Mahito stepped back, eyeing the weapon in Thorne's hand like it personally insulted his aesthetic. The giant tuning fork pulsed with soundless frequency, warping the air in slow, nauseating waves. Every breath around it vibrated like a cheap speaker submerged in wine. The cursed energy wasn't just pressure—it was discord. An emotional siren song with no melody, just raw feelings cranked past reasonable volume.
"What even is that?" Mahito asked, his smile thinning. "A tuning fork? Seriously?"
Thorne stepped forward, dragging the fork across the floor. Each scrape released a sound like a guilt trip having a stroke. The walls cracked. Memories not his own flickered behind his eyes—Juno's, Flint's, Spillglass's. Emotional bleed. The tuning fork was channeling shared trauma. Everyone's.
"It's not just grief anymore," Thorne muttered. "It's resonance."
"Wait, is this... new?" Juno whispered. "This isn't in his technique logs."
"Nope," Spillglass said, eyes wide. "He's doing a spontaneous cursed remix."
Flint was already dragging Junpei's unconscious body to cover, muttering curses at him like a bitter nurse. "Stupid cursed orphan boy, next time you get possessed I'm letting it happen."
Mahito laughed. "You think that noise is gonna stop me?"
He raised a hand—Idle Transfiguration sparked, warping the sewer tiles into bladed tendrils. They shot forward like a forest of bone and steel.
Thorne didn't flinch. He slammed the tuning fork into the ground.
BOOM.
The entire domain hiccupped.
Mahito's curse constructs paused mid-air and—without warning—turned back toward him. His own cursed matter began twitching violently, reacting to the resonance Thorne had blasted into the atmosphere.
Mahito's smile died for real this time.
"What the hell did you do—?"
"It's not grief alone," Thorne hissed, voice warping with feedback. "It's guilt. Unresolved. Unforgiven. Ungoddamnfiltered. And yours is screaming louder than all of ours combined."
The air began to twist around Mahito. Not in flames. Not in light.
In regret.
The tuning fork's sound wasn't a weapon. It was a mirror. A cursed frequency that forced Mahito's own subconscious, soul-shaping energy to recoil on itself.
Mahito snarled, trying to morph—his arm turned to sludge, then teeth, then static—but nothing held. The vibrations disrupted his soul-shifting. He was unraveling. Sloppy. Raw. Exposed.
He lunged anyway.
And immediately got clotheslined by Flint, who had used a cursed churro stick reinforced with divine cinnamon and poor decisions.
"YOU DON'T TOUCH MY EMO TEAM LEADER," Flint yelled, slapping Mahito with another cinnamon curse. "WE'RE GONNA GET YOU THERAPY THE HARD WAY!"
Juno followed up with a spell that looked like a healing charm but exploded like an overcooked rice cooker. Mahito barely blocked it, chunks of cursed skin flying as he tumbled back, cackling through pain.
"Fine, fine! You want to dig into my soul?" he laughed, blood trickling down his neck. "You better be ready to see it all, you little trauma choir!"
He raised both hands.
The air pulsed.
And from the walls behind him, dozens of malformed curses began slithering out—failed experiments, broken spirits, pieces of souls Mahito had twisted, torn, and discarded. They weren't coordinated. They were desperate. Angry. Hungry. Screaming without mouths.
"Round two," Mahito hissed.
Juno turned to Thorne. "Tuning fork trick again?"
"It's unstable," he said, shaking, "I might rupture a few of us this time."
"We're used to that," Spillglass said, stepping forward and uncorking his flask. "Do it."
Thorne lifted the fork once more.
Mahito's swarm rushed in.
And then—Junpei moved.
Barely. Just a twitch. His fingers curled into a fist. His lips moved, mouthing something soundless. His soul was still being pulled—but there was a fight in there. Something not gone yet.
Yuji saw it.
He broke into a sprint, dodging curses left and right, and dove toward Junpei with zero plan and too much heart.
"DON'T YOU QUIT ON ME AGAIN, JUNPEI!"
Mahito's head snapped toward him.
"Not this time, brat!"
He lunged.
Yuji lunged harder.
Thorne raised the tuning fork.
Spillglass flung a wall of liquid cursed energy like holy alcohol napalm.
Flint roared, "SPIRITUALLY VAPE HIM!"
Juno screamed in Latin but accidentally summoned a small goat.
The fork hit the ground again—
And this time, it sang.
A single, piercing note echoed through the domain.
Everything stopped.
Even Mahito.