I Am The Strongest Ghost Hunter

Chapter 27

The man laughed—louder, wilder, excitement bubbling over like he’d just discovered the meaning of life.

“This is so fun!” he cried, brush twirling in his fingers. “Are there more of you hiding in there?”

No answer.

Just Raito—still on his knees, blood dripping from every cut—staring at the ground.

Then—quietly, almost to himself—

“I understand it now.”

He rose slowly.

Walked past Akito, who lay curled on the rooftop, sobbing, clutching the stump of his arm.

“I understand it now,” Raito repeated, voice calm, steady, like a mantra.

He kept walking toward the man.

“How I wish I knew it earlier,” he said softly. “But it doesn’t really matter. Because I understand it now.”

The man’s joy flickered—concern creeping in.

“Are you that eager to die?” he asked, tilting his head.

Raito didn’t reply.

He just kept walking—chanting low.

“I understand it now.”

The man’s smile faltered.

“Well… if that’s what you want,” he said, raising the brush again, “it’ll be my pleasure.”

He swung—perfect arc, aimed straight at Raito’s neck.

“I get it now, Meg,” Raito whispered.

His eyes flashed blue.

He charged.

Dodged the invisible cut—nobody saw it coming, but he did.

Then—his crackling fist slammed into the man’s cheek.

Electric surge.

Devastating blow.

Sonic boom echoed across the rooftop.

The man flew backward—crashing into the bulkhead, metal crumpling around him like paper.

Raito kept walking.

The man struggled to stand—head lolling, blood dripping—but managed it.

Then he saw it.

The blue aura enveloping Raito—bright, electric, alive.

“What… are you?” he asked, voice shaking.

No reply.

One moment Raito was in front of him.

The next—he wasn’t.

A punch from behind—fist buzzing with blue lightning—slammed into the man’s back.

He crashed forward—through the bulkhead, metal screaming as it folded.

“No… no… no no no,” the man cried, scrambling up. “This is my story! I should be the one winning!”

His voice cracked—desperate, furious.

Then it shifted.

His aura exploded—blue bleeding into pure, blinding white.

“What’s happening to me?” he gasped, clutching his chest. “But… but… it feels good.”

He laughed—manic, unhinged.

“I’m surging with energy… and ideas… perfection is within my grasp!”

Raito kept walking—slow, relentless.

The man raised his brush—moved it in a perfect box motion.

A giant boulder—box-shaped, solid stone—materialized above Raito.

It dropped.

Crushed him to the ground.

Blood pooled out from underneath—dark, spreading.

The man stood tall—white aura blazing.

“Now,” he said, voice trembling with triumph. “Now I can finish my masterpiece.”

“Hahahaha!” the man laughed—manic, triumphant. “I am unstoppable! I’m filled with ideas! The world—everyone—needs a redesign!”

The boulder cracked—blue light spilling from every fracture like water bursting through stone.

Then it exploded—shards flying, blue energy surging outward in a blinding wave.

The light twisted, coiled, reformed.

Raito stood again—whole, unbloodied—eyes flickering back to normal.

He collapsed to his knees, gasping.

Akito saw it all before his own vision faded—blood loss pulling him under.

“Almost perfect,” the man whispered, brush trembling with joy. “Now let me make the perfect splatters.”

He stretched the brush in a wide arc.

A rope materialized—thick, black, alive—snaking around Raito, Sakura, and Akito, binding them together in a tight coil.

Above them, the giant boulder reformed—solid, heavier than before.

It dropped—crashing toward them at terminal speed.

But before it crushed their bones—

The boulder sliced clean in two.

Perfect halves.

They fell opposite directions—crashing to the rooftop with thunderous booms.

Raito, Akito, and Sakura stood untouched in the center.

“Such perfection,” the man gasped, eyes wide. “What could possibly—”

“Hey, Sonny.”

A voice cut through the air—calm, amused, dangerous.

The man—Sonny—whirled.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

“You probably don’t know me,” Hank said, stepping forward from the shadows. Black outfit pristine, sword in hand, shades reflecting the red sky. “I’m Hank. One of your biggest art fans… back when you were still alive.”

He tilted his head.

“And well… you hurt my students. So I’m here to make you pay.”

His gaze flicked to the brush in Sonny’s hand.

“That artifact of yours looks pretty cool. Might as well take it.”

Sonny’s smile vanished.

‘He’s bad news,’ he thought. ‘I have to end him immediately.’

He swung his brush in a frantic circle.

A giant grenade materialized—hovered above Hank—exploded in a deafening blast.

Smoke cleared.

Hank stood—untouched, unscathed.

“He’s fast,” Sonny muttered. “No… it’s almost like… he can see my moves.”

Hank swung—sword flashing.

Sonny dodged—barely.

“Pathetic and slow,” Sonny sneered.

Hank just smiled.

Chains erupted from the rooftop—snaking up from below—wrapping Hank’s wrists, spreading his arms in a cross shape.

Glass shards still clung to his face.

Sonny wasted no time—drew a diamond sword with a flick of his brush.

It came crashing down.

Hank dodged—chains rattling but holding.

The sword struck the chains—sparks flying.

They shattered.

Hank was free.

“How are you doing that?” Sonny snarled.

Hank didn’t reply.

He swung again.

This time—Sonny blocked with the diamond sword.

Hank’s blade went straight through it—like it was air.

Continued through.

Severed Sonny’s left arm clean at the shoulder.

Sonny screamed—loud, raw.

“Come on,” Hank said dryly. “Stop overreacting. It’s not that painful.”

He swung again.

But something caught his wrist—thick, slimy.

A giant toad—massive, wart-covered—stood behind him, tongue wrapped tight around Hank’s arm, with a swift motion, he diced the toad with his sword.

Sonny quickly drew with his remaining hand.

A black replacement arm materialized—clenched into a fist.

He slammed it into the rooftop.

And then Sonny drew a black hand to replace his severed left arm—ink-like tendrils twisting and hardening into a perfect, obsidian limb.

He clenched the new fist.

Slammed it into the rooftop.

The shockwave erupted—violent, concussive—rippling outward in a ring of pure force.

The entire five-story building buckled.

Floors collapsed inward.

Walls shattered.

Glass exploded outward in glittering rain.

Everything came crashing down—concrete, steel, mirrors, debris—turning the structure into rubble in seconds.

They were in the real world now.

The illusion shattered completely.

Hank staggered up from the wreckage—dust and blood streaking his black clothes, but his shades still perfectly intact, not a single crack.

His sword lay a few feet away—half-buried under broken concrete.

Before he could reach it—

Sonny drew again.

A giant cage materialized around Hank—red-hot bars glowing molten orange, searing the air.

The bars slammed shut—trapping him inside, cutting him off from the sword.

Hank grabbed one—hissed in pain, skin sizzling on contact.

He tried to force them apart—muscles straining—but the heat was unbearable.

Sonny stepped forward through the dust—black hand flexing, white aura blazing brighter.

“Now,” he said, voice trembling with dark joy, “let’s finish this masterpiece.”

Hank looked up—smirk tugging at his lips despite the pain.

“You talk too much for a dead man.”