Izaya landed atop the massive stone hand embedded in the battlefield, his feet finding firm purchase against the ancient, cracked surface. The colossal fingers curled slightly as if grasping at ghosts long forgotten, but the palm remained steady beneath him—a perfect vantage point.
From his elevated position, he cast his sharp, unyielding gaze upon his opponent.
The curse stood amidst the crimson lake, its surface eerily still despite the chaos brewing between them. The thick, metallic scent of blood hung in the air, oppressive and intoxicating. The moon above bathed the battlefield in cold silver light, illuminating the glistening red pool around her like a sacrificial offering.
Izaya exhaled slowly, his voice slicing through the silence like a blade.
"Your technique—it's blood, isn't it?" His words were calm, yet laced with certainty, as though he had already solved the puzzle she presented. "You manipulate not just your own, but any blood within your domain. You shape it, mold it into flesh, into hair…"
The curse's smirk widened, but for a fraction of a second—just the briefest flicker of time—her expression wavered.
Izaya continued, unrelenting.
"But you can't create blood."
He gestured towards the dwindling lake of crimson, its edges retreating as if afraid of what was to come.
"The fact that the blood is disappearing proves it. You can only use what already exists."
Her grin stretched wider, but her eyes darkened with something else—something beneath the surface. Excitement? Annoyance? Fear?
Izaya's own smirk deepened, the corners of his mouth curving ever so slightly.
"I wonder," he mused, his voice lowering, his tone edged with a deadly finality, "if you can still revive yourself… after I erase every last drop."
The moment the words left his lips, the curse shivered. But it wasn't fear that overtook her—it was something far more sinister.
A soft, trembling moan escaped her lips. Her body quaked as a deep, unnatural blush spread across her pale cheeks, her fingers digging into her own flesh hard enough to draw thin trickles of blood.
"Yes…" she whispered breathlessly, her voice dripping with ecstasy. "Yes! This is it! This is what I live for—the moment where life and death entwine, where the abyss stares back!"
Her wild, maddened eyes locked onto Izaya, burning with unhinged desire.
"You." Her voice cracked, a feverish edge lacing her words. "I want you. I will kill you… and when you die, you will be mine for eternity!"
She thrust her arms forward.
The surface of the blood lake convulsed, rippling violently, before a tidal wave of crimson erupted into the sky.
From the depths of the lake, five monstrous forms took shape.
Dragons.
Their massive bodies coiled and twisted, forming from liquid blood, their serpentine forms shimmering under the moonlight like cursed rubies. The air trembled with their presence, their maws lined with jagged, shifting fangs, their eyes hollow pits of writhing, soulless hunger.
They moved as though possessed, their bodies rippling like liquid yet striking with the weight of something ancient and unrelenting. When they roared, the sound carried the cries of a thousand tormented souls—a cacophony of suffering that sent shivers across the battlefield.
The curse let out a breathless laugh. "Feast, my darlings! Tear him apart!"
With a flick of her wrist, the blood dragons surged forward, moving with terrifying speed, their monstrous forms slicing through the air like crimson meteors.
Izaya did not flinch.
Still standing atop the giant stone hand, he slowly brought his palms together.
The battlefield quivered.
A deep rumbling resonated beneath the earth, subtle at first—like a whisper in the dark. Then, with terrifying force, the ground behind him began to rise.
The land convulsed.
A massive cone of earth erupted upward, towering over the battlefield like a newly born mountain. Its surface cracked and churned, raw energy seething through its jagged veins.
Izaya's voice remained calm, steady, unreadable—except for the faintest trace of amusement.
"So… dragons, is it?"
The moment the words left his mouth, the earth roared in response.
From the apex of the towering formation, shadows twisted and writhed. Then, with a sound like shattering stone, eight colossal dragons burst forth.
They were formed of pure obsidian rock, their sleek, polished bodies glistening like black glass under the moonlight. Their piercing eyes burned with ancient power, their movements precise, calculated, utterly unshaken by the chaos around them.
Izaya's voice rang out, steady and commanding.
"Tsuchi no Gijutsu…"
His fingers curled into a seal. The stone dragons coiled into formation, their massive tails slamming against the earth, shaking the battlefield with raw power.
"Yamato no Orochi."
The eight obsidian dragons roared in unison, their deafening cries shaking the very heavens.
And then—they struck.
The battlefield ignited into chaos as rock met blood, a clash of titanic forces that sent shockwaves rippling across the land.
The blood dragons lunged, their liquid bodies twisting with impossible agility. They lashed out with serrated fangs, tearing into the stone behemoths, the impact sending chunks of rock cascading into the air.
But the stone dragons were relentless.
They coiled around their crimson foes, their massive bodies constricting, grinding, crushing with the weight of the earth itself.
Yet, the blood dragons did not die.
For every wound inflicted, the missing blood returned, regenerating their bodies as fast as they were torn apart. Their forms pulsed, reshaping, refusing to be vanquished.
Izaya remained still, unfazed, watching with quiet calculation.
Then—he broke the sign.
Bringing his hands together once more, his voice rang out, infused with power.
"Hono: Ryukan."
The stone dragons began to burn.
Their rocky exteriors glowed with molten light, their bodies heating, twisting, shifting—until suddenly, with a roar that split the sky, they detonated.
The battlefield became an inferno.
Molten rock surged like an unstoppable tide, cascading over the blood dragons in a hellish flood of golden fire.
The blood hissed and shrieked, evaporating on contact, black smoke rising in thick, choking plumes. The dragons howled as if alive, their liquid bodies convulsing as they boiled away, reduced to nothing more than coagulated, useless masses of blackened sludge.
The battlefield fell silent.
The once-glistening lake of blood was gone.
All that remained was a thin, lifeless film—its surface marred by scattered remnants of what had once been human.
Izaya lowered his hands, exhaling softly. His smirk was gone.
His gaze lifted toward the curse.
"…Now then."
The fight was far from over. But in this moment, the balance had shifted.