Near the Crystal Lake campsite.
A young couple was grilling barbecue by the lakeshore.
Holding a skewer of meat in his hand, the boyfriend glanced nervously at a nearby warning sign that read "EXTREME DANGER — LEAVE IMMEDIATELY."
A sense of unease welled up in his chest. He looked toward his girlfriend and said with concern:
"Mary, I really think we should leave... All the locals say this place is dangerous."
His girlfriend, still facing the grill as she flipped a fish, scoffed in disbelief:
"Come on, those are just urban legends. And even if there was a killer here, it's been decades. He's probably dead by now—or too old to even move."
The moment she finished speaking, she suddenly felt a strange dampness on her back.
Turning around in confusion, her eyes widened in horror.
A tall figure, wearing a hockey mask, was silently standing behind her.
He held a massive machete, and his lifeless eyes stared coldly into hers.
Her boyfriend was already lying on the ground in two pieces, blood splattered across the grass.
His face was still frozen in worry—even in death, he hadn't realized anything was wrong.
Before the woman could scream, the emotionless killer raised his hand and delivered a swift, brutal slap, causing her head to spin several full turns on her neck.
The couple had been completely annihilated.
As the killer—Jason—finished off his victims, he hadn't even managed to return to the shadows when an elderly figure appeared before him.
His mother—at least, that's what it looked like.
She was Jason's only remaining shred of humanity… and also his greatest weakness.
The moment the figure appeared, Jason froze in place, obedient and unmoving.
The woman smiled in satisfaction and spoke in a raspy voice:
"Jason... Jason Voorhees, my dear child. There are naughty children living on Elm Street. I need you to punish them. Remind them what fear feels like. Remind them who we are..."
A few minutes later, Jason walked away from the campsite, machete in hand.
Behind him, the old woman's figure twisted and shifted—revealing the true form underneath.
Sharp claws. Burned skin. A red-and-green striped sweater.
It was none other than Freddy Krueger, the infamous nightmare villain.
Watching his plan succeed, he let out a series of maniacal laughs and muttered to himself:
"Go, Jason. Let them remember the fear of Elm Street. Let Uncle Freddy bring the nightmares back to life..."
The next day.
A sports car came to a stop by the edge of Crystal Lake.
"Mm... sunny skies, beautiful scenery. What a perfect day for a murder and arson."
Orsaga stepped out of the car, casually taking in the tranquil lake.
He strolled along the water's edge for a few minutes… until he stumbled upon the gruesome corpses left by Jason.
The nearby car, the tent, the burned barbecue—all told a clear story.
From those clues, Orsaga instantly figured out why the couple had come.
He nudged one of the bodies with the tip of his shoe and let out an exasperated sigh.
"Seriously... isn't this place famous for being dangerous?. There are literally warning signs posted all around. And people still come out here to camp?. If you're that eager to die, why not head to the front lines in Syria?. The death rate there might actually be lower."
Judging by the wounds, Jason had used a combination of slaps and machete strikes.
And based on the damage to the victims' bones, Orsaga estimated the killer's strength to be around two tons.
[Wessex County — Town of Grandi — Paranormal Archive Entry]
Name: The Crystal Lake Slasher — Jason Voorhees
Years Active: 43
Born: 1946
Died: 1958 (Presumed drowned after being bullied)
Occupation Before Death: Student
Physical Traits: ~2 meters tall, over 100kg, wears a hockey mask
Primary Activity Zone: Crystal Lake (has pursued victims far beyond)
Known Abilities:
Undying (can revive even after being turned to pulp)
Stealth (moves silently, avoids most detection methods)
Tracking (can follow a target across hundreds of miles)
Immune to most exorcism techniques
Can lift cars barehanded
Skilled with all types of weapons
Confirmed Kills: 347
Exorcist Association Response:
Attempts: 2
Status: Failed
Casualties: 7 exorcists (5 died at Crystal Lake; 2 tracked and killed in Myanmar)
Recommended Strategy:
Do NOT provoke him at Crystal Lake.
There is some evidence that completely destroying his body can cause him to lose interest in his target—even if he later revives.
Threat Level: RED — Avoid if possible
—
This information was pulled straight from the International Association of Exorcistsdatabase.
According to their records, unless you're incredibly lucky, going up against Jason—who can track, fight, and resurrect—is a death sentence for most people.
He's the definition of a relentless hunter.
Once he's locked onto you, the only options are:
You kill him first
Or he kills you
And the worst part? He's got infinite continues. You don't.
"Let's see where our dear Jason is hiding..."
Muttering to himself, Orsaga began searching the area.
He hadn't come all this way for nothing—this was a rare, named wild boss. It deserved a proper fight.
Ten minutes later.
He pushed open the door of a wooden cabin and called out:
"Jason, buddy? Where are you hiding?"
Twenty minutes later.
He lifted the lid off a well and shouted into it:
"Hey! You're surprisingly good at hide-and-seek!"
Thirty minutes later.
Looking annoyed, Orsaga kicked over the abandoned grill and scanned the area.
"What the hell?!. Where's my boss fight!?. Is he hibernating or something?. Wasn't the deal that anyone who shows up here gets chopped up?"
He waited a bit longer, but still sensed nothing.
Now he was genuinely annoyed.
He considered just draining the whole lake out of spite.
