At the vilge chief's house, Sōjun Minamoto was studying the divine statue when he suddenly paused, then broke into a grin. The smile slowly stretched wider, the corners of his mouth lifting.

  So they’re finally here.

  He now understood the situation back at Jujutsu High.

  No wonder those people had the nerve to py games—it must’ve been because backup had arrived, giving them a sense of security.

  Sōjun Minamoto quickly pushed the thought aside and refocused on his work.

  He was dissecting the Aragami, preparing to split its three divine authorities.

  The fmes would go to the Chōchin-obake, strength to the Fly Head, and the dream-rewriting technique would be etched into the Star Eyes. All of it belonged to him—the only question was which parts suited which vessel best.

  He also needed to find a way to extract the Aragami’s Domain.

  But attempting to relocate someone else’s Domain brought him into a frustrating paradox. Mental Domains were far too subjective to be controlled through forced assimition. Maintaining the domain's structure required the target to retain a strong, clear sense of self.

  Yet to make the Aragami activate its Domain, he’d have to override its will.

  In the end, the problem was simple—the Aragami wasn’t cooperating.

  And Sōjun Minamoto had no interest in lowering himself for a cursed spirit like this, making deals or negotiating terms. That would mean handing over control.

  An Aragami? Was it even worth that much?

  He had plenty of methods at his disposal. The one he currently favored was to first assimite the Aragami’s Cursed Technique...

  Then rewrite its dream.

  Let it experience firsthand what it feels like to be shoved into a nightmare.

  But that would have to wait until he was back at Jujutsu High.

  He looked forward to it.

  Now, all he needed was for someone to show up, clean up the situation, and get everything wrapped up—so he could return to Jujutsu High with a clear ste.

  Hurry up already.

  ...

  As the sun climbed higher, the temperature rose steadily.

  Sōjun Minamoto channeled Cursed Energy to preserve the bodies—evidence that could speak for itself. If even regur people could estimate the time of death, surely sorcerers wouldn't miss it.

  The four of them had waited a while. The vilge chief’s wife even made breakfast, which they finished together before Sōjun Minamoto spotted the te-arriving group from Jujutsu High slowly appearing at the vilge entrance, making their way over.

  Leading the group were a middle-aged man and a younger one.

  “Get ready,” Sōjun Minamoto said as he stood, addressing the other three. “Jujutsu High’s people are here.”

  The vilge chief and his wife quickly cleared the table, while Suguru Geto joined Sōjun Minamoto outside.

  Right on time, the group from Jujutsu High arrived, and the two sides met face to face.

  The young man jogged forward eagerly, urgency written across his face. He rushed over to Sōjun Minamoto, circling him a few times and sizing him up.

  “So you’re the new Special Grade?”

  Sōjun Minamoto just gnced at him silently. He knew who was actually in charge—no need to waste words on anyone else and have to repeat himself.

  The young man didn’t get angry at the cold shoulder. Instead, he flushed with excitement, looking even more fired up.

  Yes, this was it—this was how a true Special Grade should act.

  That gaze filled with contempt and disdain… it was perfect.

  His eyes gzed over with fervor, nearly trembling with anticipation. He unconsciously squeezed his legs together, stretching out a hand to touch Sōjun Minamoto.

  But just before contact, he froze.

  Because he felt it—a genuine threat to his life.

  His face reddened further, and he let out a few ragged breaths, “Hah~ Hah~”

  What the hell was this guy—a deranged dog?

  Sōjun Minamoto pushed down his disgust and looked to the middle-aged man.

  The man was already watching him. When Sōjun Minamoto met his gaze, he smiled politely.

  “Apologies for being te. This pce is so remote, the journey took longer than expected.”

  Sōjun Minamoto had no interest in small talk. He cut straight to the point.

  “I’ll leave the rest to you. The survivors are over there. There are a few things you’ll need to assist with. Go coordinate with them.”

  The middle-aged man was momentarily surprised, but quickly nodded with a pleasant smile and motioned for the others behind him to take over. He didn’t even bring up the recruitment offer he'd mentioned earlier.

  From the moment he id eyes on Sōjun Minamoto, he’d already gauged what kind of person he was.

  And that was a good thing. People who hated trouble weren’t likely to cause it. Living peacefully without unnecessary conflict—that was ideal. Fighting and killing was just a waste. He liked people like Sōjun Minamoto. He was the same way.

  But...

  Please stay alive.

  He gnced sideways at the young man. The tter's expression had become even more manic, completely unhinged. Cursed Energy roiled off him as he raised a hand to his forehead, then stared straight at Sōjun Minamoto without flinching.

  “Ahahaha... cough, come on! Come on! Be my first Special Grade collectible!”

  “Remember, the one who kills you…”

  He vanished mid-sentence.

  Sōjun Minamoto tilted his head slightly as a thin line of blood traced down his cheek.

  “…is Zen—”

  Huh?

  The young man was momentarily surprised. Not bad—Special Grades really could react fast.

  He raised a blood-stained index finger to his lips, licking it clean. His pupils dited sharply. Arms spread, he cried out:

  “Heeheehee~ Delicious! So delicious! I want more!”

  He vanished again and again, flickering around Sōjun Minamoto, darting in close but never quite daring to make direct contact. Several times he reached out, but hesitated.

  Eventually, he stopped at a short distance, disappointed. He licked his lower lip and said:

  “My technique is Projection Sorcery. I divide one second into 24 frames, then assign pre-set movements to each frame, like an animation storyboard. Within my field of vision, I execute those movements at high speed, frame by frame.”

  It wasn’t a technique expnation—it was pure showing off.

  And to be fair, it was powerful. Even Sōjun Minamoto had trouble following his movements. It wasn’t just fast—it was stuttered, compressed. Twenty-four actions jammed into a single second, like flickering animation.

  To someone like Sōjun Minamoto, used to perceiving everything at 144fps, being forced down to 24fps created a jarring dissonance. The g hit him so hard, he didn’t even get a chance to activate a technique.

  He was already familiar with Projection Sorcery. Its power relied on mass and velocity.

  Now that he’d been touched, he too was locked into 1/24-second increments. Any misstep would scramble his movements and freeze him for one second, turning him into a literal paper-cutout.

  But the same restriction applied to his opponent.

  And more importantly, both had to follow the ws of physics and realistic motion paths. For instance, stepping with the left foot in frame one meant frame two had to logically follow—either a step with the right or nding the left. You couldn’t just teleport to the end frame without motion in between.

  Sōjun Minamoto’s mind moved quickly. He had already deciphered the opponent’s preloaded sequence.

  Now, he just needed to respond precisely—split time into 24 equal parts, drop his own motion to match that framerate. For him, that was considered a downgrade.

  Soon, it would become a battle of calcution, frame-by-frame deconstruction, spatial awareness, and combat foresight.

  And in all of that, Sōjun Minamoto excelled.

  One 24th of a second passed.

  He stepped left, pnted his foot, bent his knees, straightened up, pulled back his right leg, dropped it, then reached out with his right hand—each movement ticking forward, frame by frame.

  He infused his hand with crimson energy, fingers curled into an arc.

  The rest of the frames, he spent forming a grin—lips parting, teeth gleaming in a perfect, serrated row.

  He waited.

  As the other’s hand collided with his, he locked fingers, lifted the young man into the air, and activated Cursed Technique Lapse. Crimson surged across his body...

  It went almost exactly as he’d predicted.

  In less than a second, the young man was suspended midair, his technique forcibly canceled. His crazed expression didn’t waver.

  But by the time he realized something was wrong, crimson had already spread through his entire body.

  He didn’t even have time to shift his gaze.

  PinkSnake