Fethan was forced to crash through the window, Martin hot on his heels, muttering something under his breath—probably annoyed about the cost of the now-shattered glass, though Fethan couldn’t care less. He was too busy analyzing the situation, searching for a way to win.

  "Follow the theory: use your strength to counter your weakness. My strength is the power and number of curses. But I can’t use them—because of that damn armor. If I can strip the armor, I can turn the tables."

  "Command acknowledged! Luminus Sterling!" Fethan released their spirit fusion and summoned Lumi. She grabbed the half-broken Ninetails sword from him and lunged with the Sunburst Thrust technique. The broken blade struck the armor but failed to leave even a scratch. Martin was surprised by the sudden appearance of the woman.

  "Hey there, girly. How about becoming my wife?"

  "Ew! Did this dying old perv just propose to me? Sorry, I've already got a man."

  Lumi jabbed the damaged sword against Martin’s swinging black sharkfang blade. She could hear Ninetails’ agonized scream through the weapon. All she could do was silently apologize and hope the sword would forgive her incompetence.

  "Fethan, turn me into a Cursed Spirit."

  "Are you sure? This won’t just boost your power—it’ll twist you."

  "You can reverse it with dark magic later."

  "Understood."

  Fethan hesitated to use the same magic he'd inflicted on Morty, but this was Lumi's choice. As he complied, her body was enveloped in dark aura.

  Hatred. Rage. Madness. Negative thoughts flooded Lumi’s mind, nearly breaking her. But she held on. Azure flames burst from her now-knife-length blade. Her gymnastic grace enabled rapid movements that overwhelmed Martin’s defenses. Her sword mastery and unpredictable rhythm completely threw him off.

  Annoyed, Martin countered with a sweeping slash. Lumi leapt, twisting in midair to strike his head—but the tip of her blade struck something invisible.

  "You old creep! You're even wearing an invisibility helm? What kind of weirdo makes that stuff?"

  "Surprised? My arsenal's full of toys. Be my girl and I’ll give you a few."

  "If you were thirty years younger, maybe. Too bad I'm not into geriatrics."

  Martin shoved her back with brute force and raised his blade. Just before it landed, a shadow shot in and punched him square in the head.

  A cursed punch packed with spirit energy—but it had zero effect. Martin looked up and clicked his tongue.

  "What are you doing, Jordan?"

  "Sorry, Manager. I can’t control myself."

  Jordan’s voice was flat. His body was wrapped in cursed aura. Martin narrowed his eyes.

  "You filthy brat. One day, your vile arts will be your end!"

  "Spare me the moralizing," Fethan said flatly. "Command acknowledged: Shaman Zaan."

  He summoned another spirit with one of his few remaining soul coins. A dark mage in a white prison uniform appeared.

  Shaman grinned. "Finally! I get to see the face of that overpriced ripoff artist—Martin! I swear, nothing personal. You're just the easiest to track."

  "I don’t even know who you are. You brought that cursed brat to me, didn’t you?"

  "Wrong! I just offered some friendly advice. Your own loyal employee delivered him. None of us could refuse this brat."

  "You filthy bastards! I’ll kill you all!"

  "Oooh, I’m terrified. But here’s a tip: dead guys don’t die twice!"

  Shaman’s aura exploded. He activated his curse power on his own, without Fethan’s help, and fired a curse missile—which instantly dispersed on impact.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  "Ugh! Damn pay-to-win gear."

  Undeterred, Shaman buffed himself and charged recklessly. He was already dead—at worst, he’d just return to the Eternal Domain exhausted. He was Fethan’s servant now, but dammit, he was going to enjoy punching the crap out of this price-gouging bastard.

  Jordan and Lumi synchronized their attacks to buy Fethan time.

  Fethan unzipped his side bag. A spider-crab hybrid with eight limbs crawled into his hand. The young dark lord flipped through a book, searching for something to counter Martin’s gear—until he found it.

  [Curse of Disarm (C): Consumes 30 Spirit Energy. Removes one piece of enemy gear.]

  Fethan memorized the spell. His 100 Intelligence from the Dark Dimension God made understanding the text feel like elementary math. As a dark lord, his natural affinity accelerated his grasp of cursed magic.

  He raised his wand and cast.

  "Disarm—Exarmis."

  Fethan burned 75 Spirit Energy to overpower Martin’s curse resistance. A gear piece flew off Martin. But then, before their eyes—it reattached.

  Fethan’s face darkened.

  "A basic disarm curse? Kid stuff. You think I wouldn’t prep for that? You underestimate me, brat."

  "Shit..."

  Fethan’s energy dropped into the red. He chugged a recovery potion, briefly boosting his regen rate. The spell worked—but not on that armor.

  "So that’s why I saw all those equipment slots. How many does he even have?"

  He checked the display—96 pieces.