"No way I'm leaving empty-handed. If I can't kill a monster, I'll at least slaughter a few fish.*
Just as he was rummaging through the car trunk for tools, the car's radio crackled to life:
"Bzzt... Yesterday, a series of brutal murders occurred on Elm Street in the town of Harland.
All victims suffered extreme trauma. Based on the wounds, authorities believe the same weapon was used in each case. For your safety, we urge all residents to..."
"...Elm Street?"
Orsaga frowned.
"Nightmare Charlie—Freddy?. According to the Association's files, didn't he lose all his power because the town had forgotten him?. Wasn't he basically in stasis?"
The moment he heard the news, Orsaga instinctively felt—
Something about this definitely had Jasonwritten all over it.
An hour later.
Thanks to the relatively short distance, Orsaga had already arrived at his destination—
Elm Street.
Compared to the Crystal Lake Camp, this was also a classic horror movie hotspot.
In his past life, Orsaga had watched a few episodes of A Nightmare on Elm Street.
He had a decent understanding of Freddy Krueger's abilities and backstory.
Unlike Jason—who was more of a berserker in the Assassin's Creed stealth-kill style, all slash-slash-slash with no finesse—Freddy was more of a nightmare spirit with a dark sense of humor. A cult horror Chaplin of sorts, Freddy could be best described as a spellcasting, close-range assassin.
His origin, too, was steeped in tragic theatrics.
His mother had been a devout nun.
But during an accident, she became trapped inside a ward that housed hundreds of lunatics, criminals, and psychopaths. After enduring prolonged abuse, she gave birth to Freddy.
This bizarre birth lent his existence a strange religious undertone.
The righteousness of his mother, and the evil of his father—these two utterly opposing forces were etched deep into the core of his soul.
And through the course of his life...
Freddy ultimately embraced the darkness.
This decision not only granted him terrifying supernatural powers after death but also left him highly vulnerable to religious artifacts—almost like a character with all their stat points dumped into extremes.
---
[Wassex County — Harland Town — Paranormal Case File Summary]
[Nightmare spirit — Freddy Krueger (Active for 25 years)]
[Born: 1941 | Died: 1976 (Cause of Death: Burned alive by furious parents after murdering children)]
[Appearance: Approximately 180 cm tall, over 60 kg in weight. Wears a black-brimmed cloth hat, red-striped sweater, black slacks, and wields metal claw gloves.]
[Activity Range: Harland Town — Elm Street]
[Known Abilities: Undying (as long as someone remembers him, he cannot truly die), Dreamworld Killing (manipulates dreams and transfers all dream injuries to the victim's real body)]
[Confirmed Kills: 226 people]
[International Exorcist Association Exorcism Attempts: 5 total — 3 failed, 2 successful. Total casualties: 8 exorcists dead, 6 survived.]
[Recommended Response: 1. He is a regional spirit. Avoid provoking him by staying away from Elm Street. 2. Pull him out of the dream world into reality to stand a chance of killing him. (As long as people fear him, he will revive—though it takes time.)]
[Threat Level: Red (Handle only if you're confident)]
---
All in all, among the three red-level threats Orsaga had encountered, Freddy was the most insidious. Dream-killing—unseen and formless—made him nearly impossible to guard against.
However, ironically, he was also the easiest to deal with.
As long as the right method was used, even ordinary people had a chance at survival.
Why? Because unlike Mary Shaw and Jason, who were practically immune to all forms of exorcism…
Freddy could still be affected by traditional methods.
Holy water, crosses, incantations—these could actually work on him.
This gave regular people at least a sliver of hope.
Whereas with Mary Shaw and Jason, there was no bargaining, no warning—they just came for you. And even if you had a cross in one hand and holy water in the other, you'd still die horribly.
So, within the International Exorcist Association, Freddy's overall threat rating was considered slightly lower than those other two monsters.
---
Since he had just arrived and didn't know the lay of the land, Orsaga didn't immediately get out of his car.
Instead, he drove his sports car slowly through the streets of the town, idly surveying the area.
It didn't take long before he noticed that no fewer than seven or eight locations had been cordoned off with police tape.
Officers were scattered in small groups, patrolling with weapons in hand.
Under normal circumstances, a stranger driving aimlessly through town like this would've triggered an immediate police stop and ID check.
After all, he looked suspicious.
But in reality—no one paid him the slightest attention.
Most of the officers just glanced at him from afar without the slightest inclination to approach.
This clued Orsaga in immediately—these cops had already locked onto a suspect, maybe even confirmed their identity. They didn't care about anything else.
So he casually pulled his car to the side of the road and stepped out, heading toward the crime scene with the largest police presence.
One of the officers there quickly spotted him approaching and moved to block him.
"Sir, please stop right there! This is a crime scene. No unauthorized personnel allowed!"
Orsaga remained calm and replied smoothly, "Would you mind informing your chief? I need to speak with him."
His tone was unhurried, his posture relaxed—he radiated effortless confidence.
Standing before him, the officer couldn't help but feel as if he were facing a superior.
His initial impulse to wave Orsaga away with a few words was suddenly gone. His expression shifted subtly.
'This guy must be someone important...'
That thought took root in the officer's mind almost immediately.
So he nodded and said, "Please wait here for a moment..."
Then he pulled out his radio and began speaking to someone.
A few minutes later—
A middle-aged man in a short-sleeved police uniform, already showing signs of balding, appeared in front of Orsaga.
