the relationship between the ink and the world around it, between the pen tip and the "surface" where it was supposed to stop.
Not special ink, not some bizarre medium; ordinary ink still flows inside the marker's tube, still obeying certain physical laws right up to the very tip. It's just that its final destination no longer ends on a material surface, but instead floats freely, following my will.
Each stroke seems to find an invisible "plane," as if I were writing letters on a thin layer of reality that I can feel but cannot see. The sensation is strange—cold, light, and faintly trembling—as though I were writing on empty space that has suddenly been forced to become an unseen "surface."
In addition, the writing or ink that floats in the air can only last for ten minutes and cannot be erased, before completely vanishing once that time passes.
No stains are left behind, no residual energy that can be traced, no marks that anyone could exploit. It exists, and then it doesn't—clean as a breath that disappears into the air.
The letters fade slowly, as if being swallowed by space itself. Lines that were once sharp become blurred, then transparent, until at last they vanish without a trace.
This time limit feels like a double-edged sword: long enough to convey a message or mark something, but far too short to preserve important information. I must remember that every word I write in the air is, by nature, a one-time message—valuable while it exists, useless once it is gone.
Only one notebook and one pen remained. I knew exactly what I had to do with them, even before my thoughts could fully shape themselves into words. This notebook was important to me—too important to be allowed to fall into someone else's hands, or worse, to vanish without a trace.
Inside it were unfinished experimental records, sketches of techniques I had never fully tested, and fragments of thought that could never be allowed to leak to anyone. Every page was a part of myself, a portrait of a journey that could never be replaced if it were lost.
Because of that, what I needed to do now was to transform this notebook into something I could carry anywhere with ease, without sacrificing its function.
Not merely to hide it, but to reconstruct it into a form that was more compact, more secure, and more faithful to me. More than that, I had to ensure that this book could always return to me, no matter what happened—whether it was dropped, seized, or even destroyed by circumstance.
I drew a deep breath, feeling the flow of Cursed Energy pulsing beneath my skin, like restrained electricity. My chest felt slightly heavy, my fingertips trembled faintly, and the world around me seemed to wait.
I knew this was not simply forging or reconstructing an ordinary object; I needed a level of focus beyond my usual limits, a sharpness of mind that I could not reach without sacrifice.
"Binding Vow. For two minutes, my focus and concentration will rise beyond their normal limits. In exchange, my Cursed Energy output will surge far beyond its usual level. I cannot terminate this vow before its time is up. If I force it to stop, my Cursed Energy will turn back and assault my own body," I said in a grave voice, each word leaving my mouth with unmistakable weight, as though I were signing a contract with my own life.
I was not speaking to anyone—this was a pact with myself, with the power flowing through my body, with something deeper than mere intention.
The moment the words were spoken, the world seemed to narrow. The surrounding sounds faded, colors sharpened, and my mind became as clear as a freshly honed blade—no rust, no distraction.
Every detail emerged with almost painful clarity: the texture of the notebook's cover, its weight in my palm, even the faint pulse of energy in the air. Without hesitation, without leaving the slightest space for doubt, I immediately hurled my notebook into the purple flame.
The book spun once in the air, enveloped in a throbbing violet light that seemed almost alive. At that instant, I began to alter its form—unraveling the paper fibers, the cover, and its physical structure, then rearranging them.
I could feel each layer separating, like fine threads being drawn from fabric, then woven again into a new pattern. The pages folded, compressed, and hardened, fusing into a single, denser whole.
In a heartbeat, the book's shape condensed into a ring, its upper portion preserving the silhouette of a small, closed book. The purple fire contracted, compressing every fiber of paper, cover, and inner structure into a new form that was far more compact.
Once the shape stabilized, I defined its purpose—its function and its activation rules—embedding my will into its structure, ensuring every detail was bound to my intent and the flow of my energy, leaving no room for error.
This transformation was no illusion; I could feel the change in mass, texture, and balance as the object fell back into my palm.
There was a density to it unlike ordinary metal, as if I were holding something that still carried the memory of its former shape. The ring was cold, but not lifeless—more like a surface that absorbed the heat and energy around it.
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