Bending down to get a closer look at Jason—who was still pinned under the police car—Orsaga stared into his emotionless eyes and said with interest:
"So, there are many kinds of immortality. I wonder which one you are?"
From the way Jason's body reacted, Orsaga could tell this wasn't about pain tolerance—
Jason simply couldn't feel pain.
A walking corpse capable of infinite resurrection?
To Orsaga, that wasn't much different from a lich.
The body was just a shell. What truly kept them alive was something else entirely.
That's why they could resurrect endlessly—until someone found and destroyed the source of their power.
This kind of pseudo-immortality, in Orsaga's view, was no different from how he was currently operating in a "smurf account"—hiding his core essence somewhere far away and well-guarded.
It was completely different from his own Malice-Fueled Immortality, which relied on consuming negative energy to regenerate.
As long as he had enough energy, there was no "weak point" to exploit.
The only way to kill him would be either with an overwhelmingly powerful conceptual force that could break through his resurrection ability…
Or by isolating him somewhere devoid of negative energy—and slowly starving him to death.
Now, as Orsaga crouched and inspected Jason at close range—
Jason suddenly lashed out with his only remaining hand, aiming to twist Orsaga's head clean off.
But before he could even make contact—
A flash of steel.
As fast and precise as Jason's own strikes had been, Orsaga responded in kind—
swiftly slicing off Jason's hand with a long, bone-crafted dagger.
Then, with a casual flick of the blade, he lifted the severed hand off the ground, inspecting it.
What he found beneath the flesh was a bone structure unlike any normal human's—
Solid. Dense. More like forged metal than living bone.
Under the police chief's complicated gaze, Orsaga twirled his dagger a few more times.
Seconds later, he had stripped the hand clean to reveal a jet-black skeletal frame.
He worked with the efficiency of a chef deboning a chicken wing. Even a professional butcher would've stood up and applauded.
Just as he was about to lift the bone and examine it more closely, the chief finally couldn't take it anymore.
"Hey… don't you think this is a little inappropriate?"
He said, pointing to Jason, who—despite having no hands—was still glaring at Orsaga with his trademark dead-fish eyes.
Dissecting a man while he was still technically alive? That was a bit much.
If Jason had been human—if he had any rights left—and Orsaga hadn't been a registered exorcist, the chief might've slapped the cuffs on him right then and there.
"…"
Orsaga looked down at Jason, who was still struggling to crawl despite having no hands. He paused and admitted the chief might have a point.
"…Yeah, I guess that is a bit unbalanced."
Without hesitation, he raised his dagger again—
And with two quick swipes—
Snick! Snick!
Jason's legs were gone.
"Can't leave him with working legs, can we? That wouldn't be fair."
He added seriously, "No matter who you are, you gotta play fair. Unless, of course, you're really good-looking."
And just like that—
Jason had become a quadruple amputee.
But now, at least, Orsaga felt better about it.
Leaving just the arms off felt oddly… unfinished.
The police chief ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
"That's not what I meant…"
Talking to Orsaga felt like smashing his head against a wall. Their mental wavelengths weren't just mismatched—they were on different planets.
He couldn't follow the logic. Jason was lying there like a dismembered ragdoll. Meanwhile, the trunk of the police car was full of freshly skinned snakes, just waiting to be grilled.
What kind of person does this?!
And that was the thing—Jason, who in the files required a full platoon to handle, had been turned into a limbless corpse in under a minute.
The bonfire party now resembled a slaughterhouse.
Severed limbs and mangled corpses lay everywhere.
A quick glance told him that over twenty people had died here.
And Jason—the one who did it all—had been crushed and dismembered like a preschooler under Orsaga's hands. No chance to resist.
That meant, if Orsaga ever lost control…
His destructive potential would far exceed Jason's.
The only upside was that Orsaga was still technically human.
He could be killed.
If things ever went south, a couple sniper rounds might still solve the problem.
The chief was just starting to wonder whether he should report this unpredictable ally to his superiors after the mission…
When Orsaga suddenly tilted his head, sensing something.
A moment later—
The world around them began to shift.
The bonfire, the blood, the corpses—all faded away.
They were now inside an abandoned, crumbling house.
Just a few meters away, a group of little girls were playing as they sang a creepy lullaby:
"One, two… Freddy's coming for you.
Three, four… better lock your door.
Five, six… grab your crucifix.
Seven, eight… gonna stay up late.
Nine, ten… never sleep again."
The voices were soft, rhythmic, and drenched in eerie malice.
Sweat instantly broke out on the chief's forehead.
He recognized this place.
They were inside Freddy's domain.
And for decades, almost no one had made it back from here.
Orsaga, however, remained completely unfazed. He ignored the atmosphere, the haunted surroundings, even the terrified chief.
Instead, he calmly critiqued:
"This song sucks."
"Excuse me?!" the chief blinked.
Orsaga continued thoughtfully:
"The rhythm and melody are just… mediocre.
It's not even catchy. The tone's flat. The pacing's off."
As if on cue, a screeching, grating laugh cut through the air.
A red-and-black-sweatered figure appeared among the girls, grinning viciously.
Freddy Krueger himself stepped into view, his metal-clawed glove gleaming as he sneered at Orsaga.
"Really?. You think my lullaby is bad?"
Orsaga nodded seriously.
"Absolutely. Based on English phonetics and the local accent, the first line should be elongated to build atmosphere. The second line is too blunt—needs a more elegant synonym. As for the third, your tonal inflection is completely off…"
He wasn't joking.
This was a masterclass critique.
And a few minutes later, as Orsaga continued dissecting every single lyric—
Freddy was left standing there, stunned.
The sneer had vanished from his face.
He looked… genuinely confused.
He had no idea what to say.
Orsaga's commentary was so professional, so detailed, that Freddy couldn't even process it.
For the first time, he realized—
The ocean of knowledge was deep.
And he was hopelessly out of his depth.
If he could go back in time, he'd slap himself for ever asking that question.
"...Sorry, man. I didn't realize you were this qualified…"
_____
T/N:
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