"Very professional?"
What's that supposed to mean? More professional than us at exorcising?
Sōjun Minamoto had no idea what the old man's standard for "professional" even was.
He and Suguru Geto sat by the tea table, watching as the old man bustled around inside, tidying up. Suguru had offered to help, but was politely turned down.
At this point, things were mostly clear. All that was left was to wait until nightfall, when the curse would finally show itself. This one was good at hiding—vague and elusive, its Cursed Energy spread across the entire village without giving even a hint of where the core body was.
With nothing else to do, Sōjun asked Suguru for a Cursed Spirit Orb.
A black vortex spun slowly between his hands. As it started to unravel, shifting back toward its original form, he suddenly clenched his fingers, forcing it back into a tight sphere.
"The structure of a Cursed Spirit is really something else," he said, pointing at the orb. "Its entire body is made of Cursed Energy—it can shift form freely, revert to its original state, and none of it damages its internal structure."
"Didn't you do that too?" Suguru recalled the time Sōjun had transformed into Riko Amanai. It wasn't just convincing—it was identical.
"That's different. My transformations have barriers. They're not as seamless as a curse's."
As he spoke, the skin of his palm rippled and twisted into a vortex-shaped orb—aside from its color, it was nearly indistinguishable from the Cursed Spirit Orb.
"See? Flesh and blood are inert. You can't reshape them at will like this. Cursed Energy, though—it's so much more responsive. Changing and restoring is effortless in comparison."
He began reconstructing his hand—bone, muscle, tendon, skin—step by step. It was fast, but it wasn't natural. It took immense familiarity with the human body and a great deal of mental effort to pull off.
Then he restored the Cursed Spirit Orb, releasing it into its original form: a kappa-shaped curse, about the size of a small child. A moment later, he compressed it again, condensing it into a thumb-sized ball using his Cursed Energy.
To his senses, the process felt like clasping the ends of a spring together into a tight coil. The moment you released it, it would spring back on its own—eager to return to its original form.
It wasn't just structure. The curse itself had intent—an urgent desire to restore its shape.
Sōjun looked down at his hands and gave them a test squeeze. Flesh and blood didn't have that kind of elasticity. Once altered, they simply stayed that way. Rigid. Lifeless.
In theory, he could convert his own body—his flesh and blood—into pure Cursed Energy. That would let him fully take on a curse-like form.
But theory and reality were worlds apart.
He could convert some of it. Even most. But never all of it. Total conversion meant losing his humanity. No matter how well he understood his own body, he'd never be able to piece it back together.
It would be like a sandcastle on the beach—if one section crumbles, the whole thing collapses. Sure, he could rebuild it. But who's to say the rebuilt version was still him?
He thought briefly of his clones. But those were different. Even though they were all him, each functioned as an individual. They couldn't act as anchors for one another...
Sōjun handed the orb back to Suguru.
During his studies of Cursed Spirit Manipulation, he'd also figured out how to compress curses into these orbs.
...
"We're really just gonna sit here like this?" he asked, standing and stretching. He glanced down at Suguru.
"Why don't we check out the Aragami shrine first?"
"See if we can find that Grade 2 sorcerer."
From what the village chief said earlier, it wasn't hard to guess who had carved the statues in the shrine. It was probably one of their mission targets. The only question was—had he stayed by choice, or was he trapped?
Suguru had no objections.
After letting the chief know, the two of them made their way toward the shrine.
...
This time, no one stopped them. The villagers simply watched them pass, but no one spoke up.
Once they stepped inside, it was immediately clear that what they saw now was completely different from what it looked like from the outside. The exterior seemed cramped and modest. Inside—it was massive, towering.
It was like a mustard seed hiding Mount Meru.
Sōjun also noticed that the way they perceived the space wasn't the same as the villagers. Their focus was drawn to things the others completely ignored—despite being right in front of them.
It was the curse...
On one side of the main hall, a middle-aged man stood before a long table. Most likely their target.
He was preparing to carve another statue.
A small crowd had already gathered around him.
Sōjun and Suguru moved closer. The man gave them a quick glance and smiled, then just as quickly looked away.
Suguru was still in his Jujutsu High uniform. So had the man not recognized him—or was he just pretending not to?
