Kenya.
A place in eastern Africa, crossed by the equator.
Poverty set the tone there, and hunger colored everything beneath it.
Yet on that land, Miguel had grown strong and muscular, his dark skin gleaming in the sunlight like polished ebony. That alone was undoubtedly fortunate.
But more fortunately still, he had successfully awakened his cursed technique.
[Song of Prayer]-its ability was simple and pure: by moving his entire body in a rhythmic dance, he could repel curses and strengthen himself, increasing his strength, speed, and toughness.
The coils of black cord wrapped around his waist were the Special Grade Cursed Tool passed down through his tribe for generations, the "Black Rope." Any sorcerer touched by that rope would have his cursed technique disrupted, robbing it of its original form and power.
Naturally, that made him Africa's strongest juju... elbow sorcerer.
And because of that, he had made something of a name for himself in this impoverished, hungry land. He had his own followers, his own territory, and his own "business." Although that business was small, consisting of maintaining order between a few villages, protecting his people from cursed spirits, and occasionally taking odd jobs from outsiders that paid little but enough to give the villagers a few full meals, he got by. His life was neither good nor bad.
By chance, he met Toji Zenin.
He met that man late one night in a little tavern in a border town. The man had a scar running from the left corner of his mouth down to his chin, starkly visible beneath the dim, flickering light.
"You're not bad." Those were the man's first words to him.
Toji stayed there for a while. Miguel got along fairly well with him, so the two could be considered friends.
After drinking together one