The moment he laid eyes on Orsaga, his brows furrowed slightly.
He was certain he had never seen this man before.
Unclear about Orsaga's intentions, he hesitated for a second before asking:
"And you are...?"
Orsaga replied calmly,
"My name is Orsaga, from the International Exorcist Association. As the police chief of this area, I assume you're familiar with our organization."
According to the intel he'd gathered, several exorcist teams had worked with the local government here in the past—and even achieved some results.
So using the name of the International Exorcist Association should lend him some authority.
Sure enough, upon hearing the name—
The chief's tense expression relaxed noticeably.
Still cautious, he asked to confirm:
"If that's the case, I'll need to see your credentials."
Orsaga, of course, had no issue with that.
He casually produced his ID and handed it over.
His status as an exorcist was entirely legitimate—he had nothing to hide.
After inspecting the ID, the chief extended his hand in a friendly gesture and shook Orsaga's firmly.
"Thank you for your support. If you're able to seal Freddy again, we'll offer a generous reward—just like before."
Yes, the International Exorcist Association was indeed a force for justice…
But it still charged for services.
After all, exorcists were people too—they needed to eat, sleep, and live.
If you wanted someone to risk their life, you had to make it worth their while.
Generally speaking, successfully handling a red-level threat would earn you enough money to retire comfortably for life—
Eat and slack off from eighteen to eighty without a worry.
These are all the crime scene photos."
After leading Orsaga into the crime scene, the police chief handed him a file folder and gestured toward the blood-splattered room in front of them.
"This was a family of three. According to our investigation, all of them were killed in close-quarters combat. They didn't even have time to react—no signs of struggle—just instantly and cleanly executed. Each of them was killed with a single blow. No hesitation. No second strike."
Though the bodies had already been cleared away, the congealing blood stains around the room made it obvious that things had been far from peaceful when it all began.
Orsaga opened the folder and began flipping through the photos one by one. Even at a glance, he could tell that at least half of the victims had died at Jason's hands.
Their wounds and death poses were identical to those of the two unknown victims at Crystal Lake Camp.
But the discovery left Orsaga a little puzzled.
'What the hell is Jason doing mixed up with Freddy?. A physically mutated, mentally stunted man-child teaming up with a dream-hopping child killer?. What kind of garbage-tier villain duo is this?. They're probably going to turn on each other within two days…'
In his opinion, the two had completely incompatible styles. They didn't seem like the type who'd ever get along.
Put together, their combat power wasn't 1 + 1 = 2, but more like 1.1—if you were lucky. If things went south, it could even end up being 1 + 1 = 0.
After all, if they started stabbing each other, who had time to kill outsiders?
Orsaga put on a thoughtful look before speaking in a serious tone.
"There's something really off about how these people died."
The chief played along, his expression turning curious.
"What's off about it?"
He genuinely didn't understand what Orsaga meant.
Laying out the photos, Orsaga pointed to each wound as he explained:
"Every single injury here was either caused by blunt force trauma or a bladed weapon. We can set aside the blunt trauma for now, but as for Freddy—he only uses one weapon: his metal claw glove. But none of these injuries were caused by claws. They're all knife wounds. If it was just one or two victims, maybe we could dismiss it—but when every victim shows this kind of wound, it just doesn't match Freddy's usual M.O. And without that signature weapon, there's nothing to suggest Freddy was even involved."
Hearing that, the chief took a closer look at the photos again and mentally reviewed the case files stored at the precinct.
It didn't take long for him to realize Orsaga was right. None of the wounds matched Freddy's established kill pattern.
His expression turned grave.
"So what you're saying is… this might have nothing to do with Freddy at all?"
Orsaga Holmes gave a slight wave of his hand, shaking his head while calmly stroking his chin.
"Not necessarily. Freddy isn't exactly a law-abiding spirit. If we're unlucky, this might be part of some twisted scheme of his. Let me ask you—has your town or the surrounding area ever had paranormal entities that use knives or have abnormal physical strength?. I suspect someone else may have been lured here by Freddy."
The chief's face changed subtly as two or three names flashed through his mind.
Eventually, his suspicion settled on one in particular.
[The Hundred-Slayer Teen — Jason Voorhees]
Unlike Freddy, who killed more for pleasure, Jason was a walking butcher shop.
Wherever he went, the killing followed.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't hold back. He didn't care if you were man or woman, young or old—everyone died.
If Jason didn't usually stay confined to Crystal Lake, the U.S. government would've already gone all-out to eliminate him, rather than tolerating his existence and even cordoning off a zone to keep civilians out.
And now, realizing that Jason might be roaming around his town...
The chief felt a wave of panic slam into his chest. He could practically hear his heart trying to flatline.
Without hesitation, he pulled out his phone and made an urgent call.
A few minutes later, he ended the call, then eagerly grabbed both of Orsaga's hands with a pleading look on his face.
"Sir, if you noticed this anomaly so quickly, you must be a seasoned exorcist. Please—I'm begging you to get involved in this case.
We'll pay whatever it takes!"
In critical moments like this, even a passing friendly force could prove invaluable.
Orsaga, unfazed as always, nodded calmly.
"Of course. That can be arranged."
Truth be told, he found the whole situation amusing. A demon from the Abyss going around doing exorcism work under the guise of a licensed exorcist?
It had a certain ironic charm.
He didn't mind it at all.
