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Hwaaaaaak-!

Upon entering Earth, I felt the resistance.

An invisible barrier denied everything trying to breach into the Earth.

Even if it were his own son, born and raised on this planet, there were no exceptions to that barrier.

Radiant, beautiful, and cozy.

So cherishing of its own, that it rejects the external—this blue planet.

Earth, oh Earth.

Receive me.

Hwaaaaaak-!

Shifting my posture.

Using Floating in the Air and psychic power to adjust the angles, I pierce through the resistance using my legs like a spear.

The ends of my legs, thin as possible.

Gradually swelling up from the upper part of the legs, forming an aerodynamic shape.

I cross my arms before my chest in an X, puffing up around the shoulders.

Then, I rotate the newly formed core on my shoulder, allowing my Qi to flow out naturally for extra propulsion.

Hwaaaaaak-!

And thus I breached.

Easily entering the atmosphere.

Feeling the resistance of the air lessen infinitely.

Tasting the hot yet warm air flowing through my body transformed by Self-Defense Qi and Transformation.

Hoooowww-!

The speed is roughly 8 kilometers per second.

Similar to that of a space shuttle.

The temperature, about 1500 to 2000 degrees?

The heated air makes it feel as if I’m becoming a meteor.

If I accelerate further, the temperature could soar into five digits instead of four.

If that happens… there shouldn’t be any problems.

Just that it wouldn’t feel particularly pleasant.

The heat brushing against my skin.

It sparks memories reminiscent of nightmares from my childhood.

It brings to mind the feeling of scalding water being splashed on me.

So.

Teroong-!

Teroong-!

Teroong-!

Adjusting my position, I leap through space.

Raising my arms above my head, I manipulate my size.

My fingertips become needle-like, while my shoulders swell.

Thus, I transform my head to protect it in a conical shape.

And keep my legs stretched, ready to expand at any moment.

Then, I push off from the space.

Teroong-!

One foot thrusts while bursting the air.

Teroong-!

Another foot pushes against the void.

With each thrust, dozens of meters are deleted.

No process, only cause and effect, and the meteor drawing a dotted line.

Gradually slowing down.

Kicking off the space.

Puffing up my legs to create at least some resistance.

Curling my body, spinning it.

I perform a somersault to ensure my legs touch the ground first.

And then.

Kwaaaaaaaaaang-!

I crash down with my bare body.

This level of impact is something I can definitely endure.

The powerful Self-Defense Qi protects my body from shocks and their aftermath.

What breaches that Self-Defense Qi is resolved by my transformed body.

No, it doesn’t end there.

The shock that bursts forth upon landing.

That shock does not dissipate.

It circulates through my body and explodes into a propulsion that moves my arms.

That is energy.

Energy that allows me to swing my sword faster than my current mastery level.

Grasping the sword.

One.

Two.

The world.

Is severed.

* * *

A swing that makes no sound.

A single line exists only from the starting point to the end.

There’s cause and effect, yet no process in the transverse.

Even a sword made of tungsten struggles to endure that speed, glowing a fiery red, and the sliced space seems to struggle to maintain itself, yearning to leave a void in its trail.

The void that cuts through space.

This thin line between the start and finish, however, becomes thick at this moment and ceases to exist.

A disconnection from the world.

Thus, space is separated.

Swoosh.

The eye of the goddess who dared to peep at the universe is severed.

Clusters of flowers are instantly split, and the earth’s surface is sliced thin, rising into the air.

Thus, the flowers—those around the man—meet death at this moment.

With a single stroke akin to divine skill.

With a single flourish that slices the ground and cuts the roots away—a swordsmanship comparable to that of a god.

But the power of this swordsmanship overflows so much that.

Holding onto the energy from when I fell, it doesn’t stop at just the flowers, nor the garden, but even reaches those above the earth’s surface, simply seeking to harvest them.

Thus, the bodies of the people are severed in half.

“At the starting point of the world, countless things meld together, with no distinction of above and below, no differences or similarities, and no light or darkness.”

Transversely.

Lightly.

They are cut.

“Then a single flame ignited, beginning to illuminate and blaze the world, this is the start of the world. Thus, the warmth of the flame spread, giving birth to life, and the first creations were the grass and the insects. The grasshoppers fly, the plants flourish, and beings start to emerge, chief among them, humans.”

Swoosh.

Like cutting tofu, lines appear on people’s bodies and begin to slide.

With a disgusting sound, people fall over, and those whose upper and lower bodies are separated arise in droves.

“The flame is the beginning and the cradle of everything, so those who doubt, behold this!”

