For centuries, sorcerer families across the world have protected humanity from the shadows, all while hiding from the eyes of ordinary people. Once, long ago, they lived openly among them—respected, even admired. But the existence of curses changed everything.
The more people feared curses, the more curses were born from that fear.
So, to prevent the rise in number and strength of curses, sorcerers chose secrecy. They vanished from the public eye and formed hidden clans, each sworn to protect the world in silence. Their plan worked. Over generations, curses faded from public memory, dismissed as folktales.
Now, in the modern era, every nation has five major sorcerer clans. These clans work closely with their governments to preserve peace—and to stay hidden.
"You bastards… how could you…!" a voice roared, raw with fury.
A young man stood bloodied and shaking. His yellow hair, now matted red and clinging to his forehead like drenched cloth. His chest heaved. Rage boiled in his bloodshot eyes as he glared at the man before him.
Souta Kazehaya.
"You were strong," Souta said coldly, his voice detached. He raised a hand and gestured toward the ground behind him, where bodies lay strewn in grotesque positions—limbs severed, blood staining the soil.
To mock their pride.
To make them suffer.
"...but not strong enough."
His words landed like a blade.
Souta Kazehaya—the head of one of the great Japanese clans. For over a decade, he had stood as a symbol of hope.
A hero.
I once admired him, trained with his name in my heart, hoping to protect America just as he protected Japan.
"Why... you! You were a hero! How could you betray us?!" I screamed, my voice rasping, thick with desperation. "Tell me this is some curse controlling you!"
I was barely clinging to life. My vision blurred at the edges, my muscles too weak to respond. I couldn't even twitch a finger. My insides were decaying, eaten away by something vile. A curse, no doubt.
Still, with all the strength I had left, I forced my head upward—and saw it.
Hovering behind Souta was a creature. Its shape resembled a shark, but its body was a void of pitch-black, swimming in the air like a shadow alive. The cursed aura it emitted was unmistakable.
I remembered it.
A year ago, I stood beside Souta and the other heads of Japan's sorcerer clans. We fought this thing together. It was a monster, an unstoppable tide of hate and death.
We barely managed to reduce it to ash.
So how… how is it standing here now?
"You've got a lot of questions," Souta said. "But you're about to kick the bucket."
He raised his hand toward my face.
A glowing sphere of purple energy crackled in his palm, humming with deadly intent.
He was going to end it.
No… I would decide how this ended.
With the last of my strength, I gathered my life energy into my core—then exploded.
BOOM!
My body erupted in a blinding burst of light and blood.
Souta didn't flinch.
"What a dishonorable way to go," he muttered, his voice thick with disdain.
He spat on the ground—right where my face had been a heartbeat earlier.
"Clean this up."
At his command, dark shapes slithered up from the earth. Curses. Their forms shifted like smoke given weight—grotesque, wrong, and radiating malice. The air filled with a low, unnatural moan, a sound that chilled the bones.
One by one, the curses shambled toward the bodies. As they touched the corpses, the flesh began to phase through the ground—dragged into the earth like ghosts.
"Goodbye, Aaron."
And with that, Souta vanished into thin air.
> USA Mass Sorcerer Extermination
People Killed: 785
Souta didn't know it then—but I, Aaron, the strongest sorcerer of the USA, didn't kill myself.
Not truly.
That explosion… it wasn't surrender. It was an escape.
I had exploded to avoid being destroyed by Souta's cursed energy attack. To deny him that victory. And to have my revenge.
To understand why—I must explain where cursed energy comes from.
Cursed energy is born from negative emotions: hatred, anger, envy, grief, fear. It leaks from humans like black smoke, thick and malicious. The denser the emotion, the stronger the energy.
Sorcerers learn to wield it. But it's also what births curses.
When a person dies with strong negative emotions—regret, rage, vengeance—they don't pass on. They become something else.
A curse.
I'd heard that lesson more times than I could count. Every sorcerer had their version of it. The words differed, but this part remained the same.
Now, I did it.
In my final moment, I sacrificed everything—my body, my energy, my very soul—to transfer my consciousness.
I didn't know where I will end up. I didn't know whose body will carry me. I don't care.
