Chapter 143: Onmyōji No Jutsu Obtained, Hiruko Submits
The cold black rod pierced through Bishamon’s hands, nailing him firmly to the stone wall.
He could clearly feel the ominous aura emanating from that construct purely condensed from Yin-Yang Release chakra, chilling to the bone, as if it could freeze all his chakra!
A drop of cold sweat slid down his pale temple, dripping onto the dust-covered rock, making an almost inaudible light sound.
All his madness, all his trump cards, turned into powerless foam in the face of this absolute death threat.
Menma’s gaze pierced through the mask, staring at Bishamon’s face distorted by fear.
He was like a fish nailed to the chopping board, his eyes filled with unwillingness and despair!
“Lead the way.” Menma’s voice was flat and emotionless, yet carried an unquestionable tone of command: “To your lair.”
Bishamon’s Adam’s apple rolled with difficulty, dryly uttering a syllable: “Yes…”
The instinct for survival overwhelmed everything.
Menma retracted the black rod, dissipating it in his palm.
Bishamon looked at the blood flowing from the holes pierced through his hands, not daring to hesitate in the slightest, stiffly turning around, dragging his body soaked in fear, staggering toward a hidden path shrouded in the shadow of a massive rock crevice.
Every step was immensely heavy, as if stepping on a knife edge.
Behind him, Lord Shura’s white three-eyed fox mask followed silently like a maggot in the bone, each step treading on his taut nerves.
In the distance, the battle between the chimera and the Black Tortoise had also ended; the chimera, pinned immobile to the ground by the Black Tortoise, was released from Bishamon’s summoning jutsu, and Menma also released the Black Tortoise’s summoning jutsu.
Watching the Black Tortoise’s towering body ripple like water before vanishing, Bishamon was also shocked by this summoning jutsu unlike any ordinary one.
Following a tortuous rock crevice downward, going deeper and deeper, the light was completely swallowed, leaving only the cold touch of the rock itself and the damp, decaying air.
Bishamon stopped before a rock wall that appeared seamless, his fingers trembling as he pressed several hidden protrusions.
Accompanied by a dull mechanical sound, the thick rock wall silently slid inward, revealing a door.
Inside the door was a vast and eerie underground space.
The air was filled with a pungent mixture of disinfectant, preservatives, and a faint bloody scent.
Huge glass culture tanks lined the walls on both sides like giant beast eggs, soaking distorted biological tissues inside, some faintly showing human or animal outlines, with black substances slowly writhing on their bodies—the Kibaku Nendo cultivated by Bishamon.
The central metal operating table gleamed with a pallid light, still bearing dark brown stains.
On the metal racks against the wall, various surgical instruments, test tubes, and flasks gleaming coldly were neatly arranged, beside which were numerous scrolls filled with complex formulas and diagrams.
This was Bishamon’s lair, a workshop where life was arbitrarily pieced together and desecrated.
Bishamon walked to the innermost thick metal cabinet embedded in the rock wall, inputting a complex password.
The cabinet door slid open, revealing a scroll stored alone inside, covered in multiple sealing runes.
With trembling hands, he took it out and handed the scroll to the figure behind him.
“This is the entire core of the ‘Kibaku Nendo’…” Bishamon’s voice was thick with humiliation and fear.
Menma raised his hand to take it, not sparing Bishamon a glance, casually untying the cord at one end of the scroll, unfurling it with a rustle.
Crimson Sharingan eyes glowed faintly under the mask, three tomoe rotating silently like the most precise scanner, rapidly scanning the twisted tadpole script, complex meridian diagrams, and eerie illustrations depicting the fusion process.
The scroll recorded the mad theory of devouring, plundering, and stitching different bloodline limits in pursuit of “perfection.”
Moments later, Menma flicked his wrist, rolling the scroll back up, casually tucking it inside his black robe.
“Not bad.” Menma’s tone betrayed no joy or anger, as if appraising an ordinary item.
Only then did he turn his gaze to Bishamon’s face, etched with shock and unwillingness.
The underground space fell into dead silence, save for the faint popping of bubbles bursting in the culture tanks.
The mingled strange smell in the air seemed even thicker.
Bishamon’s heart pounded wildly in his chest; he knew the moment deciding his fate had arrived.
This Shura before him had seized his secret technique, cherished as life itself—did he, the creator, still have a reason to exist?
Bishamon could feel the scrutinizing gaze under the other’s mask coldly assessing his value, or rather, how to dispose of him.
Menma took a step forward; light as it was, it made every muscle in Bishamon’s body tense to the extreme, nearly unable to control his urge to retreat.
“Your research is somewhat interesting.” Menma’s voice echoed in the underground space, carrying a condescending casualness: “Rather than hiding like a rat here, devouring immature bloodlines, come with me.”
Bishamon jerked his head up, a flicker of incredulity in his eyes, quickly overshadowed by deeper wariness.
Go with him? For what? To become a tool in his laboratory? Or the next one to be devoured?
“Submit to me.” Menma’s voice suddenly deepened, like the friction of cold metal, “Serve me.”
As Lord Shura uttered “Submit to me,” an indescribable killing intent, as if originating from the depths of the soul, descended abruptly!
That killing intent was not violent, yet like tangible icy water, instantly soaking every cell in Bishamon’s body.
No threats, no warnings—only a pure, declarative will: non-submission means death.
Bishamon’s body, wrapped in bandages, trembled violently, his sharp teeth chattering uncontrollably.
He looked at Lord Shura’s white three-eyed fox mask, as if seeing an expressionless Shinigami lurking in the darkness.
This was not an invitation; it was an ultimatum.
Lord Shura was not seeking his opinion but declaring the outcome.
All fluke thoughts, all scheming, seemed laughable and fragile before this absolute power and will.
Flee?
That mysterious black rod that had pierced his palms earlier, that ghostly speed, utterly shattered such fantasies.
Resist?
His chimera was no match for the other’s summoned beast; his strongest Dark Release and Storm Release were child’s play in the other’s eyes.
No choice.
Not the slightest bit.
The immense fear finally crushed Bishamon’s last shred of dignity and ambition as a strong practitioner.
“I… Bishamon…” His voice was hoarse and broken, trembling with humiliation and fear.
“I… am willing to follow Lord Shura! Offer… offer my loyalty and… Kibaku Nendo!”
