Chapter 63

On the far side of the ritual site, dark curse energy was rising like smoke—drawn greedily into the bodies of the two demons standing nearby.

Ozwald stood tall in an old, tattered suit. He looked human, but his body had long since been claimed by a powerful evil spirit.

He and his sister, Dorothy Flamsteed, were the ones who had carved the unholy formation now pulsing at their feet.

"If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I'd never believe it," Ozwald said, smiling faintly. "Zombies created by a zombie demon… still clinging to fragments of self-awareness. That trace of humanity makes their fear even richer."

His voice was humble—respectful, even.

But inwardly, Ozwald was laughing with malice.

Fools.

They actually believed that power could fall from the heavens without a price.

They didn't realize it yet, but the more curse energy they absorbed, the closer they came to being consumed by Lord Void.

Ozwald was Void's most loyal disciple. His mind, body, and soul had already been offered in full.

Void had promised him: once the curse energy reached critical mass, he would return. The evil spirits would regain real, physical forms—free to roam the human world.

And Ozwald would do whatever it took to make that happen.

His strategy was simple: let the tiger devour the wolf.

The two demons now feeding on fear? They were being infected by Void's curse. By the time they realized it, it would be too late. Their power would be his.

Dongshan Xiaohong's Downfall

The zombie demon was grotesque—its form a mockery of life.

Its upper body resembled a headless, armless human torso. On its chest sat a twisted, grinning face. From its exposed abdomen dangled intestines, flesh, and other organs, slithering and twitching like tentacles to form a lower body.

It stood there, sniffing the air, taking in the dense scent of human fear with audible delight.

"Mmm… glorious," the demon muttered. "Human fear… the finest spiritual delicacy."

It opened the gaping mouth on its chest and inhaled deeply, greedily consuming the materialized fear thick in the air.

The formation had done something remarkable: it had given fear physical form—turning emotion into sustenance.

Even the bat demon standing nearby nodded in admiration. "A formation that converts fear into food… impressive."

Then suddenly, the zombie demon's expression shifted.

Its eyes twitched.

Something was wrong.

"My minions… they're being wiped out," it growled. "Damn it! Demon hunters—they're already inside the mountain!"

The bat demon's nose twitched. A wide, fanged grin split his face. "Hah… I smell humans too."

With a hiss, he crouched low.

"Let me carve them up. They'll make a fine appetizer."

In the blink of an eye, both demons vanished—racing off in opposite directions to hunt the intruders.

Back at the ritual site, Ozwald and Dorothy stood still, watching with amused smiles.

"So many monsters..."

Kurosawa Ren and his group were deep in the mountain forest now, and the attacks were relentless.

The cursed beings they were facing were nothing like the zombies in Chainsaw Man. These were stronger, smarter—and some had once been sorcerers or Onmyoji.

The zombie sorcerers unleashed barrage after barrage of spellfire, while the undead Onmyoji chanted incantations, summoning twisted shikigami to launch suicidal attacks.

Even worse, ordinary zombies swarmed them in droves, tightening the noose with every step.

"Ren… I'm going to use my trump card," said Baoyue Yexiao, her voice tense.

Her gaze swept the battlefield.

The zombies' eyes bulged from their sockets, pale pupils bloodshot. Their mouths were twisted open at unnatural angles, revealing rotted, jagged teeth. Viscous drool hung between their jaws like slime.

It was hard to believe these had once been human.

"RRAAARGH!"

Several zombies shrieked and lunged toward the group like feral beasts.

But mid-air—shnk!—they were sliced clean in half by Jianshan Huangquan's blade.

Pressure from the sudden cut sent a burst of blood gushing like a ruptured pipe.

Intestines, kidneys, and pulsing tissue spilled onto the ground in a wet, sickening heap.

Before their bodies could hit the earth, they were diced again—neat segments tumbling to the dirt.

But even Huangquan was starting to slow down.

As she caught her breath, a zombie sorcerer closed in and drove a curse-charged fist into her gut.

"BLACK FLASH!"

Before the blow could land, Ren lashed out with a backhand punch.

BOOM.

Black-and-red lightning exploded from his fist, obliterating the zombie with a shockwave that cracked the air like thunder.

Gore rained down—chunks of flesh, ligaments, bones, brain matter, and blood mist.

The surrounding zombies staggered, stunned.

"Go ahead," Ren said calmly, lowering his arm.

He gave Yexiao the green light to use her trump card.

At the same time, he retrieved a red, vacuum-sealed container from his inventory.

With a flick, he hurled it into the horde.

"Your move, Evil Scripture Monk Zheng."

Baoyue Yexiao reached into the bag on her back and pulled out a panda-shaped plush doll, then threw it after the container.

She leapt onto the black shell crow Ren had summoned, joined by Isayama Yomi and the others, rising into the air.

These dolls weren't toys—they were forged in cursed battle, tempered by demonic clashes. They were ghostly champions, hardened like venomous spirits raised in a pit of poison.

Some had evolved into rule-level entities.

Yexiao always analyzed their traits before battle. Monk Zheng, the Evil Scripture Monk, was one of her most devastating weapons.

His specialty? Wide-area destruction.

He recited the scriptures of past lives, dragging the dead—and the living—into hell.

Usually, it took just 2–3 seconds to drag a small animal down.

Fox-sized creatures took around 10 seconds.

Humans? Around 30.

Worse still, if Monk Zheng couldn't speak, he could hijack anything that produced sound—a dead rat, a cellphone, even a wind chime—to chant on his behalf.

"Namo Amitabha Night… Duotagadu Night… Duodikadu Night…"

The panda doll's head split open.

Red blood poured out, soaking the ground in a crimson tide.

A bald monk in tattered robes emerged—stringing thick Buddhist beads through his fingers, smiling eerily as he chanted.

Dozens of shadowy hands reached out from behind him.

With every syllable, they snatched at nearby zombies, dragging them—screaming—into the shadows below.

"AHHHHHHH!!"

The undead shrieked in terror, desperately flailing to escape.

But it was like falling into wet cement.

They were sucked down, one by one—devoured by hell itself.

In seconds, the battlefield went silent.

The corpse tide had vanished, leaving only a still, blood-slick vacuum.

Then came the other weapon.

The vacuum-sealed package Ren had thrown arced through the air, cracking open as it landed.

Inside was a bowl of crimson-red Mapo Tofu, so spicy it radiated steam and hellfire.

"Huff... huff... hoooh...!!"

As the steam billowed, an intoxicatingly spicy aroma filled the air—almost physically painful to inhale.

In stunned silence, the group watched from above.

Then, chaos.

The remaining zombies—suddenly mindless—rushed toward the tofu like starving desert travelers stumbling upon an oasis.

"ROOOAAAR!"

One lucky zombie reached it first. Trembling, it picked up a quivering red cube of tofu and stuffed it into its mouth.

GULP.

Then—silence.

Its face twisted.

First—rapture.

Pure, ecstatic joy.

Then—horror.

Its eyes rolled back. Blood began pouring from its nose and mouth. It clutched its throat, convulsing, twisting, screaming.

The tofu's unholy spiciness had burned through its spirit.

Its skin turned crimson. It scratched at its neck until blood gushed out in rivers—then collapsed.

Dead.

"W-what the hell is that?" whispered Iwanaga Kotoko, staring in disbelief at the chaos below.