I will give up my soul's salvation to take revenge.
Because I am drowning in hate.
Souta killed my sisters.
He killed my brothers.
He killed my parents.
He killed my friends.
He destroyed everything.
And now, nothing else matters.
I will obliterate the Kazehaya Clan—the monsters who wiped out the USA's sorcerer clans.
And I will find out why he did it.
No matter what.
***
Thuck!
A crumpled paper ball struck the back of a student's head and bounced off, landing near his desk. It rolled a few inches, then stopped.
The boy didn't react.
He sat at the very back of the classroom, hunched over his desk. Around him, the classroom buzzed with idle chatter—students talking, laughing, passing notes—but no one seemed to care about what was happening at the center of the room.
Thuck!
Another paper ball hit him. It struck harder this time.
Still, no reaction. His face remained buried in his arms, head down against the desk. Only the short black hair on the back of his head was visible. His arms formed a shield, wrapped tightly around himself.
"Throw another one! Hahaha!"
The snide voice came from a brown-haired boy a few rows up. Grinning, he began crumpling another sheet of paper into a ball, holding it loosely in his hand like a pitcher preparing a pitch.
But just as he drew his arm back to throw, a hand seized his wrist mid-motion.
Startled, he turned. "What are you—?"
Kaito Amagiri.
Class Representative.
Kaito stood tall with a relaxed posture. His dark brown hair framed a clean, handsome face. His black eyes were unreadable, and though a polite smile played on his lips, it didn't reach his eyes.
"Uh… Kaito! I didn't see you coming…" the bully stammered, quickly lowering his arm and rubbing the back of his head with a sheepish grin.
Kaito extended his hand toward him, palm closed around something.
"Use this," he said calmly.
The boy hesitated, then reached out and took the object. When he opened his palm, his smile faltered.
"…A rock?" he asked, holding up the small, jagged stone that Kaito had given him. His voice quivered with disbelief.
"Yes," Kaito replied, still smiling.
His eyes never blinked. Never wavered.
"…Okay," the bully said after a beat, his voice quieter now, uncertain.
With trembling hands, he unwrapped the crumpled paper ball, slipped the stone inside, and rolled it back into shape.
Then, aiming again, he threw it.
Thuck!
The paper-wrapped rock struck the back of the student's head with a dull, sickening thud. This time, it didn't bounce. It dropped and lay still on the floor.
"That's how you do it," Kaito said, already walking away. "Next time, use rocks."
Without a backward glance, he strolled out of the classroom, leaving behind a stunned silence.
"…Weirdo," the bully muttered, watching Kaito disappear down the hall. The mood had soured, and whatever thrill he'd felt earlier was gone. Scowling, he shoved his hands in his pockets and followed after him.
For a moment, the classroom returned to its normal noise. Then—
The boy at the back slowly stirred.
He pushed himself upright without lifting his face. His hands went to the sides of his head, shielding his cheek as he stood and began walking. His footsteps were quiet, almost apologetic.
He kept his head low.
No one stopped him as he left the classroom.
The hallway was mostly empty—quiet, save for the distant clatter of shoes and murmurs from other rooms. He walked to the far end until he reached a door.
Washroom.
He slipped inside and headed straight for the sink. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed faintly, their glow pale and cold.
He turned on the faucet. Water splashed into the basin.
For a while, he simply stood there, letting it run over his hands. Then, he brought it to his face, again and again, dousing himself with cold water as though trying to scrub something deeper than skin.
For five long minutes, he stayed like that—silent, shoulders trembling, lost in thought.
Finally, he turned off the tap and slowly lifted his head.
His reflection stared back at him.
Black hair. Round black eyes. Skin pale and damp. His cheeks bulged slightly, a double chin dipping beneath his jawline. His body was broad, thick. His school uniform clung uncomfortably to the curves of his arms and stomach.
He didn't look away from the mirror.
His eyes were burning.
"I'm going to do it," he said under his breath.
The moment those words left his lips, the reflection changed.
His own face faded like steam off glass, replaced by another.
A man—taller, leaner, older. Probably in his early thirties. His hair was sharp, vibrant yellow, and his eyes glowed gold like twin suns.
And he was looking straight at him.