"Teru teru bozu, teru bozu."
"If it rains and you cry..."
A man nearly two meters tall, wearing a black leather apron, hummed the nursery rhyme "Teru Teru Bozu" with a relaxed expression.
"I'll cut your head right off."
His movements, however, were anything but gentle. Holding a massive bone-cleaving cleaver, he brought it down without a shred of hesitation upon the mangled mess beneath him.
Splat!
The sound of tearing flesh and snapping bone echoed as a round object tumbled to the floor. Underneath the workbench, which was stained with layers of bloody filth, a pile of severed arms, hand bones, and leg bones had already accumulated.
Staring at his masterpiece—a limbless torso and a hollowed-out neck—the terrifying, blood-soaked butcher licked a smear of dark blood from his blade. He pulled a face of disgust.
"Tch. Still lacks flavor."
The butcher's eyes were bloodshot with rage as he gritted his teeth. "It's all because that damn Sorcerers Association keeps hunting me. The quality of my sacrifices has plummeted lately."
"Forget it. The conditions are crude, but it'll have to do."
After a surge of Cursed Energy, a clean white cloth appeared in his hand. He carefully wrapped the mutilated remains in the cloth and tied them tight with a rope. Moments later, blood began to seep through the white fabric.
A macabre, crimson Teru Teru Bozu was taking shape. All it lacked were eyes. The butcher picked up a random shard of bone from the floor and tapped it twice against the head—a final touch that brought the creation to life.
The doll instantly seemed to gain a soul. Red eyeballs spun wildly and frantically; its mouth tore itself open from within, letting out a laughter that sounded more like a shriek of pure agony. It was bone-chilling.
"Good child."
As if triggered by this, more eerie laughter began to echo from above the butcher's head.
If anyone were to look up at this moment, they would likely be scared to death. Hanging from the center of the ceiling were dozens—hundreds—of identical blood-stained Teru Teru Bozu, arranged in neat, dense rows.
The ropes around their necks made them look like they had been lynched. Their eyes bulged as if ready to pop out, and they were laughing in a terrifying, synchronized chorus.
"A curse user turned living people into various Teru Teru Bozu and held a personal art exhibition?"
Kenmyo Isayama's voice rose an octave. Setting aside how such a horrific exhibition managed to get venue approval, the fact that pre-sale tickets online were snatched up instantly was truly disturbing. Were the people of this country really into such "heavy" tastes?
The strangest part was that the Jujutsu world didn't take notice until the families of the visitors reported a mass disappearance. Not a single monitoring report had detected any unusual Cursed Energy fluctuations in Tokyo before then.
Eventually, the Association dispatched three Grade 3 sorcerers and one Grade 2 sorcerer to investigate. The order was issued in the afternoon; the team was gone by nightfall.
The heads of those four men, wrapped in white cloth as Teru Teru Bozu, were found displayed ostentatiously on the four corners of the Metropolitan Police Department's rooftop that very night.
They hung from the corners, bodies missing, heads encased in cloth. The constant dripping of blood onto the office windows below was only discovered by a cleaning lady.
If this wasn't a provocation, what was?
Analysis of the residual Cursed Energy on the white cloth revealed the culprit: a "Doll Maker" butcher who had been an A-Rank fugitive on the Association's wanted list for nearly twenty years.
Now, with old and new grudges combined, the Association put Yomi Isayama—a powerhouse even among Grade 1 sorcerers—in full charge of the case with a strict order: kill on sight.
This was the part Yomi found tricky. The warrant was twenty years old. A person changes immensely in one year, let alone twenty; in a crowded city, his own mother wouldn't recognize him. The only lead was the blood-soaked cloth that had held the head of one of the unlucky investigators.
After committing such an atrocity and sensing the Association was about to send a top-tier hunter, the butcher had vanished into thin air. Yomi couldn't find him. It was because of this dead end that she had found the time to visit Kenmyo.
As for Kenmyo's bet, Yomi had only half-agreed. Letting him try to kill a man who was already a Grade 2 curse user twenty years ago was a suicide mission. After slaughtering the investigation team, the butcher's threat level had been raised to Grade 1—the same rank as Yomi.
Therefore, the deal was: if Kenmyo could help Yomi find the culprit, she would acknowledge him and agree to partner up. Killing the criminal would be Yomi's responsibility; she was the professional combatant.
"Yomi-nee, you said if I find the culprit's location, you'll agree to team up, right?" Kenmyo asked to be sure.
"Yes. What, don't you trust me?" Yomi looked at the cautious Kenmyo with a mix of amusement and exasperation. "I won't go back on my word."
Tracking techniques were a weakness Yomi had struggled with. If Kenmyo could fill that gap, it would be a huge asset.
"Great. I understand." Kenmyo smiled. "Yomi-nee, consider me your new teammate."
With a thought, Kenmyo focused his will on a piece of gear bound to his soul: [Eternal Hunt], a crimson token bearing the phantom image of a massive wolf head.
Summon: Flesh Hound!
Suddenly, a beastly roar that felt like it could freeze one's soul echoed in Yomi's ears. A sense of danger, like dark tentacles, brushed against her nerves.
"Is this a Shikigami?"
A behemoth three meters tall and four meters long—looking like a hybrid of a wolf and a reptile—crawled out of Kenmyo's small shadow. It had a maw full of razor teeth, skin covered in heavy scales, a row of spikes along its spine, and massive fleshy frills behind its head and throat.
As the creature's brutal vertical pupils locked onto Yomi, she instinctively reached for her blade.
"Sister, it won't hurt us."
In front of the stunned Yomi, Kenmyo reached out and touched the Flesh Hound's snout. The beast responded by affectionately nuzzling his palm. It looked like a submissive giant cat.
The Flesh Hound had another name: the "Blood Hunter of Khorne." Once they mark a target, there is nowhere left to hide.
Kenmyo held the blood-stained cloth from the investigation out to the Flesh Hound's nose.