The exorcist's glare pinned Yuki in place, a physical weight heavier than the concrete brute's fist. The pure, repellent energy radiating from the etched rod pressed against his own crimson aura like a spiritual battering ram. The air crackled and spat where the opposing forces met, releasing sharp sparks and the acrid scent of ozone and burnt sugar. The exorcist took another deliberate step forward, its hard eyes burning with cold, righteous fury.
Abomination. The word wasn't spoken aloud, but it slammed into Yuki's mind with the force of a hammer blow, radiating from the figure like a wave of pure condemnation. Tainted. Defiled. Unnatural.
Yuki felt Kage's presence coil sharply within him, a serpent sensing a rival predator. A zealot, the demon's whisper laced with contempt, yet edged with a flicker of something else – caution? A fool who believes the world is divided neatly into light and dark. They see only the stain, not the weapon. They see the corruption, not the purpose.
But the exorcist's judgment cut deeper than Kage's disdain. It saw the pulsing black scars on Yuki's forearms, visible even in the dim light. It saw the faint, unnatural crimson glow still clinging to his knuckles. It saw the unnatural cold radiating from him, the frost that had formed on nearby pipes. And it saw the soul he'd just consumed, the lingering psychic stain of the concrete brute's terror and rage clinging to him like a shroud.
It saw the corruption. And it named it, with chilling finality: Filth.
The word echoed in the hollow spaces of Yuki's mind, resonating with the self-loathing that had been festering since the alley, since the taste of the doll-creature's soul. Filth. He felt dirty. Stained inside and out. The power was a taint. The pact was a defilement. The souls he consumed were a corruption he willingly absorbed, a darkness he wore like a second skin.
The exorcist raised the etched rod higher. The intricate symbols blazed brighter, the pure, scouring energy intensifying. It wasn't just an attack; it was a purging. An attempt to scour the filth from the world, to cleanse the stain Yuki represented.
Yuki reacted instinctively, the scars on his arms flaring in response to the hostile energy. Crimson tendrils lashed out, not to attack, but to deflect, to shield. They met the pure light from the rod in a violent shower of sparks that smelled of ozone and burnt sugar. The force of the collision threw Yuki backwards. He crashed into a pile of rusted, oil-slicked pipes, the impact jarring his bones, driving the air from his lungs.
The exorcist didn't even flinch. It began to advance, its steps slow, deliberate, inexorable. Each step radiated purpose, conviction. The absolute certainty that what it was doing was right. Necessary. Holy.
Yuki scrambled to his feet, his heart pounding with a fear that felt different from the terror inspired by the monsters. This was the fear of being seen. Truly seen. Not as a victim, not as a tragic figure, but as the monster he was becoming. The exorcist didn't see his grief, his desperation, his reasons. It only saw the filth. The demonic taint. The walking corruption.
Destroy it! Kage's voice hissed, urgent and demanding, the serpent coiling tighter. Crush the zealot before it binds you! Feed the fire! Show it the price of its arrogance!
The scars on Yuki's arms pulsed hungrily in response, the crimson energy surging, eager for violence, for consumption. The thought of unleashing that power, of tearing this righteous figure apart and consuming its pure soul… it was tempting. A dark thrill flickered within him.
But then he looked at the exorcist's eyes. Not the eyes of a monster, but the eyes of a believer. Eyes that saw a blight and felt compelled to erase it. Eyes that burned with the conviction of their own righteousness. Fighting this… this person… felt fundamentally different. It felt wrong. The exorcist wasn't a mindless creature feeding on fear. It was driven by belief. By a code, however brutal and absolute.
The exorcist closed the distance, swinging the rod not like a weapon, but like a conductor's baton. Pure, blinding light lashed out, not at Yuki, but at the grimy concrete floor before him. A complex circle of intricate, glowing symbols erupted into life on the ground, pulsing with binding power that made Yuki's scars burn with cold agony.
He felt the energy seize him, not physically, but spiritually. It felt like being plunged into liquid nitrogen. The crimson energy around him sputtered, recoiling from the pure, cleansing light as if it were acid. The scars on his arms felt like they were being frozen from the inside out. He cried out, stumbling back, the sound raw and pained.
The exorcist stepped into the glowing circle, its gaze never leaving Yuki's, burning with righteous fury. Filth, its gaze accused, silent and absolute. You have no place in this world. Your existence is a defilement.
Yuki looked at the exorcist, at the burning conviction in its eyes, at the pure, terrible light of the rod. He looked down at his own hands, at the pulsing black scars, at the faint traces of crimson energy flickering around his knuckles like dying embers. He felt the cold in his veins, the slow, heavy beat of his corrupted heart, the hum in his bones, the phantom taste of rust and fear and consumed souls coating his tongue.
He felt the hollow ache inside him, the one he'd tried to fill with power, with vengeance, with stolen souls. And he realized, with a horrifying, soul-crushing clarity, that the exorcist was right. Utterly, completely right.
He was filth. Tainted. Corrupted. The power he craved had defiled him. The pact he'd made had stained his soul beyond redemption. He had become the very thing he hunted, the very thing that had destroyed Hana – a predator feeding on pain and fear, wearing a human face like a mask.
The realization was a crushing weight, heavier than the exorcist's binding circle, heavier than the concrete brute's fist. It stole the fight from him, extinguished the dark thrill Kage had offered. He sank to his knees amidst the glowing symbols, the crimson energy fading completely, the scars pulsing with cold, defeated light. He felt the purity of the circle pressing in, not painful now, but revealing. It showed him the truth of his own corruption, laid bare.
The exorcist raised the rod for the final blow, its face a mask of cold, righteous purpose, ready to purge the world of the stain kneeling before it.
Yuki didn't fight. He didn't beg. He just knelt there, in the circle of cleansing light, feeling the filth clinging to him, inside and out, and waited for the purification. He deserved it. He welcomed it. The only thing he felt was a vast, hollow relief that it would finally be over.