The Exorcist's Final Year

The sanctuary was silent, save for the rhythmic, ragged intake of breath that sounded like dry leaves skittering across stone. Raka stepped through the threshold, his shoulders hunched against the biting evening chill. He had been out scavenging for medicinal herbs, meager, low-grade roots that were all a student of his rank could afford, but the bag slipped from his nerveless fingers the moment he saw the slumped silhouette.

"Master? Master Jun?"

The man was sprawled against the low altar, his robes stained with a deep, encroaching shadow that seemed to pulse against the fabric of his tunic like a living bruise.

"Raka? You’re back early," Jun wheezed. His voice was a thin, frayed wire. He didn't look up, his forehead pressed against the cold floor.

Raka sprinted across the room, his boots skidding on the dust-moted floor. He dropped to his knees, his hands hovering over the older man’s trembling shoulders. "What happened? You were fine this morning. You were just meditating!"

"It’s nothing," Jun coughed, a wet, rattling sound that turned into a grimace of agony. "Just… a bit of exhaustion. My channels are… they’re just acting up."

"Stop lying to me! Look at this!" Raka scrambled to pull back the collar of Jun’s robe. The skin beneath was mottled with black, vein-like tendrils that seemed to be actively burrowing deeper into the muscle. The mark wasn't just a wound; it was a hungry, geometric corruption. "That’s not 'channels acting up.' That’s a curse."

Jun swatted Raka’s hand away with a weak, frantic motion. "Don't touch it. I said don’t touch it, boy! Do you want to lose your hand?"

"I don't care about my hand, I care about you!" Raka’s breath came in ragged gasps. He pressed his palms together, forcing every scrap of his meager spiritual energy to gather at his fingertips. It was a faint, flickering golden light, barely enough to warm a cup of tea, but he shoved it toward the wound. "Just hold on. I can stabilize you. I’ve done it before, remember?"

"Raka, stop. You’re wasting your essence," Jun groaned, his eyes fluttering shut. "It’s too deep. It’s eating through the suppression seals I set."

"I’m not stopping. If I can just push it back..."

"It doesn’t want your energy, Raka. It’s feeding on it!" Jun’s hand clamped down on Raka’s wrist, his grip surprisingly iron-like despite his collapse. "Look at your palm. Look!"

Raka blinked, staring down. Where his energy had made contact with the black veins, the corruption was swirling, turning bright, vibrant violet. It was absorbing his light and using it to expand. Raka yelped and pulled away, falling back onto his heels.

"See?" Jun slumped further, his head lolling. "It’s a parasite. A High-Tier Warding Seal gone wrong. It’s… it’s a death sentence, kid."

"Don't say that. You’re the best teacher I’ve ever had. You can’t just quit on me now," Raka said, his voice cracking. He felt a cold, hollow terror yawning open in his chest. If Jun died, there would be no one left to vouch for his training. No one to keep him off the streets of the lower districts. "Tell me how to break it. Give me a ritual. Give me a formula!"

"There’s no formula for something that feeds on internal power," Jun muttered, his eyes unfocused as he stared at the ceiling beams. "It’s not from our school. It’s not even from this region. It’s a specialized curse. A targeted strike."

"Targeted? By who? You’ve lived in this sanctuary for years. You don’t have enemies!"

"Everyone has enemies, Raka. Some just hide them better than others." Jun coughed again, and this time, a thick, dark ichor leaked from the corner of his mouth. "You need to listen to me. This isn't healing. This is decay. I have maybe until sunrise before it reaches my heart."

Raka’s heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. "I’m going to the city. I’m going to find the Association."

"The Exorcist Association? Are you out of your mind?" Jun let out a hollow, mocking laugh that sounded like rattling gravel. "They don’t look at cases from low-rank nobodies like us. You walk in there with a pittance of a reward, they’ll laugh you out the door before you can even explain the symptoms."

"I don't care about their pride! I’ll beg. I’ll scrub their floors. I’ll take a life-debt contract if I have to," Raka stood up, his face set in a grim, white-knuckled determination. He grabbed his coat, stuffing the last of his supplies into his pockets. "You stay here. Keep your breathing steady. Don’t use any more of your own energy to fight it, it’s just making the meal bigger."

"Raka, come back here!" Jun wheezed, reaching out a shaking hand.

"Save your breath, Master. I’m bringing someone back who knows how to fix this."

Raka didn’t wait for another argument. He turned and bolted into the night, the wind whipping his hair into his eyes. The city loomed ahead, a sprawl of neon-streaked towers and shifting shadows. The Exorcist Association was the only place that kept the real horrors at bay, the only place where someone might actually recognize a curse this malicious.

The streets were crowded with the usual nightlife, merchants peddling charms, nervous travelers clutching their amulets, but Raka pushed through them, his eyes fixed on the monolithic, grey-stone building at the district’s center.

He burst through the heavy mahogany doors of the Association’s intake office, panting, his hair matted with sweat. The room was bustling with mid-level exorcists reviewing case files and clutching glowing lanterns.

"I need help!" Raka shouted, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling. "My master is dying! He’s been struck by a parasitic curse!"

The clerks at the front desk barely glanced up. One of them sighed, tapping a quill against his parchment. "Take a number, kid. The waiting list for emergency consultation is three days out."

"Three days? He doesn’t have three hours!" Raka rushed the desk, slamming his hands down. "Please, just look at the description. It’s a geometric corruption, it feeds on internal energy..."

"I said take a number," the clerk said, his voice hardening. "You think you’re the first one to come in here crying about a 'special' curse?"

"Oh, look at this, Arthur. A fresh batch of tears for the floor."

The voice was bored, drawling, and carried the weight of someone who hadn't felt genuine threat in a decade. Raka spun around.

Leaning against a polished marble pillar was a man wearing a charcoal trench coat, his silver hair tied back with a loose leather cord. He was nursing a glass of dark liquid, his eyes lazily tracking a trembling, wide-eyed junior exorcist who was trying to finish a report in front of him.

"You call this a suppression seal?" the man, Nikolai, laughed, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. He flicked a finger, and the junior exorcist's report burst into harmless, golden sparks, dissolving into nothingness. "It looks more like a child’s doodle. If you’re going to fail, try to do it with a bit more creativity, hm?"

The junior exorcist bowed low, his face pale as paper. "I-I’m sorry, Master Nikolai. I’ll rewrite it immediately."

"Don't bother. Go stand in the corner and think about why your teachers wasted their time on you." Nikolai turned his gaze toward Raka. His eyes were cold, silver-bright, and entirely devoid of sympathy. "And you. You’re interrupting my entertainment. Unless you have something more interesting than a dying master, I suggest you turn around before I decide your aura is offensive to my eyesight."

Raka stood frozen, the legendary figure standing only a few feet away. Nikolai’s reputation was written in the blood of creatures most people only read about in myths. If anyone could recognize the curse on Master Jun, it was him.

But looking at the sneer on the man’s face, Raka realized the hard truth: he wasn't looking at a hero. He was looking at a shark. And he was currently bleeding in the water.