January 5th.

  Javon went out for a walk, pausing in front of a few property listings and speaking with several merchants who were interested in selling.

  At night, he ate dinner at a fairly well-known restaurant nearby. After finishing the last portion of roasted lamb chops, Javon wiped his hands clean with a towel, rose to settle the bill, and left the restaurant.

  His pace was unhurried. Then, without warning, he turned into a secluded alley.

  “Come out, Miss Tasha. You’ve been tailing me for a long time.”

  Javon turned around, looking into the shadows of the street, his tone calm.

  “Elvander, you surprise me.” Tasha emerged from the darkness like a chameleon, her long legs in heels moving with a cat’s nimble grace.

  “You were following me? For what?” Javon asked, putting on a show of shock and anger.

  “I’m simply curious about the Artisan behind you.” Tasha told a lie she didn’t believe herself, wearing a smile that was both sincere and seductive as she approached step by step. “I want to have a more… in-depth exchange with you…”

  After several days of observation, she still hadn’t found any forging master behind Elvander. Without firm intelligence on her opponent, and unless necessary, Tasha didn’t want to tear the mask off and make enemies openly.

  “In-depth exchange?” Javon snorted. He took out a long, narrow case from inside his coat. When he opened it, there lay a black dagger, its edge marked by a dark-red blood channel and strange patterns.

  “This is the finished piece. You should pay now.”

  “It’s already done?” Tasha couldn’t hide her surprise—yet inside, she was delighted.

  Still thinking about a deal at a time like this—na?ve and adorable. If the forging is finished, then the one behind him has most likely already been struck by the curse. We can squeeze them however we like.

  She swayed forward, accepted the dagger, and asked, “Its name? And its drawback?”

  “It’s called The Weeping Blade. The drawback is that it makes your sense of touch extremely sensitive—both the pleasant and the unpleasant. If you can’t adapt, you’ll be at a serious disadvantage in a fight.”

  Javon spoke like a hotheaded novice. “As for its ability, wounds it creates won’t heal. They’ll keep bleeding.”

  That’s right. That’s the curse’s ability!

  Tasha’s eyes lit up. Her right fingertips lightly stroked the blade, as though testing the sharpness.

  “Hurry up and pay.” Javon complained “na?vely.” “Next time, I don’t want to trade with someone as untrustworthy as you.”

  Childish.

  Tasha sneered inwardly. She pretended to reach for her wallet with her left hand—then the The Weeping Blade in her right traced a beautiful arc and drove straight into Javon’s chest!

  “Ah!”

  A scream and the sound of a dagger hitting the ground rang out at the same time.

  Tasha stared at her own blood-soaked palm, terror flooding her face. In the center of her pale hand, a gash had opened—clean as if cut by a blade.

  Like an artery had been severed, blood surged out in a violent stream.

  “Oh. I forgot to tell you,” Javon said, watching her with amusement. “The Weeping Blade has a hidden drawback. I performed a one-time Mirror Reversal rite for it. The first harm it deals to someone else rebounds—landing on the attacker’s hand.”

  “Very merciful, isn’t it? It teaches us to be kind and keep our word.”

  He patted his chest—uninjured—and picked The Weeping Blade up from the ground again.

  “After this rebound, it can serve its new owner wholeheartedly. And since you struck first and tore up the contract, we’re enemies now. I don’t have to return the arcane artifact to you. That’s in accordance with law and justice.”

  “You…”

  Tasha wanted to spit out a string of filth, but staring at her hand—still bleeding without pause—she was too frightened.

  She suddenly whistled.

  Bzzz!

  From the darkness, many mosquito-like strange insects burst forth, rushing toward Javon.

  Tasha twisted around and fled the scene.

  After her back disappeared, black beetles emerged—one bite, one kill—devouring the insects. Before long, the swarm was gone.

  “Chrysalis Path?” Javon stepped out, expression flat, as if Tasha’s escape meant nothing to him. He bent down, gathered a bit of Tasha’s blood from the ground, and returned to the inn.

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  He would use the medium to divine Tasha’s location—and the dreadful fate she was about to face.

  After all… Javon had forced the curse within that dried hand to bloom in full, transferring it all at once into the dagger!

  The Lower District, headquarters of “Vulture.”

  “Vulture” was not particularly powerful. It had started as a local gang. Its leader, Marek, had only gained a legacy by chance—poisoning and assassinating a mystic, then inheriting what was left behind.

  After that, through brute ferocity and by sheltering vicious criminals, he finally built “Vulture” into something bigger. Their reputation in the occult world was foul, and so they were called scavenging “Vultures.”

  Marek was the man who had a room in The Displaced Castle and plotted with Tasha.

  Now he was pouring rye beer down his throat like water.

  “Boss, Red Bee is back.”

  A subordinate named Loudy—also a Transcendent, but one who had only opened the first Sephiroth—entered to report. “Her condition is bad.”

  “Marek, I failed.” Tasha came in moments later. “We underestimated that young apprentice. He’s strong—no, he’s sly!”

  Her right hand was wrapped in thick gauze, yet blood still seeped through, soaking it crimson.

  “Apprentice.” Marek’s aura turned dangerous. “Did you find his teacher or not?”

  “No. And hurry up and bring out the ointment from last time!” Tasha cursed at Loudy. “I’m going to bleed to death!”

  Loudy rushed into an inner room and returned with a box of paste-like salve.

  “This kind of wound… is it that curse?” Marek asked, his voice low.

  “Yes.” Tasha gritted her teeth. “That cursed thing was forged into a dagger. It can make bleeding wounds. I got played by that apprentice. Damn him…”

  “When I recover, I’ll make him understand what regret means!”

  “Good.” Marek nodded with satisfaction. “Once it’s forged into an arcane artifact, that Artisan must have been cursed too.”