---
Around 6 PM, as the sky began to dim.
At a local fast food joint, the police chief placed a tray on the table and handed Orsaga a small slip of paper with a few addresses scribbled on it.
This was the result of an all-day investigation by multiple officers.
After sitting down, the chief took a bite of his burger and said worriedly:
"These are the locations around town where crowds are expected to gather tonight."
"Got it."
Orsaga glanced over the list:
Hargis Manor: The owner is hosting a business reception.
Del's Bar: A third-rate rock band is scheduled to perform.
Harlin Family Cornfield: Some local college students are throwing a summer break party.
He was speechless.
From his perspective, Jason—the emotionless murder machine—must have been lured away from Crystal Lake by Freddy's manipulation.
There was no way Jason would lie low for long. A massacre was likely imminent.
All Orsaga had to do was pick the most crowded location, sit tight, and wait for carnage.
What he hadn't expected… was that there would be three major gatherings tonight.
For a town with only ten to twenty thousand residents, that was surprising.
You'd think that after a string of brutal murders, the local authorities would've imposed a curfew or banned large events.
But no—the town was running business as usual, as if nothing had happened.
He didn't bother to look too deeply into it.
After all, freedom was priceless.
Compared to that, playing with death was just a minor issue.
Even if you lost the gamble, hey—fewer mouths to feed. More resources for those who survived.
No harm done!
You had to admit: in some ways, America really had this down to an art.
After weighing the three locations, Orsaga ultimately focused on one—
The Harlin Family's Cornfield.
In just over an hour, local university students would be hosting a summer party there.
If Freddy really was behind all this, there was no way he'd miss such an opportunity.
Teenagers. Fear. Nightmares.
His favorite meal—and the very source of his strength.
The full moon hung high in the sky, casting a quiet silver glow over the earth.
On a small hillside nearby—
Orsaga sat casually on the roof of a police cruiser, while the police chief stood beside him, using binoculars to monitor the college party in the distance. His brows furrowed slightly as he spoke, confused.
"Just the two of us? Even if that thing really shows up here, I don't think we stand a chance."
He had read some of the files on Jason before. He knew all too well.
That kind of monster wasn't something a couple of regular guys could handle.
Even if they deployed the entire police force, there would still be casualties. As far as he was concerned, the two of them weren't here to stop the killer—they were here to get killed.
Orsaga remained relaxed, leaning back with his feet resting on the car's windshield wipers.
"According to the intel I received from the International Exorcist Association, Jason has excellent detection skills. If there are too many officers nearby, he'll instantly sense something's wrong."
He stretched lazily and added, "That's why we had to do it this way. And don't forget, we deliberately reassigned the rest of the officers to the other two locations to drive him here."
The chief let out a long, resigned sigh.
"That all makes sense, I guess… but this still feels way too risky."
He was only in his early forties—wanted to do his duty, sure—but he had no interest in dying in the line of it.
Orsaga gazed up at the moon above with a calm, carefree smile.
"Don't worry. You don't understand how strong I am. Jason's nothing. I can take him one-on-one, easy."
The chief looked Orsaga up and down. He wasn't exactly skinny, but he sure didn't look like some kind of muscle-bound powerhouse either. He shook his head in disbelief.
"Jason can drag a car with one hand. You? I don't think you'd last three seconds before he splits you in half."
Orsaga shot him a smug, know-it-all look.
"No, no, no… You should be saying I'll kill him in three seconds. Back on the banks of the Stygian river, I used to go toe-to-toe with demons all day."
The chief lit a cigarette with an exasperated expression.
"It's only 8:30. Aren't you dreaming a little too early?"
After that, he just squatted beside the car, puffing away in silence. At this point, there wasn't much he could do. All they could do now was wait and see.
Meanwhile, Orsaga remained utterly unconcerned, watching the bonfire blaze in the distance and the college students dancing around it.
To him, those people were nothing but bait.
Even the chief had quietly accepted that fact.
Because in a country like this, trying to stop a party was a lost cause. Even murder investigations couldn't compete with the spirit of celebration. No matter what the law said, no one was going to listen—especially not during a party.
Unless you showed up swinging a weapon, their self-destructive enthusiasm wouldn't fade in the slightest.
So, better to let them serve a purpose: attract the killer.
After watching for a while, Orsaga sighed.
"College life around here sure is something..."
Dancing, flirting, smoking, grilling, getting high—
They were living it up while slowly sliding into depravity. A discount version of a decadent nightlife.
Demons loved these places. So many chances to lead souls into full-on corruption.
As for devils—they preferred more direct methods. They didn't care for long-term corruption or spiritual decay. Why waste time corrupting someone's soul when you could just carve it out?
Persuasion was never really on the table. Even when it was, it came dripping with malice.
The chief, now done with his cigarette, had found a new source of entertainment.
With intense focus, he looked through his binoculars again, fixated on something.
"Hmm... yeah, not bad, not bad..." he mumbled vaguely in response to Orsaga.
Following his gaze, Orsaga spotted what had caught his attention—
A couple hidden among the tall grass, doing something very... Naughty things.
He snorted.
A few minutes later—
Just as the chief was really getting into his voyeuristic view, he noticed something strange. A tall, shadowy figure had silently appeared behind the couple.
And they—completely unaware—continued their passionate encounter, oblivious to the danger looming behind them.
In the next instant, a flash of steel.
