A red pickup truck pulled up beside an abandoned factory, where mountains of garbage loomed dozens of meters overhead. A dark-skinned man answered a loudly ringing phone, pressing it to his ear.

  "Hello, darling... I’ll be home late again. Yeah, the manager made me work overtime. Same pay, more hours. Yeah... Say goodnight to the kid for me. I’ll be back before sunrise." Jordan hung up, stepping out of the car with legs as long as bamboo stalks. He wore jeans and a beige shirt, his skinhead shaved into the shape of a starfish. His glasses looked like 3D cinema giveaways.

  He carried a dusty, cobwebbed, dirt-smeared duffle bag into the dark factory. Using his foot, he shoved open a metal door and dropped the filthy bag beside a rusted steel beam. Even he was disgusted to have that thing in his beloved car.

  He snapped a photo and uploaded it to the message box, waiting for the client. The client was scheduled to pick it up at 5 a.m., but Jordan always delivered early—this time, five hours ahead. The plan was simple: delivery and pickup times were staggered so the buyer would never know when the delivery was made.

  Jordan turned to leave but froze before reaching the exit. His peripheral vision twitched. The night sky, once indigo and star-speckled, turned blood red. The stars faded to lifeless shadows. A familiar sensation made him remove his glasses.

  "Not now, fellas. I’ve got deliveries to finish and a wife to get home to before dawn. You won’t get a refund even if you win." He addressed the unseen presence triggering the barrier spell.

  A young man in his twenties stepped out of the darkness. His heterochromatic eyes glinted. Jordan examined him head to toe.

  In that instant, staring into those eyes was like falling into a bottomless pit. His mind blanked. Jordan raised his guard, spiritual energy swirling around him. His prior smugness vanished—now he faced a monster in human skin.

  [Name: Jordan Wellington] [Level: 42] [Race: Human] [Class: Martial Brawler (B)] [Title: Cursed Fist] [Karma: 12,941] [Mana: 35] [Spirit Power: 75] [Endurance: 35] [Strength: 56] [Agility: 41] [Intelligence: 26] [Perception: 33] [Sanity: 12] [Spirit: 9]

  Skills: [Black Tortoise Fist Art (A+) LV6 – Defensive barehand style known for counterattacks.] [Cursed Mark Boost (A) LV6 – Enhances physical prowess via arcane tattoos.] [Spirit Pressure Fist (A) LV7 – Channel spirit energy into punches.]

  Spells: [Cursed Fist (A) LV10] [Phantom Fist (A) LV4] [Body Amplification Curse (A) LV7]

  Fethan's system displayed Jordan’s full status—including Karma, for the first time.

  His level’s higher, and most stats surpass mine. Every skill is refined to rank A. Not a dark mage—he’s a brawler using arcane techniques. Interesting.

  "Hey kid, cancel the barrier now, and I’ll forget this ever happened," Jordan said, pumping energy into his arms. Veins bulged with cursed power. Fethan responded with a silent pressure wave from his wand.

  "No negotiation, huh? Damn brat!" Jordan activated Cursed Mark Boost. Glowing seahorse tattoos pulsed beneath his shirt. His footfalls thundered across concrete as he charged, unleashing a spirit-powered punch.

  Brawler meets brawler.

  "Come forth, Morty." A crustacean-like humanoid with boxing gloves materialized. It countered Jordan’s strike, the impact echoing. Jordan’s face twisted in pain—his fingers stung.

  "Hehehe... ga-ga-ga," Morty laughed in an eerie, garbled voice. He feinted left, jabbed right. Jordan dodged and countered with a forehead strike.

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  "By this fist, I curse you—Venefistus!" A deep green aura burst from his punch, slamming into Morty’s head. Morty reeled, staggering.

  Jordan spotted Fethan behind the crabman and threw another punch. "Venefistus!" The left punch cracked against a spirit-forged barrier. The force drove Fethan back a step. Jordan pressed with follow-up punches.

  The translucent barrier shattered.

  Does this spell have no cooldown?! Fethan grumbled mentally as Jordan fired off his fourth and fifth Cursed Fists in succession. When the next punch hit a second hidden barrier, he faltered.

  Two layers!

  "By this fist, I curse you—Venefistus!" Fethan punched Jordan’s solar plexus. The gray aura of his curse seeped in. Though amateur in technique, the blow dealt an unfathomable pain—not physical, but spiritual.