  They had once discovered a terrifying ancient ruin. A lingering curse clung to them, leaving a bleeding wound that would not heal.

  Fortunately, Marek had been ruthless then. At the cost of half his organization dead or crippled, he had brought out a method for brewing a healing agent—this ointment.

  Otherwise, “Vulture” might have been wiped out by a single curse.

  “A weapon made from that curse must be exceptionally sharp.” Marek announced with a trace of excitement. “I want that dagger.”

  On the side, Loudy was applying the salve to Tasha.

  “Ah!”

  A few minutes passed. Tasha watched the salve wash away under the flow of blood, panic and despair swelling on her face.

  She had been beautiful—yet now her once-lush red lips were bloodless, her skin cracked… her vitality quietly draining away through the wound.

  “Boss… my hand hurts!” With a clatter, Loudy dropped the box. He stared at his palm, where a cut had appeared as if carved by a blade. His voice broke into a sob. “Save me… I don’t want to die!”

  “Damn you, you whore.” Marek’s expression twisted into something feral. His eyes flooded with bloodshot veins, and behind them hid an indescribable terror as he seized Tasha by the throat. “Did you sell me out? Are you trying to kill me?”

  Inside that ruin, the curse had followed a strict rule—only after you were cut would the wound bleed without end.

  And now? A wound had appeared on Loudy’s hand out of nowhere. Marek knew, deep down, that the curse had most likely mutated.

  But he couldn’t accept it. He needed Tasha to admit she had done it.

  “I… didn’t…” Tasha kicked helplessly in the air, both hands clawing at Marek’s thick arm.

  Then Marek felt a sharp pain.

  A wound—identical to the one on Tasha’s palm—opened on his forearm. Blood flowed in a steady stream, like a small brook.

  “No!”

  Marek dropped to one knee. He grabbed the ointment, bandages—anything he could see—to plug the wound. Useless.

  The blood continued to flow, slow and unwavering, like time itself—something no one could reverse.

  “Heh… we’re all going to die.”

  Tasha laughed in despair. Even as she smiled, blood suddenly spread across the fabric over her torso. Another wound opened, bleeding without end.

  “It’s the cut on your palm.” Marek screamed, like a frightened girl. “It… it’s contagious!”

  “Transmission route… is it touch?!”

  Beneath his rough exterior, Marek had a brain that was, at the very least, not dull. Otherwise he wouldn’t have survived that ruin of blades and sawgrass, nor found the key item.

  “Boss?”

  The commotion had carried outside. Members of “Vulture” filed in. Seeing the scene, something in them seemed to hook into a terror they could never forget. Their eyes bulged, bloodshot, and they looked ready to flee at any second.

  “You—drag this woman out!” Marek barked. His arm was bound tight with bandages. His expression kept shifting. “Don’t worry. As long as you don’t touch her blood, you’ll be fine.”

  “This has to be that Artisan’s doing.” His voice trembled. “We all go out—force him to lift the curse. No… maybe I should bring all our cash and apologize in person. Maybe he’ll forgive us.”

  Marek’s authority in “Vulture” was high. A Transcendent finally worked up the courage, using his power to animate a rope. Like a living snake, it slithered forward, bound Tasha, and began dragging her toward the door.

  Then someone in the onlookers screamed.

  With shaking eyes, he stared at his own palm.

  A bleeding wound had appeared.

  “I… I didn’t touch anything!” He collapsed, face full of despair. “I need the ointment—ointment…”

  Cries erupted. Almost everyone in the room began to show the same kind of wound…

  “It’s sight.” Marek’s face contorted as he glared at Tasha. “Just looking at the wound spreads it?”

  He strode forward and grabbed her.

  Tasha was already covered in wounds from head to toe, like a cracked porcelain doll. She had lost too much blood. Death was close.

  “I loved you once,” Marek muttered. Then his left hand clenched.

  He punched her in the face.

  The female Transcendent flew backward. Her face caved in. She died instantly.

  “Purify her!”

  Marek roared. “If you don’t want to die, do it now. She’s the source!”

  The Transcendent of “Vulture” threw out talismans and used their abilities, bathing Tasha in cleansing light. Flames rose, burning her into ash.

  It did nothing.

  The wounds on their bodies continued to multiply, slowly, inexorably. Inside the hall, blood pooled into a spreading slick. The slick rose—turning into a puddle, a pond…

  “I don’t want to die—I don’t want to die!”

  At last a Transcendent broke. Sobbing, he ran for the door. “Save me… save me…”

  As he fled, his wounds tore wider—unluckily splitting a major artery. Blood burst out like a fountain.

  “Idiot!”

  Marek shouted, yet his voice was already weakening.

  “The ointment doesn’t work anymore.” His eyes were hollow. “Does that mean the curse’s tier rose after mutation?”

  “That Artisan used Tasha as a carrier… he wants ‘Vulture’ wiped out. That’s vicious…”

  For the first time, Marek regretted it. He had picked a fight with an enemy more evil—more brutal—than himself.

  “We go to Mr. Havier.” Marek struggled to stand. He stared at the third wound that had appeared on him, despair leaking into every syllable. “He’s a Beyond Mortality being. Maybe… maybe there’s still a way…”

  Even when injured in that ruin, you only ever got one wound. It didn’t multiply. The intensity and horror of this curse had skyrocketed—tenfold, at least.

  “What… what did we offend?” a Transcendent murmured.

  His last drop of blood slid out. He shriveled into a dried corpse and toppled into the blood pool.

  “I…”

  Marek crawled out of the hall, only to find his strong body had lost its final thread of strength.

  He exhaled his last breath and collapsed into the blood pool.

  On both sides of his cheeks, two bloody cuts opened—like a clown’s jeering smile.