Under Jason's swift and brutal blade, two round heads tumbled to the ground.
Blood sprayed across the cornfield, soaking the earth in silence.
"Oh, shit..."
The chief jerked back, quickly lowering his binoculars. He shoved Orsaga, who was crouched nearby trying to catch a snake for his late-night snack.
"He's really here! Someone's already dead!"
"Relax, relax… Let me finish picking my dinner ingredients first," Orsaga said calmly, brushing the chief's hand aside.
He'd been waiting for Jason so long, he'd worked up an appetite.
And with fresh snake meat slithering around right in front of him, priorities had to be set.
The chief looked from the bloody party scene in the distance… to Orsaga, who was focused on wrangling a snake.
His expression was pure disbelief.
'What the hell is this?'
He started to wonder if that cigarette he smoked earlier had been laced with something. Did he accidentally light one of those marijuana-stuffed specials?
Suddenly—
Screams rang out.
A chubby student, face pale with terror, came sprinting out of the cornfield.
The other partygoers turned in surprise, confused but curious.
Before anyone could ask what was happening—
Whoosh—
From within the cornfield came the sound of something large slicing through the stalks.
A blood-covered machete came flying through the air, stabbing straight into the fat student's chest and pinning his 200-pound body against a thick wooden post like he weighed nothing.
The party fell into stunned silence.
Even the loud bass thumping from the speakers couldn't reignite the mood.
A few seconds passed.
Finally, a girl hesitantly asked, "Is this some kind of prank?"
No one could be sure.
It was just too absurd.
A real machete? A body nailed to a post?
'Is someone filming a horror movie?'
Still skeptical, a brave guy stepped closer to the post.
Then he saw the dead guy's wide, terrified eyes and slack face—frozen in disbelief and pain.
He didn't need experience to know. This was real. This was death.
The realization hit instantly, and he stumbled back in panic, shouting:
"Run! This isn't—"
But before he could finish, a towering figure loomed up behind him. With one massive swing, Jason slapped him across the head.
Crack—
The sound of bones shattering echoed in the night.
His neck twisted a full 720 degrees, like a spinning top.
Screams erupted all around.
Chaos descended on the field.
And what was Orsaga doing?
Still catching snakes.
Because a few deaths?
Nowhere near as important as securing his midnight snack.
In the distance, a towering figure slowly approached, a blood-soaked machete hanging loosely from his hand.
Backed into a corner, one of the students gritted his teeth and pulled out a handgun from his pocket.
He had stolen it from his home. If it weren't for his terrible aim, he would've pulled it out much sooner.
Now, with no other choice, he held the gun up with both hands and shouted, his voice cracking under pressure:
"Drop your weapon!. Get on your knees with your hands behind your head!"
The students around him lit up with hope, as if they had just seen God himself descend from the heavens.
And in their eyes, that gun was no less than a divine relic.
'Bro, why didn't you take that thing out earlier?'
Their eyes were practically screaming those words.
The student with the gun, a little embarrassed, thought to himself: 'If my aim wasn't trash-tier, you think I'd wait this long?'
Of course, he didn't dare say that out loud—it was humiliating enough as it was.
But even with his potato-tier marksmanship, just having a weapon in hand gave him a surge of courage.
He watched as Jason briefly paused…
Then resumed walking toward them at the same steady, terrifying pace.
The student's expression hardened, and he pulled the trigger.
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Terrified that his lousy aim wouldn't land a fatal shot, he emptied the entire magazine in one go, trying to make up for his lack of accuracy with sheer volume.
When the last gunshot rang out, twelve bullets had been fired.
And thanks to his shaky hands and nerves, only one hit the target—barely.
The others grazed past Jason or missed entirely.
Seeing this, the surrounding students all stared at him like he was playing a bad joke.
One guy couldn't help but blurt out, "Dude, are you even aiming at the right continent?!"
If the guy hadn't at least nicked Jason once, he might've caught two punches right there.
Some of them, however, were more focused on the outcome than his aim.
"Is… is he dead?" someone asked hesitantly, eyes fixed on Jason's still figure.
Trying to salvage some pride, the student who fired the shots quickly responded,
"He's proba—"
Before he could finish, the machete came down in a savage arc, cleaving through his skull.
Red and white matter sprayed everywhere.
It looked like something out of a low-budget B-grade horror film—grotesquely exaggerated, drenched in gore.
"AAAAAAHHHHH!!!"
Two nearby girls let out blood-curdling screams.
Jason said nothing.
As always, he was silent and merciless.
He moved in close, swinging his massive hands like a farmer swatting chickens.
Within moments, nearly everyone was dead—only two or three students remained.
Jason slowly turned toward them.
A muscular guy dropped to his knees, trembling. He'd wet himself, and tears streamed uncontrollably down his face.
"Please, let me live! My family owns a company—I'll give you money, as much as you want…"
At this point, dignity meant nothing. All he wanted was to survive.
But Jason, behind that expressionless hockey mask, showed no reaction. His presence was like a walking death sentence—a silent executioner.
Cold. Unmoving. Unforgiving.
His shadow loomed like a tower of death, wrapping the survivors in despair.
"Damn it… I just scored a date," muttered one boy, barely holding back tears.
"I was finally gonna stop being a virgin tonight…"
The guy beside him, terrified but still morbidly honest, added,
"She's already dead. I saw it happen. Even if you make it out of here, you're still a virgin…"
"Uwaaahhh!!"
