The air over the Combat Arena froze.
Matsumoto Futa held his sword-drawing stance without moving, like a statue. His breathing was so shallow that his chest barely rose and fell. His eyes were half closed, his pupils unfocused, as though he were looking somewhere far away.
All his cursed energy was gathering in the sword in his hand.
Fine cracks began appearing across the tachi's scabbard. It was not that the scabbard was about to shatter, but that the cursed energy was too dense-so dense that even an object steeped in cursed energy for years could no longer withstand it.
No one spoke in the stands.
Even Satoru Gojo fell silent.
Behind his sunglasses, his Six Eyes narrowed slightly as he watched the motionless boy in the arena.
"This guy..." he murmured. "He's not trying to win anymore."
Wana unconsciously clenched the hem of her skirt. She knew nothing about swordsmanship and could not see the flow of cursed energy, but she could feel it—the pressure coming from the Combat Arena, that suffocating, crushing weight.
Zhiyan had never taken his eyes off Matsumoto Futa.
His expression was calm, but something almost imperceptible stirred in his eyes.
This way of gathering power, of concentrating all his cursed energy into a single strike-he was not seeking victory.
He was seeking an answer.
An answer to the question, How far can I go?
High in the air, Suguru Geto watched the motionless figure on the ground through the gaps in [Rainbow Dragon]'s coiling body. The wind blew from above, stirring his clothes and hair, but he did not move.
He knew that, tactically speaking, this was the perfect moment to act.
An opponent gathering power had all his cursed energy concentrated on offense, leaving his defenses virtually nonexistent. A few cursed spirits, not