Four hundred years ago.
Hajime Kashimo dragged his aged yet still upright body over and sat casually on a boulder worn smooth by wind and rain.
His upper body was covered in old scars, like cracks in parched earth, each recording a battle to the death.
His long silver-white hair was tied loosely behind his head, a few stray locks hanging beside his angular cheeks, his eyes gazing calmly ahead.
Before him lay a field strewn with corpses.
Dozens of bodies lay twisted in various positions across the wilderness. Blood soaked the scorched earth, and a strong metallic smell filled the air.
There were human jujutsu sorcerers, tamed shikigami, and even two cursed spirits that had barely crossed the threshold of "special grade"-all were cold corpses now.
These had all been his challengers.
They had sought to prove their worth by defeating Hajime Kashimo, "the strongest jujutsu sorcerer of four hundred years ago," to seize that illusory glory and satisfy their swelling ambitions.
The outcome was obvious.
Every last one had died.
Hajime Kashimo slowly exhaled a stale breath tinged with blood. His eyes held no joy in victory, no excitement from slaughter, not even a trace of fatigue.
Only a calm that bordered on weariness.
Too weak.
All of them were too weak.
They weren't even worthy of making me get serious.
He raised his hand, palm upward.
Beneath his pale skin, blue veins rose faintly. Purple-white sparks danced at his fingertips like countless tiny electrical arcs, crackling softly.
This was his cursed technique-Lightning.
An innate, formidable power, as natural as breathing.
He commanded thunder, became a streak of lightning, and crushed everything with absolute destructive power and speed.
Over the years, he had traveled across mountains, rivers, lakes, and seas, challenging countless powerful opponents without suffering a single