The despairing boy broke down completely, bawling like a dam had burst.
At that moment, Jason raised his machete.
The end was coming for them—
Then suddenly—
WEE-OOO WEE-OOO!!
A piercing police siren blared from nearby, followed by a blinding set of headlights.
BANG!
A police car roared out from a corner of the field at nearly 80 kilometers per hour—
And slammed into Jason.
The force sent him flying over ten meters through the air.
Before he could get back up, the car surged forward again, plowing into him with brutal force.
Back and forth it went—repeatedly crushing him beneath reinforced tires.
With Orsaga at the wheel, demonstrating the driving skills of a true madman, the armored patrol car didn't just run Jason over—it focused on his head.
Every time Jason tried to get up, the tires found his skull and crushed him back down.
No mercy. No pause.
Everyone watching—even the students who had barely escaped death—was stunned.
Even the police chief stood in awe, frozen for a moment.
He stared as Orsaga switched smoothly between drive and reverse, over and over again.
Feeling the thumps of something solid beneath the wheels, the chief shouted in excitement:
"Yes, yes, yes! That's it! Crush him! Just keep running him over!!"
He had honestly thought Orsaga would step out of the car and go toe-to-toe with Jason.
He never expected this instead.
A true road rage method of execution.
As for the surviving students—once the shock wore off, they scrambled to their feet and ran for their lives, limbs flailing in every direction.
One of them, a rich second-generation brat who'd peed himself earlier, yelled over his shoulder as he sprinted away:
"HAHAHA! Whoever's in that police car—
I swear, when I get out of this alive, my dad's writing you a fat check!!"
His face was lit up with sheer gratitude. The look of someone who had just glimpsed paradise.
He could swear on his life—
He had never loved law enforcement this much before.
Dozens of crushing passes later—
Orsaga could feel it: Jason had been thoroughly pinned down…
But not destroyed.
He turned to the chief and said, "Once I cut the engine, get out and run. Far."
"…What?"
The chief was in the middle of radioing his team for backup and didn't quite catch the meaning.
But Orsaga didn't bother explaining.
After another round of crushing, he stopped the car.
Then calmly opened the door and stepped out.
Though still confused, the chief didn't hesitate. He jumped out as well and backed away—
Just in time.
SHNK!
A machete suddenly burst up through the seat he had been sitting in—stabbing straight through.
Had he waited even one more second, that thing would've pierced him straight up the—
He sucked in a sharp breath and stumbled back a good ten meters.
BOOM!
At that moment, Jason roared and lifted the patrol car off himself.
With a mighty heave, he prepared to hurl it toward Orsaga.
But before he could throw—
Orsaga casually flicked his right hand.
A small object shot through the air.
So fast, it was almost invisible.
It sliced clean through most of Jason's right hand.
His grip faltered. The car slipped.
And came crashing back down on him.
THUD!
Flattened once again.
Orsaga stretched out his hand and caught the object as it flew back.
It was a bone-carved throwing blade, etched with arcane runes.
It had once belonged to a minor monster he'd killed early on.
After a few of his own modifications, it had become sharper, faster, and now had a built-in return function—perfect for repeat kills.
Bending down to get a closer look at Jason—who was still pinned under the police car—Orsaga stared into his emotionless eyes and said with interest:
"So, there are many kinds of immortality. I wonder which one you are?"
From the way Jason's body reacted, Orsaga could tell this wasn't about pain tolerance—
Jason simply couldn't feel pain.
A walking corpse capable of infinite resurrection?
To Orsaga, that wasn't much different from a lich.
The body was just a shell. What truly kept them alive was something else entirely.
That's why they could resurrect endlessly—until someone found and destroyed the source of their power.
This kind of pseudo-immortality, in Orsaga's view, was no different from how he was currently operating in a "smurf account"—hiding his core essence somewhere far away and well-guarded.
It was completely different from his own Malice-Fueled Immortality, which relied on consuming negative energy to regenerate.
As long as he had enough energy, there was no "weak point" to exploit.
The only way to kill him would be either with an overwhelmingly powerful conceptual force that could break through his resurrection ability…
Or by isolating him somewhere devoid of negative energy—and slowly starving him to death.
Now, as Orsaga crouched and inspected Jason at close range—
Jason suddenly lashed out with his only remaining hand, aiming to twist Orsaga's head clean off.
But before he could even make contact—
A flash of steel.
As fast and precise as Jason's own strikes had been, Orsaga responded in kind—
swiftly slicing off Jason's hand with a long, bone-crafted dagger.
Then, with a casual flick of the blade, he lifted the severed hand off the ground, inspecting it.
What he found beneath the flesh was a bone structure unlike any normal human's—
Solid. Dense. More like forged metal than living bone.
Under the police chief's complicated gaze, Orsaga twirled his dagger a few more times.
Seconds later, he had stripped the hand clean to reveal a jet-black skeletal frame.
He worked with the efficiency of a chef deboning a chicken wing. Even a professional butcher would've stood up and applauded.
Just as he was about to lift the bone and examine it more closely, the chief finally couldn't take it anymore.
"Hey… don't you think this is a little inappropriate?"
He said, pointing to Jason, who—despite having no hands—was still glaring at Orsaga with his trademark dead-fish eyes.
Dissecting a man while he was still technically alive? That was a bit much.