Either way, they didn't act yet. The real threat was still lurking behind the scenes.
The man began laying out his tools—dozens of them. Chisels, rasps, axes, mallets, carving knives. Thick blades, thin blades, curved edges—each tailored for different stages and techniques of sculpture.
He really did look… professional.
With everything prepared, the man cleared his throat and began his introduction:
"For the statue, we use only the finest camphor wood—dense and sturdy. It must be thoroughly steamed to remove the oils, then air-dried naturally. Otherwise, once sunlight hits the carving, it'll crack... and the god will be angered."
"Good wood makes good idols. That's the truth."
"Aragami is a benevolent guardian, protector of households and bringer of peace. He's vital to our village, so the wood must be aged—at least fifty years old. Only then can the spirit properly inhabit the statue."
"Before the first cut, we must also perform a ritual—recite a charm to drive out fear."
He stood tall and solemn, fingers shifting through complex hand signs as he chanted under his breath.
The villagers couldn't hear the words, but they watched, utterly captivated.
Sōjun Minamoto, however, heard it loud and clear:
Mortal lifts the blade
The gods bow their heads
With trembling fear
Souls scatter
Respect the higher god
Bless these hands
No fear, no doubt
No twitching, no shake
Let the idol take shape
Fed by ox and snake
When the chant ended, the man's hands moved swiftly. In moments, the rough shape of a god emerged from the wood.
Bang—
He stomped his right foot, kicking up a cloud of dust. In the streaming light, the haze added a mystic flair. The crowd's faces flushed with excitement, like they'd been waiting just for this. The man cried out:
"Wa-wa-waaa~~ yaa—!"
Necks craned. Eyes widened. All eyes were locked on his hands.
With one swift strike, he carved the eyes and shouted, "Are the eyes open?!"
"Open!" the crowd echoed in unison.
"And the hands?!"
"Open!"
He repeated the call and response for every feature—eyes, ears, nose, mouth, hands, feet. When the ritual was complete, he stilled, resumed his gestures, and slipped into another chant.
This time, even Sōjun couldn't hear a thing.
From the surface, it really did look professional.
But Sōjun's hearing was impeccable—sensitive enough to catch even the faintest whisper, especially at this distance. If he couldn't make it out, it wasn't him.
It was deliberate.
The guy was muttering intentionally vague, meaningless phrases—keeping it low so no one could follow. The less people understood, the more "mystical" it seemed. He had the villagers eating out of his hand.
It was all theatrics. Empty gestures with no real power.
Sōjun had studied religious rites, incantations, and ancient symbols. He knew this stuff inside out. There was no way he'd fall for something this shallow.
Even if there was a god here, he wanted to see what kind.
Everything about this man reeked of self-will. He wasn't coerced. He wasn't deceived. He was doing this of his own accord. The only mystery left was his motive.
Soon, the statue was complete—fire motifs coiling around muscular arms, a green-skinned face with sharp fangs, its wooden body broad and imposing. The carved grain gave it an added air of dignity.
A villager immediately stepped forward, joyfully offering tribute and reverently receiving the statue in both hands.
The sculptor's left eyebrow lifted ever so slightly.
?
Too obvious. Not professional enough.
Sōjun shook his head inwardly. So that's all it was? Just a con for money? He'd thought maybe it was some strange ability—but no, this guy had simply taken a crooked path.
Well, if you like money that much, I'll just make sure it all gets burned and sent your way.
Dark thoughts swirled in Sōjun's mind.
Suguru Geto suddenly shook his head hard, snapping back to himself. He grabbed Sōjun's arm.
"There's something wrong with the sound—no, with the whole hall. We need to go."
Suddenly, whispers echoed through the chamber.
The villagers' faces went slack. Expressionless. They moved stiffly, like puppets, silently surrounding the two of them.
The Grade 2 sorcerer, sensing things were going south, bolted first—slipping straight through the wall.
Sōjun let the darkness churn inside him.
Of course he was still lucid. Compared to the mental strain of refining Cursed Energy, this was child's play. He even had room to refine more energy from the negative emotions now stirring.
His expression lit up with excitement. So it was some strange ability after all.
Now it was his turn to be the professional.
The Star Eyes flared to life, sweeping the hall inch by inch.
(40 Chapters Ahead)
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