The bodies, not even realizing they have been severed, stand upright.

Lower halves, sliced transversely and exposed, are standing straight.

Even while the upper bodies lay on the ground, flailing in horror, the lower halves stand without a drop of blood.

Thus, the once-crowded garden falls into silence in an instant.

Like a graveyard.

Or perhaps like the entrance to the otherworld, where the Higan Flowers bloom profusely.

“Didn’t the insects originate from the flames?”

Yet at that moment, a shaman whose body has been halved opens his mouth to utter an invocation.

Ah.

Behold.

The Higan Flower becomes a flame.

And in response to that flame, the severed bodies wish to return to their origin.

Thus, the bodies that have become flames bloom and scatter, forming shapes.

Those are indeed the insects.

Proof that flames existed in the beginning.

Oh, unbeliever, those lacking in faith.

Behold.

This is proof that our faith is righteous.

* * *

Waves arise.

Once flowers, now crafted into flames, waves surge upwards.

The thin earth, once unbothered, now easily undulates, and the severed people—no, the dolls pretending to be humans—burn brightly like candles, becoming torches.

The waves of flames.

Torches igniting from the materials known as dolls.

This dreamlike.

Strange scenery speaks of who created this spectacle.

“Shaman…?”

The shaman.

It appears a powerful shaman created this scene.

The man furrowed his brow in the sea of flames, muttering.

“…Is it a trap?”

Gripping the glowing tungsten sword, violently circulating his Qi.

He repeatedly swells and shrinks his arms and legs, questioning the shaman who made the sea of flames.

“Shaman, have you come to take revenge for the days of the Soviet Union?”

Flashes of long-past grievances surfaced in his mind.

The oppression perpetrated by the nation he was once a part of.

The history of shaman suppression enacted by the Soviet Socialist Republic.

“Did you summon me to take vengeance for the repression, the atrocities, the violence of those times?”

The ancient Soviets rejected religion and superstition.

For them, shamanism was a delusion, a relic of the old age they needed to eradicate, a wicked being feeding on the blood of the proletariat while clinging to the bourgeois class.

A shaman close to the people was viewed as a superstitious entity deceiving the proletariat.

A shaman close to the power holders was seen as a pet of the bourgeois class that must be crushed.

Thus, shamans were defined as enemies to be eliminated.

In this vast madness, an individual shaman could only helplessly succumb.

The futures they faced were twofold.

Death or exile.

Even the opportunity for social rehabilitation offered post self-criticism to landowners was not afforded to them, and they could only choose to die or flee. But thankfully, this oppression did not last long.

Stalin, amid the echoes of global war, recognized the necessity of shamans and changed his stance, launching a policy favoring them. Through extensive propaganda, he altered the people’s perception of shamans, actively supporting their aims in an effort to make amends for his mistakes.

And perhaps this method proved effective, as the lineage of shamanism managed to endure without being completely severed.

But grievances run deep.

The resentments buried in human hearts last longer than those carved in stone.

Especially the grievances of oppressed shamans whose aims were obstructed reached horrifying levels…

Indirect victims may have been ignorant, but the shamans who suffered directly never forgot their grudges. They moved secretly, either seeking revenge or biding their time.

At last, when the Soviet Union grew weak, they began their retaliation.

Those who supported the oppression of shamans began to die one by one.

Disasters befell the villagers who disrupted the long-prepared ritual.

As Rasputitsa arrived, pests swarmed, livestock died, and crops withered.

Fish floated belly-up, and animals went rabid, assaulting people.

Buildings meant to be sturdy crumbled easily, and apartments leaned as the ground softened.

And.

Directly acting capable beings began to perish.

Warriors died.

Wizards died.

One by one.

The chain of resentment was cut.

At the hands of the waiting shamans.

And finally.

The graves of Stalin, who had ordered the suppression of shamans, and Lenin, who had planted the seed, were desecrated.

So that they might not enjoy eternal rest even in death, terrible and wicked curses and necromantic spells were unleashed.

Profane symbols hung everywhere, and the land they were buried in was contaminated.

As if to taint their very souls…

Thus, the shamans’ revenge was complete.

Quietly and brutally.

But perfection does not exist.

Those shamans, despite completing their vengeance, did not stop.

They had to act immediately should any unfulfilled resents emerge.

Yes.

For instance…

Like this warrior who contributed to the destruction of “certain facilities” as per the Communist Party’s orders.

Recognized for his merits and loyalty, he was allowed to partake in the “Soviet manned space program.”

 

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