The proprietor reached out and caught nothing.
Yaha swept the banknotes aside with the edge of his hand. They spun through the air and landed at the proprietor's feet.
Yaha barely even moved his eyelids.
Shinobu Kocho gathered up the scattered banknotes, her fingers tightening involuntarily. She had just opened her mouth to stop him when Yaha stepped forward.
One step.
Just that one step.
Yaha pulled his hand from his trouser pocket. His right hand hung at his side, fingers spreading slightly before curling inward.
No shout, no hand signs, no visible exertion.
He simply stood there and opened a crack in the aura of absolute evil buried deep in his bones.
On the central avenue, hundreds of red lanterns went out at the same instant.
The wind hadn't blown them out. Their flames simply vanished inside their shades, as though someone had gathered the entire street's oxygen into a fist and crushed it.
Yaha slipped his hand back into his pocket and kept walking.
Even after the lanterns went dark, that oppressive force continued to seep outward. It had no weight, yet it hung in the air like an immensely heavy iron slab, forcibly pressing the surrounding air down.
The thugs on the street fell first.
They didn't even grunt as if struck. Their legs simply turned to jelly. By the time they landed on the flagstones, their eyes had already rolled back.
Their facial muscles slackened into vacant expressions, white foam seeping from their mouths. They passed out without a sound.
The handful of low-level demon informants mingling with the crowd followed immediately.
They fell far more completely than the humans. The instant their heads struck the paving stones, their bodies began carbonizing at astonishing speed.
In less than a breath, they turned to black ash, scattered