I Am The Strongest Ghost Hunter

Chapter 26

Raito carried Sakura like a bride—arms under her knees and back, her head resting against his shoulder. Blood from her cuts soaked into his shirt, dripping slow trails down his arms.

“Let’s go,” he said, voice low, anger simmering under every word.

Akito stood frozen—eyes wide, staring at her limp form.

“It’s all my fault,” he whispered. “What was I supposed to do? How was I supposed to know it was going to explode?”

Tears slipped down his cheeks.

“I’m such a bad friend. I’m not even worthy to be called her friend. All I’ve ever done is use her—use the feelings she had for you—to save my own life. I don’t deserve to live. I should be dead.”

He choked on the last word—shoulders shaking.

Raito walked over—still carrying Sakura—calm, deliberate.

Then he gave Akito a serious headbutt—forehead to forehead, firm enough to sting.

“You’re right,” Raito said, voice steady but edged with steel. “You’re a terrible friend who exploited her feelings for yourself. And being dead doesn’t justify any of it. If you die here and now, her sacrifice becomes meaningless—even if you manipulated her into it. And who’s supposed to apologize to her on your behalf when she wakes up? I’m sure as hell not doing it.”

He turned his back—Sakura still cradled close—and started walking toward the staircase.

“So quit whining,” he added without looking back. “Let’s finish this. Then we bring her to a hospital for real treatment.”

Akito lingered—Raito’s words sinking in like lead.

“He’s right,” he muttered to himself. “He’s always been right. Without them… I wouldn’t even be here. And without them… I never would’ve known what it feels like to be alive.”

He took one step.

Then another.

Then he followed—up the staircase to the final floor.

Raito carried Sakura through the last doorway—blood still dripping from her cuts, staining them both.

The rooftop opened wide under a blood-red sky.

At the far end stood a man.

Tall. Thin. Dressed in a paint-splattered smock, brush in hand.

He faced outward—arms wide, embracing the crimson horizon—laughing softly, giggling to himself like a child proud of his masterpiece.

The artist.

The obsession at the heart of it all.

For the moment he saw him, Raito could clearly tell this was a blue ghost—judging by the aura. But this aura… this one was different from every blue ghost he’d ever encountered. If he had to rank them, this one would sit at the very top. Stronger. Sharper. More complete.

Ghosts’ abilities are shaped by their obsessions. Depending on what that obsession is, a ghost can become whatever it wants within its domain—if the fixation aligns perfectly.

“Finally,” the man said, voice soft and reverent, almost trembling with excitement. “It’s time. Time for the sweet migration I’ve been waiting for. Time for me to fulfill my art to its perfection.”

He tilted his head backward slowly—eyes still fixed on the bloody sky—then turned just enough for Raito to catch the glint in them.

“After browsing my gallery for days, Raito,” he said calmly, “what is your judgment on my creation?”

‘How the hell does he know my name?’ Raito thought, stomach twisting.

“Huh?” the man pressed, smile widening.

Raito tightened his grip on Sakura—still unconscious in his arms.

“Sorry to say this,” he replied, voice steady despite the blood dripping from his cheek, “but they’re kinda messed up.”

“You mean alive, Raito,” the man corrected gently, like a teacher correcting a child. “You see, art isn’t all about drawing. Art is life. Giving things meaning. Drawing ideas and bringing them to life. That is art. Creating. Giving life.”

Raito’s jaw tightened.

“Well… guess you took it too literally,” he shot back. “Giving life to something doesn’t necessarily mean bringing it to life the way you think. I’m not an artist, but I’m pretty sure the phrase means you draw it beautifully, well-designed—so perfectly that people don’t even have to look twice to know what it is.”

The man laughed—soft at first, then louder, head thrown back.

“Hahaha! You just proved my point. You have zero understanding of artistry.”

He turned his full body toward Raito now—arms spreading wide, brush still clutched like a weapon.

“Every true artist’s dream is to achieve perfection,” he continued. “If you can draw a woman, why stop there when you can make her look beautiful? And if you can make her look beautiful… why stop there when you can bring her to life? This is the thought of every real artist—to achieve perfection.”

He jumped down from his perch—landing lightly, almost gracefully.

“And any artist who doesn’t have such dreams of perfection is a fraud,” he said, voice dropping cold. “And needs to be taught a lesson.”

Raito shifted Sakura’s weight in his arms.

“Well, I’m not an artist,” he said flatly. “And I don’t really care about that stuff. I just need to bring my friend to the hospital. And you’re in my way.”

The man’s smile vanished.

“You ignorant little—”

He swung his brush in a clean, precise arc.

A sharp cut materialized across Raito’s cheek—perfect, surgical, blood pooling instantly.

“I am going to make my masterpiece yet,” the man whispered.

He swung again.

Another cut—across Raito’s arm.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Each stroke left a flawless line—blood welling in perfect symmetry.

Raito didn’t drop Sakura.

Not once.

He stood there—bleeding, breathing hard—holding her steady.

“I can’t drop her,” he said through clenched teeth, more to himself than the man. “Not here. Not now. I can’t let her die.”

The man paused—brush dripping red.

His smile returned—slow, delighted.

“Then let’s begin the final piece.”

The joy in the man's eyes was incomparable—wild, feverish, almost childlike. He kept drawing and cutting, brush sweeping in elegant arcs while invisible lines carved fresh wounds across Raito's body.

"This is what I've always wanted," the man breathed, voice trembling with ecstasy as another perfect slash appeared on Raito's shoulder. "A perfect prop. A prop that won't fight back. A prop that is perfectly still. Now… now I can make my masterpiece."

He swung again—delighted, unstoppable—until Raito's skin was a canvas of red lines, blood dripping in symmetrical patterns.

Raito stood there—bleeding, breathing hard—but still holding Sakura gently in his arms.

"I'm sorry, Sakura," he whispered, voice raw. "We can't both die here."

He lowered her carefully to the ground—soft, reverent—making sure her head rested on his folded jacket.

Then he charged.

Fist clenched, eyes burning.

The man kept swinging—laughing, ecstatic—brush cutting air and flesh alike.

Raito punched—square in the face.

His fist passed straight through.

No impact.

The man laughed louder. "Why are you shadow-boxing?"

He swung again—another flawless cut across Raito's ribs.

Raito staggered—punched again.

Again.

Again.

Every strike went through like smoke.

The man giggled—delighted—while cuts kept appearing on Raito's body, deeper, more precise.

Raito dropped to his knees—barely able to move, blood pooling beneath him, skin hanging in ribbons.

The man stepped closer—slow, almost tender.

"I am going to remember your name," he said softly. "It is worth remembering the name of the best prop that helped me achieve perfection."

He raised the brush for the final blow—elegant, perfect, aimed straight at Raito's throat.

Then—

Akito leaped in from nowhere.

He shoved Raito hard—shoulder slamming into him, knocking him aside.

The brush cut clean through Akito's arm instead.

It severed at the shoulder—arm dropping to the ground with a wet thud, blood spraying in a wide arc.

Akito screamed—raw, guttural—clutching the stump as he collapsed to his knees.

Raito could only watch—horror freezing him in place.

Akito looked up—tears mixing with blood—smiled weakly through the pain.

"Couldn't… let you die first, man."

The man paused—brush dripping—head tilted curiously.

"Another prop?" he mused. "Even better. Two still ones… perfect symmetry."