If Jason had been human—if he had any rights left—and Orsaga hadn't been a registered exorcist, the chief might've slapped the cuffs on him right then and there.
"…"
Orsaga looked down at Jason, who was still struggling to crawl despite having no hands. He paused and admitted the chief might have a point.
"…Yeah, I guess that is a bit unbalanced."
Without hesitation, he raised his dagger again—
And with two quick swipes—
Snick! Snick!
Jason's legs were gone.
"Can't leave him with working legs, can we? That wouldn't be fair."
He added seriously, "No matter who you are, you gotta play fair. Unless, of course, you're really good-looking."
And just like that—
Jason had become a quadruple amputee.
But now, at least, Orsaga felt better about it.
Leaving just the arms off felt oddly… unfinished.
The police chief ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
"That's not what I meant…"
Talking to Orsaga felt like smashing his head against a wall. Their mental wavelengths weren't just mismatched—they were on different planets.
He couldn't follow the logic. Jason was lying there like a dismembered ragdoll. Meanwhile, the trunk of the police car was full of freshly skinned snakes, just waiting to be grilled.
What kind of person does this?!
And that was the thing—Jason, who in the files required a full platoon to handle, had been turned into a limbless corpse in under a minute.
The bonfire party now resembled a slaughterhouse.
Severed limbs and mangled corpses lay everywhere.
A quick glance told him that over twenty people had died here.
And Jason—the one who did it all—had been crushed and dismembered like a preschooler under Orsaga's hands. No chance to resist.
That meant, if Orsaga ever lost control…
His destructive potential would far exceed Jason's.
The only upside was that Orsaga was still technically human.
He could be killed.
If things ever went south, a couple sniper rounds might still solve the problem.
The chief was just starting to wonder whether he should report this unpredictable ally to his superiors after the mission…
When Orsaga suddenly tilted his head, sensing something.
A moment later—
The world around them began to shift.
The bonfire, the blood, the corpses—all faded away.
They were now inside an abandoned, crumbling house.
Just a few meters away, a group of little girls were playing as they sang a creepy lullaby:
"One, two… Freddy's coming for you.
Three, four… better lock your door.
Five, six… grab your crucifix.
Seven, eight… gonna stay up late.
Nine, ten… never sleep again."
The voices were soft, rhythmic, and drenched in eerie malice.
Sweat instantly broke out on the chief's forehead.
He recognized this place.
They were inside Freddy's domain.
And for decades, almost no one had made it back from here.
Orsaga, however, remained completely unfazed. He ignored the atmosphere, the haunted surroundings, even the terrified chief.
Instead, he calmly critiqued:
"This song sucks."
"Excuse me?!" the chief blinked.
Orsaga continued thoughtfully:
"The rhythm and melody are just… mediocre.
It's not even catchy. The tone's flat. The pacing's off."
As if on cue, a screeching, grating laugh cut through the air.
A red-and-black-sweatered figure appeared among the girls, grinning viciously.
Freddy Krueger himself stepped into view, his metal-clawed glove gleaming as he sneered at Orsaga.
"Really?. You think my lullaby is bad?"
Orsaga nodded seriously.
"Absolutely. Based on English phonetics and the local accent, the first line should be elongated to build atmosphere. The second line is too blunt—needs a more elegant synonym. As for the third, your tonal inflection is completely off…"
He wasn't joking.
This was a masterclass critique.
And a few minutes later, as Orsaga continued dissecting every single lyric—
Freddy was left standing there, stunned.
The sneer had vanished from his face.
He looked… genuinely confused.
He had no idea what to say.
Orsaga's commentary was so professional, so detailed, that Freddy couldn't even process it.
For the first time, he realized—
The ocean of knowledge was deep.
And he was hopelessly out of his depth.
If he could go back in time, he'd slap himself for ever asking that question.
"...Sorry, man. I didn't realize you were this qualified…"
Ten minutes later.
As Orsaga continued his elaborate critique, still completely engrossed in his lecture, Freddy glanced at his wristwatch and let out a conflicted sigh. His burned face showed a rare trace of hesitation.
"Uh… would you mind stopping for a bit? I'd like to get back to killing now."
Hearing that, Orsaga—having only reached the halfway point of his analysis—frowned in annoyance.
"Stop? Why?"
Dreamland Chaplin—Freddy—grumbled under his breath.
"I've got people to kill. I'm on a tight schedule."
Orsaga's expression changed instantly.
"Killing people?"
If Freddy had given any other reason, Orsaga might've gotten angry.
But that reason?
As a bona fide abyssal demon, Orsaga wholeheartedly approved.
He smiled, nodding in full agreement.
"Now that's more like it! Murder and arson have always been excellent for stress relief—no reason to delay."
"???"
The police chief looked between them, utterly confused, like he'd stumbled into a conversation between aliens.
They were speaking English—but he couldn't understand a single word.
"Alright, then!"
With Orsaga's approval, Freddy perked up immediately. His eyes lit up with murderous glee.
He glanced between Orsaga and the police chief for a moment, then cracked a wicked grin.
His neck suddenly stretched, turning into a mass of twisting muscle and flesh like a spring-loaded jack-in-the-box. His head shot forward several meters in an instant, and with his sharp, fanged mouth, he bit down on the police chief's ear.
With a savage tug—
RIP.
A scream echoed through the dreamscape as blood splattered everywhere.
