what if I'm an undead! then so what?-Chapter 48: All things rot, I simply quicken the process

The blast tore through Kuroshi’s chest with a violent burst of light and force, vaporizing muscle and bone in its path. His body staggered back, balance faltering, and smoke coiled upward from the scorched hole in his torso. Charred edges sizzled, yet even as blood spilled freely, Kuroshi’s voice broke the tension with a mocking grin.

"Now that... is not something you see every day," he chuckled, breathless but amused.

Before their very eyes, the torn flesh began to shift—cells wriggling, multiplying, stitching themselves together at a rate visible to the naked eye. Muscles regrew, bone reformed, and within moments the gaping wound had vanished as if it had never existed.

"You’ve lost everything that makes you human," said the man facing him, golden light flickering across his skin like divine fire. "Killing you here would bring more harm than good!"

Golden light surged from the man’s palms, enveloping Kuroshi. The radiance pulsed, lifting him off the ground as if gravity itself had been denied. Kuroshi’s limbs trembled against the force. The very air seemed to tighten around him, compressing with divine judgment.

"I’ll tear you apart!" the man roared, voice resonant with righteous fury.

The light pulled in opposite directions—ripping at Kuroshi with invisible hands. His skin split. Bones cracked. Deep, jagged tears erupted across his limbs and chest as if the heavens themselves had chosen to unmake him. Then came the final snap. His body was ripped clean in two.

But the man didn’t relax—not even for a heartbeat.

The sky above churned and thundered. Black clouds coiled and twisted like serpents around a bleeding moon. Then came the judgment—lances of lightning raining from the heavens, striking the remnants of Kuroshi’s body again and again in a barrage of divine retribution. Smoke billowed, stone shattered, and the earth split from the wrath of the skies.

When the lightning finally ceased, there was silence.

The only thing left untouched in the carnage... was the mask. Black, curved, and motionless—it sat amid the destruction, untouched by divine destruction.

The man exhaled, turning to his comrades behind him, soldiers clad in silver and blue now catching their breath, adrenaline still high.

"Are you guys done there?" the man asked. "Something tells me this is far from over."

One of the soldiers beamed, wiping blood from his brow. "It’s over, Mr. Emmanuel. We’ve won!"

But before relief could bloom, a voice—dry and sardonic—drifted across the battlefield.

"So it’s Emmanuel. What an interesting name..."

The speaker stepped forward from one of the supposed corpses in black. Dusting off his clothes, his posture was calm—too calm.

"That voice... it can’t be!" Emmanuel’s eyes widened, his body instinctively leaping back.

"Just as your power remains a mystery to me, mine will remain one to you," the man said, rising. "But I do enjoy educating my opponents before they die."

Kuroshi—whole once more—extended his hand. The black mask that had survived the storm of destruction flew to his palm. In a blur, he tore off his own face-covering and placed the oni-like mask upon himself. The moment was too fast for any to glimpse his features. And something shifted.

Something died.

The ground groaned as dark spikes exploded upward—impaling the uniformed soldiers mid-air before they could react. Their bodies jerked violently, twitching on the ends of the spears. But death did not claim them cleanly.

No... it began.

Their skin bubbled and blackened. Color drained as if life itself had been siphoned. The transformation was not instant—it was torment drawn out by a cruel artist.

Cracks appeared—not in bone, but in flesh. Skin split open in grotesque slashes, peeling like the rind of decaying fruit. Veins bulged, turned black, then purple, then burst. Blood thickened into tar, dripping in slow, awful strands.

Eyes burst in wet pops, milky ichor leaking down their cheeks like tears of rot. Their mouths opened in screams that were choked by thick, gurgling masses of phlegm. Teeth twisted and grew, piercing through gums like jagged knives, and jaws snapped open, dislocating entirely.

Hair sloughed off. Skin followed. Their bones warped—spines stretching and curling, limbs bending into impossible shapes. Parasites writhed just beneath translucent layers of muscle, as if feasting on their hosts even in death.

And through it all, they crawled.

Not walked—crawled.

Dripping. Groaning. Twitching. As if controlled by some twisted god of decay, they moved like puppets stitched from corpses and bound in rot.

Emmanuel could only watch. His warriors—his friends—were gone. Now they served another master.

"You devil... have you no pity!" he shouted in agony, tears mingling with rage.

His hands came together in a sign of judgment. Light surged—raw, divine, unyielding. A towering, ethereal form exploded from him, shaped like a celestial guardian forged of spirit and light. The Soul Sentinel.

The guardian struck the ground, flattening it with divine force. The wave of power obliterated everything around, incinerating the crawling husks and reducing the area to a cratered field of scorched stone and smoke.

He looked up, heart pounding. Maybe—just maybe—they could pass peacefully now.

But then... a voice.

"You judge me by the nature of my power?" Kuroshi’s tone was sharp, amused, but calm. "As I said, I only do what I must for the greater good. My power may seem sinister... but that’s not what matters."

Emmanuel spun around—too slow.

Kuroshi stood behind him, untouched, calm as moonlight.

"Tell me," he continued, "would anything have changed if I rode on a golden chariot, wearing shining armor, hurling swords of light from heaven? Would that have made it better, if I killed you in a more divine fashion?"

He shrugged. "I think not."

The ground cracked again—spikes launching toward Emmanuel like bullets from the earth. He raised his hands, and the Soul Sentinel shielded him.

But something was wrong.

The spikes didn’t pierce the Sentinel—they corrupted it.

The towering divine figure dulled—its luminous form fading, lines of decay racing across its surface. Light bled from its limbs. Cracks spread like spiderwebs. And then... it crumbled into dust.

"Impossible!" Emmanuel gasped. "My Soul Sentinel is immune to all physical attacks!"

Kuroshi smiled faintly, voice cold and knowing.

"Soul Sentinel... a fascinating construct. But your mistake," he said, slowly stepping forward, "was facing me."

The earth beneath Emmanuel twisted, spikes shooting upward again. He leapt aside just in time, barely avoiding the corrupted tendrils of death.

"That wasn’t a physical attack," Kuroshi explained. "That... was the essence of my fragment."

He raised his hand—and the air darkened.

"You see, your Sentinel relied on something—divine essence, spiritual resonance, call it what you like. But all things decay. All things crumble."

He paused.

"Even the divine."

A silence settled.

And then came the words—spoken like prophecy, like damnation itself:

"BLIGHT GENESIS."

His voice echoed with eldritch weight, as if the earth itself recoiled.

"All things rot. I simply quicken the process, It’s my nature, I am the Blight sovereign."