  Fethan used 50 units of spirit power. Jordan usually used just 5.

  This lunatic! Jordan cursed internally. He inhaled, suppressing the pain, and hurled a cursed punch through the air like a magical projectile.

  Fethan’s massive arcane bullet easily swatted it aside.

  "Wake up, Morty! Or I’m docking your pay!" Fethan shouted. Morty jumped up, terrified by the threat of a pay cut. Even one of his crab whiskers fell off.

  Jordan raised his guard, ready to counter. But as Morty entered range, his aura changed—black mist enveloped him in wrathful madness.

  A cursed spirit?! Jordan gasped. Morty’s jab blurred past Jordan’s high perception, forcing him to brace.

  His arm went numb.

  Cursed spirits far outclassed guardian spirits—not just in stats, but in nature.

  "By the power of the dark arts, grow stronger and faster—Amplimere Intensimere!" Fethan enchanted Morty. Spirit and curse energy surged into the crabman. His eyes turned blood red; black aura engulfed his body.

  Morty’s next punch came too fast. A sharp crack echoed. Jordan’s body went white with shock. Then the second punch landed, launching him.

  "Cursed Mark Boost!" Scales spread across Jordan’s skin—tiny, invisible, but strong and flexible. His muscles contracted, bones realigned.

  Body Enhancement Curse: Bestial Tattoo.

  "Venefistus!" This time, Jordan’s punch felt like stone. He unleashed seven consecutive Cursed Fists. Morty staggered back.

  "Reversal Magic." Fethan focused his will, using his wand to purge Morty’s decaying spirit. The six or seven fist-shaped bruises faded quickly. Morty, now recovered, locked eyes on Jordan.

  "Goddamn it! This is insane! I’m out!" Jordan panicked. Reversal Magic—coveted by all dark mages—used by someone ten years his junior?! He bolted, searching for a weakness in the barrier.

  Every arcane field had a weak point.

  But Fethan wouldn’t let a pig escape its pen.

  "Burn—Phasma Ignis!" Three ghostly fireballs curved toward Jordan. He dodged, vaulting over debris—but that slowed him.

  "Freeze like the dead—Fixare!" The dark art curse froze Jordan for two seconds. Long enough.

  Boom! Boom!

  Two fireballs exploded behind him. Morty leapt forward, delivering a blow to Jordan’s abdomen. The yellow-scaled armor buckled inward.

  "ARGH!" Jordan screamed as Morty stomped him into the floor and kicked his head. As he looked up, black flames ignited Fethan’s arm. The boy's golden and silver eyes blazed with power.

  "P-Please... I have a wife and kid! Don’t kill me! I’ll do anything!" Jordan begged, groveling at Fethan’s feet. But Fethan wasn’t a merciful god.

  "Burn to nothing—Exuro Animam!" His wand cracked like a whip. Black fire surged forward like a snake, consuming Jordan.

  "NOOOOO!" The flame devoured flesh, organs, blood vessels. The seahorse tattoo glowed in defense—but it wasn’t enough.

  "No! No! NO!" Jordan flailed for nonexistent water. His Karma exceeded ten thousand. His lungs burned. He died in agony and terror.

  His eyes wide. Tongue out. Death by true fear.

  The Flame Curse of Ruin had lived up to its name. It killed.

  That the shaman had survived this curse proved he was a powerful dark mage. Jordan was skilled too—refining A-rank abilities. But none of that mattered before a new Lord of the Dark Arts.

  Fethan stared at the corpse, expression blank. His second kill. No grief. No rage. Just emptiness.

  This guy had over 10,000 Karma. I may not know how evil he truly was, but I don’t pity him. People he hurt had families too. I won’t make an exception for his.

  "Morty. Take his head."

  "Gik!" Morty chopped off the head and perched it on his own. Fethan retrieved the filthy duffle bag, opened a portal to Everland, and walked through. Morty followed, black aura fading—returning to goofy crab mode.

  The portal opened into the prison yard. Jordan’s ghost shivered in terror, surrounded by mantis-men, spiders, cockroaches, and scorpions in guard uniforms—radiating hostility.

  Azrael licked his lips, wondering how best to break in the new inmate.

  Fethan stopped before Jordan, who was now utterly broken.

  "Take me to Martin. Now. That’s not a request. It’s an order. Disobey... and I’ll make you wish you were dead."