Freddy spat the bloodied ear to the ground with a chuckle.
He could practically taste the terror radiating from the police chief—and he loved it.
His gloved hands, each tipped with metal claws, rubbed together gleefully.
"It's been years since I last did this. That delicious scent of fear—how I've missed it."
Ever since being sealed and weakened by the combined efforts of the International Exorcist Association and the residents of Elm Street, Freddy had gone without his favorite flavor of fear.
His return had only been made possible by feeding off the terror surrounding Jason.
Now, finally back, he wasn't picky anymore.
He used to prefer targeting young people—but in his current starving state, even a greasy middle-aged man like the chief looked good.
Ah, hunger really did change your standards.
That's when Freddy noticed something that annoyed him.
Orsaga was still watching, his face calm and unaffected, as if Freddy had just spat out chewing gum instead of a bloody ear.
He looked bored. Unimpressed.
Freddy frowned.
He'd been looking forward to this comeback moment for years—wanted a grand, fear-inducing entrance.
And yet… this guy? Totally unfazed.
He needed to fix that.
Freddy stretched his neck again and began circling around Orsaga like a giant snake, hissing out a warning with irritation:
"Hey, kid—you can give your little lectures or whatever, but you're supposed to be afraid of Uncle Freddy! You do know the rules of Elm Street, right?"
Orsaga looked at Freddy, now twisting and contorting his body like some grotesque beast, and shook his head calmly.
"Afraid? Can't say I've ever been."
The police chief, still clutching his bleeding ear and writhing in pain, began quietly backing away.
As a normal human, he knew if he got caught between these two monsters, he'd end up as collateral damage—dead in the ugliest way imaginable.
But Freddy was already watching.
This was his realm.
Here, nothing escaped him—not even a rat trying to sneak away.
The chief's movement was laughably obvious, like watching an ant try to crawl off his palm.
Meaningless.
Freddy let out a sharp, ghoulish laugh, and the world around them began to twist.
Up became down. Left became right. Forward turned into backward.
The police chief, in his panicked attempt to flee, suddenly found himself closer to Freddy than before.
He tried to sprint away—
But instead, he ran right into Freddy's waiting arms.
Like a mouse falling into a trap, he had sealed his own fate.
Had he taken even a second to calm down, he might've realized something was wrong.
But under the weight of fear, his mind had shut down.
He was running on instinct.
And instinct would only carry him to his doom.
With another gleeful cackle, Freddy triggered a trap.
From the floor, a long, razor-sharp spike shot upward.
In the twisted physics of this dream world, the chief—trying to step back—ran straight into the spike head-on.
The blade pierced into him with a wet crunch.
The pain sent him into a frantic struggle—but no matter how hard he tried to retreat, his sense of direction had been scrambled.
Instead of escaping, he slowly impaled himself further—inch by inch.
Freddy laughed harder, delighted by the carnage, and turned to Orsaga.
"What an absolute idiot. Don't you agree?"
Orsaga studied the chief for a moment, still dangling grotesquely from the spike, and gave an approving nod.
"Definitely. If he'd kept a level head, he wouldn't have died like that."
Not the slightest sign of remorse. To him, the man had just been a casual acquaintance.
Dead was dead. No need to get emotional.
Freddy stared at him, looking straight into those unflinching eyes.
No fear. No panic. Not even discomfort.
That should have made Freddy angry—
Yet somehow… it made him feel strangely acknowledged.
As if, on some level, Orsaga had just validated his worldview.
"Hahaha!!"
With another manic laugh, Freddy's eyes lit up.
He had an idea.
"Alright, then—since you're so calm, why don't I let you choose your own death? What kind of end do you think is smart?"
His eyes gleamed with malicious intent.
He was eager to see if Orsaga would finally flinch.
Of course, deep down, Freddy remained wary. He suspected this so-called exorcist had tricks up his sleeve.
But his patience was wearing thin. He had other victims waiting for him back on Elm Street.
He didn't want to waste too much time here.
But Orsaga remained unfazed by Freddy's seething hostility.
Hands still tucked in his pockets, he replied flatly:
"Death? Any method's fine. If you're capable of pulling it off."
To him, it was just small talk—like someone asking what he wanted for dinner.
Freddy's grin twisted.
"In that case… let's go with something extra painful—how about I cut you into chunks and grind you into meat paste?"
With a wild, howling laugh, Freddy pulled his neck back into place and lunged forward.
He slashed wildly with his bladed glove, aiming to turn Orsaga into a pile of shredded flesh—
then take his time savoring the rest.
He hated the man's calm demeanor.
That arrogance. That stillness. That confidence.
It disgusted him.
'If I'd looked like that back when I was alive,' Freddy thought bitterly, 'I never would've ended up a freak.'
He slashed harder. Faster. More viciously.
But Orsaga didn't move.
Hands still in his pockets, he simply stood there. Silent. Unmoving.
Letting the blades come.
.....
After several seconds, Freddy stopped.
He stared in disbelief.
Orsaga was completely unharmed.
Not a scratch.
Not a single tear in his clothes.
And still—calmly watching him.
Freddy's eyes flicked to the police chief, still skewered and wide-eyed in death.
He exhaled slowly, face tightening.
This wasn't going as planned.
After a long pause, Freddy forced a polite smile and said:
"Actually.. I was just kidding. You didn't really take that seriously, did you?"