In Tokyo's Ginza district, the atmosphere of the three-Michelin-starred French restaurant "L'Osier" was utterly incompatible with the luxurious baroque decor surrounding it.
The heavy velvet curtains completely blocked out the afternoon sun. The crystal chandelier was set to its lowest level, casting a dim, ambiguous halo onto the crimson carpet. The long dining table was covered with a pristine white tablecloth, the silver cutlery gleaming coldly in the candlelight—but there was no food on the table. Only an open bottle of Bordeaux red wine, five glasses, and an ashtray.
No, strictly speaking, there were "people" dining.
Ordinary people just couldn't see them.
"So…"
A deep voice broke the silence in the room. The source of the sound was the figure at the head of the table—or rather, the being that looked like a person.
He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit with a white shirt, the collar unbuttoned to reveal an elegantly defined neck. His face appeared to be around thirty, with good features—handsome, even—but the most striking thing was the scar on his forehead, as if some ancient and malevolent mark, which disrupted the harmony of his entire face.
Kenjaku—or, in other words, the curse user who had lived for a thousand years.
He picked up the glass before him, gently swirled the crimson liquid inside, and calmly swept his gaze around the edges of the dining table.
Four "people" sat there.
More precisely, four "beings."
The four cursed spirits of natural disasters.
Jogo, Hanami, Mahito, and Dagon.
"Just as we expected," Kenjaku finally spoke, his voice calm, as if discussing the weather. He set down his glass and lightly tapped his slender fingers on the table, creating a steady, heartbeat-like rhythm.
"Zen'in Genji and Sukuna—these two names that should have disappeared a thousand years ago—have both been reborn in this era."
Jogo's single eye suddenly widened. The sparks erupting from his volcanic crater intensified, leaving a faint burnt smell in the air.
"Zen'in Genji…" He growled, his voice like rolling magma. "That legendary 'god'? He's actually alive?"
"Not alive," Kenjaku corrected, picking up his wine glass and taking a sip. "He has 'awakened.' A thousand years ago, he transformed himself into the eleventh shikigami of the Ten Shadows Technique, sinking into the shadow realm to await a summons. Now, someone—more precisely, some being—has summoned him."
He paused and added, "Moreover, he is possessing an ordinary high school girl. Eriri Sawamura, sixteen years old, a first-year at Toyonoki Academy. Half-Japanese, half-British. Her father is a diplomat. Very ordinary, except that… she is a popular fan artist under the pen name 'Eiri Kashiwagi.'"
Mahito's lips curled into an excited arc upon hearing this. He leaned forward, placing his hands on the table, his heterochromatic eyes fixed on Kenjaku.
"Possession?" He asked, a dark pleasure in his voice. "A soul-level 'possession'? Doesn't that mean that now the 'god' and an ordinary high school girl's soul are… tightly entangled? Like two different colored balls of clay, forcibly mixed together and reshaped?"
The more he spoke, the more excited he became. His right hand began to involuntarily deform—his fingers lengthened, twisted, and flowed like clay, eventually transforming into a thin, articulated model of a palm.
"If I could touch them…" Mahito murmured to himself, his eyes shining with a feverish, almost artistic light. "If I could touch that 'god's' soul, feel its structure, understand its composition… what a wonderful thing that would be! And that girl, an ordinary person's soul, changed after being invaded by a thousand-year-old ghost…"
"Mahito," Kenjaku interrupted calmly.
Mahito's movements stopped. He tilted his head and looked at Kenjaku, and after a few seconds, the curious palm slowly returned to its original state.
"Sorry, sorry," he said with a smile, his tone relaxed, as if apologizing for knocking over a drink. "An occupational hazard. You know, I've always been interested in the 'shape of the soul.'"
Jogo snorted impatiently, his lava claws scraping against the table, leaving a distinct burnt handprint this time.
"Zen'in Genji…" He growled, low and hoarse, as if lava were rolling in his throat. The huge, one-eyed, volcano-headed cursed spirit stared at Kenjaku at the head of the table, the burning flames inside flickering with rage and a hint of disbelief. "If we go together—me, Hanami, Dagon, and Mahito—four special grades attacking together, can't we kill him?"
The atmosphere in the room seemed to stagnate. Hanami's outline flickered with the scent of plants. The surface of the water in Dagon's cup rippled silently. Mahito raised his eyebrows slightly, his heterochromatic eyes shining with pure curiosity, as if he too was waiting for the answer to this question.
And then—
"Pfft."
An extremely light, but mocking, laugh escaped Kenjaku's lips. He didn't even hold back. He raised a hand and gently pressed the corner of his forehead—a gesture filled with the helplessness and absurdity of a thousand years of experience at the naivety of the remark.
"Go together and kill Zen'in Genji?"
He lowered his hand and calmly swept his gaze over Jogo's volcanic surface, which was even more hideous with surprise. His tone was as flat as if he were saying "water is wet," but each word was like an ice pick carving into the silent air.
"Jogo, move that magma-filled brain of yours and think," he leaned forward slightly, the candlelight casting a swaying shadow on the stitches on his forehead, making his expression particularly profound. "If a simple, crude method like 'several special grades joining forces' could solve the problem… would Zen'in Genji have been a problem?"
He paused, the corners of his lips forming a gentle, free arc, soaked in historical dust and blood.
"A thousand years ago, in the Heian period, those old beings who had lived for who knows how many years were cunning and no less capable than you—'Yamata no Orochi,' 'The Sake-Swilling Boy,' 'Tamamo-no-Mae'… they tried it long ago, and indeed attempted it. And then?"
Kenjaku raised the barely touched red wine before him, but didn't drink it. Instead, he looked at the dark red liquid inside through the crystal wall of the glass, as if looking at a bygone era.
"The siege in the deep mountains of Omi. Seven special-grade cursed spirits laid a dragnet, swearing to strangle the 'Divine Child of the Zen'in Clan' who had just appeared and not yet matured. The result? Three hours. Just three hours."
He raised his eyes and looked sharply at Jogo.
"Zen'in Genji walked out of the death trap alone, wielding the Ten Shadows Technique. And those seven special-grade cursed spirits, relying on their ancient and powerful strength…"
Kenjaku's voice lowered, taking on a cold rhythm, almost performing an epic ballad:
"Their corpses were cut apart and scattered across the mountains. The grudges they harbored lingered for a hundred years. Their cursed energy cores were dug out like trophies and research samples and brought back to the Zen'in clan's forbidden grounds. From then on, until he left this era, no cursed spirit—no matter how powerful or ancient—dared to 'besiege' him. Not because they didn't want to, but because it was proven by mountains of corpses and seas of blood… to be futile."
"So," he set down his glass, the soft sound particularly clear in the pin-drop room. He looked at Jogo's changing expression, at the flickering flames in his single eye, and also swept his gaze past the silent Hanami and Dagon, finally resting on the thoughtful Mahito.
"Where do you get the nerve to fantasize about relying on numbers to kill someone… a 'god' who crushed that naive idea with absolute power a thousand years ago?"
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