  The more pieces equipped, the faster the armor repaired and the higher the defense. Sharkfang’s damage restored Martin’s gear too. None of their attacks had dented it so far.

  Each piece added 10% defense. 38 matching pieces = 380% defense. And high durability too.

  "Only way to win... is to strip that armor. Killing him with it on is impossible. But how?"

  "Hey, brat! Exarmis is a basic curse! Everyone knows it!" Shaman yelled, taking a punch.

  "It’s a trash spell! Removes one random item—everyone has a counter! Think, dumbass!"

  Fethan bristled at the insult—but then something clicked.

  "Basic spell... guaranteed single disarm... random..."

  BOOM.

  A mental explosion. Fethan smiled as Martin continued stomping on Shaman, convinced he couldn’t lose with his armor intact.

  "Your pride will be your downfall."

  "As King of the Eternal Domain, I invoke the Bank of Eternity. Requesting 100 Spirit Coins."

  He opened the golden interface and accessed a building he’d only just finished.

  [Loan Approved. Your credit line is 1,000 Spirit Coins.]

  [You are borrowing 100 Spirit Coins. Repayment with 20% interest required. Confirm?]

  "Ugh. Loan sharks. Confirm."

  [Transaction complete. Thank you for using our service.]

  100 Spirit Coins entered his account. A tremendous pressure burst from Fethan’s body.

  "By the will of the Eternal King, I offer Soul Bonds! Followers, lend me your strength!"

  He activated his Soul Bond skill, borrowing 500 Spirit Energy from his followers—not the 1,000 from last time.

  "Followers, obey!"

  He unsummoned most of his spirits, leaving only Lumi, Shaman, Jordan, and a few Hellhounds. New spirits rose from the ground.

  They were all human. All terrified.

  The air went still. Martin’s gut twisted. He recognized their faces.

  They were his own men. Now cursed spirits, under Fethan’s control. Their gear—wands, swords, grimoires—floated against their will.

  "Spirit Fusion: Azarael."

  Fethan’s left silver eye turned pitch black. Dark magical energy surged. A reaper’s silhouette loomed behind him. Wails of the damned echoed like a funeral dirge. His wand transformed into a scythe. His cloak elongated.

  [Weapon Equipped: Reaper’s Scythe (Stage 1 Released)]

  [Attack Power: 166] [Durability: 166] [Mana Power: 66] [Dark Artistry: 66]

  Attributes: [Spell Amplification: +150%] [Charge Storage: up to 500%] [10:1 Spirit Energy-to-Mana Spell Conversion]

  Special Traits: [+1% curse potency per commanded spirit] [+5% support spell boost] [Attack power scales with scythe mastery]

  Fethan swung the scythe lightly. A colossal spiritual force pressed on the surroundings. Birds scattered. Clouds eclipsed the moon. Darkness devoured forest and mountain alike. Wolves howled in reverence.

  The spirits screamed in terror. The air quivered. A black flame sigil on Fethan’s hand ignited, radiating gray fire that lit the night.

  His golden eyes glowed faintly—like stars in the void. Martin felt dread—but Shaman cast again.

  "Be bound—Vincta Catena!"

  Black chains erupted and bound Martin. Lumi, Shaman, and Jordan pulled with all their strength.

  "What are you doing?! My armor resists all curses! The lower its durability, the higher its resistance! It’s perfect! Even if this breaks, I’ve got backups!"

  "Keep bragging, Martin. Didn’t notice? I summoned exactly as many spirits as armor pieces you’re wearing."

  Martin’s smug words choked in his throat. He hadn’t even processed the meaning yet—but death’s shadow loomed.

  In his clouded eyes, he saw the Reaper.

  "Followers, obey—disarm him."

  On command, the spirits chanted:

  "Disarm—Exarmis!"

  They unleashed every last drop of energy. The disarm curses hit.

  All 38 armor pieces were forcibly ejected.

  Martin was left in striped pajamas. The armor tried to fly back—but it was too late.

  "Burn soul to ash—Exuro Animam!"

  BOOM!

  The flame curse blasted Martin. Black flames of hatred consumed his body and soul. His skin turned black and necrotic. Blood and pus poured from his body. His thinning hair vaporized instantly.

  "Ah—aghhh! My armor! Come back! MY ARMOR!"

  He screamed as he melted. The armor tried to return, but too slowly.

  He gasped, then choked—his lungs incinerated. The pain made him bite his tongue. The darksmith collapsed in his own garden. The black flames faded, their job complete.

  The spell had cost Fethan 400 Spirit Energy. His right arm turned to black ash. Red sweat drenched him. Blood filled the air. His face was paler than paper.

  "Reverse curse..."

  His voice trembled. He had 100 Spirit Energy left—just enough for reversal. But it wasn’t enough.

  His arm remained burnt to the bone. Yellowed bone, charred at the edges.

  [Congratulations. Mission Complete.]