I closed the suitcase again, making sure the lock snapped shut securely. Then I raised my right hand.
A purple flame slowly bloomed in the center of my palm. Its fire was calm—no wild flickering, no crackling sparks. The color was deep and dense, like burning amethyst brought to life. The heat remained perfectly restrained, refusing to spread to the dry leaves scattered around me. The flame seemed to understand its limits, submitting completely to my will.
Slowly, I lowered the suitcase into the fire.
There was no thick smoke. No scorched smell. The suitcase dissolved as if swallowed by another dimension, vanishing without a trace, stored safely within a space that only I could access through that violet blaze.
The three of us then walked along the narrow path toward the orphanage. Our footsteps blended with the rustling leaves and the evening chorus of insects that had begun to dominate the air. The western horizon burned in gradients of orange and soft pink, while our shadows stretched long across the ground.
"So when are you going to give them the money?" Rika asked again, her voice softer beneath the hush of dusk.
"In a few days," I replied. "Besides, you two start school again tomorrow, right?"
Only then did I realize how quickly time had slipped by. It had already been two weeks since the promotion break began.
"Ugh! That's right… we have to go back to school…" Shizuka immediately puffed her cheeks out in protest. Her expression turned overly dramatic, as though the world had just betrayed her in the cruelest way possible. Her shoulders slumped exaggeratedly.
"Besides, if we're in school, we won't have to join Kenji's extra training," Rika said casually, as if tossing out bait.
"You're right!" Shizuka brightened instantly, her steps turning light again. Her mood shifted faster than the weather on a mountain pass.
I simply smiled faintly as I watched them. Amid money matters, hidden plans, and relentless training, simple moments like this felt far more valuable than any stack of yen.
...
...
...
Several days had passed since my meeting with Mei Mei, yet my mind had not regained its calm. On the surface, everything appeared normal—the sun still rose each morning, and my responsibilities continued as usual.
But now, I needed a tool that could truly turn me into someone else.
Not merely a blurred figure difficult to identify. I needed a new form—someone who could stand in the middle of a crowd, return the gaze of anyone who looked at them, and still appear completely natural. Someone who would not arouse the suspicion of ordinary people.
Previously, I had created the Deceptive Phantom Mask, a Cursed Tool I had once taken pride in. The mask functioned by scrambling the residue of my Cursed Energy, distorting my energy signature and making it difficult to trace.
My height appeared ambiguous to observers; at times I seemed taller, at others shorter, as though the space around me could not agree on my proportions.
My voice, too, became distorted, echoing faintly like sound traveling through a long, cold corridor. Even my gender grew uncertain—reality itself seemed reluctant to define me with certainty.
Yet in the end, it was nothing more than a blurred illusion.
The tool made me "unrecognizable," but it never truly made me "someone else." And in certain situations, that difference could mean life or death.
This time, I needed something far more precise. More controlled. More real.
That was why I created the Thousand-Faced Mask.
The name of the Cursed Tool might sound simple—almost poetic. But the mechanism behind it was far more complex than a mere surface illusion. This mask was built upon the principle of focused and stabilized Cursed Energy resonance. Not chaotic distortion like before, but measured synchronization.
When the user channels Cursed Energy into the mask, its surface trembles subtly, emitting a faint glow like ripples across water touched by a night breeze. The light is dim, yet alive—pulsing in rhythm with the energy flowing into it.
The moment it is worn, the mask adheres tightly to the face, merging slowly as though becoming a second layer of skin. There are no gaps. No seams. Only a cold sensation creeping across the surface before gradually warming to match the wearer's body temperature.
The transformation did not occur in an instant.
Change always began with the face.
The user had to picture, with absolute clarity, the person they wished to imitate—the firmness or softness of the jawline, the narrowness or roundness of the eyes, the curve of the brows, the length of the lashes, even the faint creases at the corners of the lips. Details as small as pores and scars had to be etched sharply into the imagination, as though the mind were sketching a living portrait in meticulous strokes.
If the image was vivid enough, the change would creep forward slowly, like clay being shaped by unseen hands. The cheekbones shifted under a subtle pressure, the nose lengthened or shortened, the jaw hardened or softened. The texture of the skin altered to match the mental image—rough, smooth, pale, or sun-kissed. Every contour adjusted itself in obedient silence, following the blueprint formed within the user's thoughts.
The sensation was strange.
Not painful, yet far from comfortable. A faint pressure pulsed beneath the skin, as though the bones were being gently stretched and rearranged with deliberate care. Muscles tightened and loosened in sequence, fibers realigning. Nerves trembled briefly before settling into an unfamiliar calm, adapting to their new configuration.
Once the face was complete, the transformation spread to the rest of the body.
The spine could lengthen by several centimeters. Shoulders broadened. The chest either tightened or flattened. The waist narrowed. Legs compacted or grew taller. Skin tone shifted in harmony with the imagined figure. Even posture changed, subtly reshaping itself to reflect the character being mimicked—the tilt of the head, the distribution of weight, the natural stance that defined a person's presence.
Within seconds, the body felt foreign to its own owner—like wearing someone else's flesh that happened to fit perfectly.
Yet there were no permanent side effects. The moment the mask was removed, the body's structure would gradually return to its original form, like a shadow slipping back into alignment with its true source of light. Bones eased into their rightful places, muscles relaxed, and the borrowed silhouette dissolved without leaving a trace.
Even so, there were limits that could not be crossed.
The Thousand-Faced Mask could not alter gender. It could only adjust bodily structure within the same biological boundaries. A man could become another man with different proportions. A woman could only become another woman.
I had deliberately set that restriction.
Changing gender was not merely a matter of outward shape. It meant manipulating far more complex biological systems—hormones, internal organs, delicate physiological balances. The risks were too great. Too many variables could spiral into catastrophic failure.
The accuracy of the transformation depended entirely on the user's imaginative precision.
If the desired face was envisioned vaguely, the result would deviate. The jaw might become too sharp. The eyes might appear asymmetrical. The body's proportions could feel subtly off, creating an uncanny impression. In the worst cases, the formed shape would look unstable—like an unfinished painting, its lines still trembling, its structure not fully settled into reality.
For that reason, the mask demanded intense concentration and a powerful visual memory.
It also possessed a wound-adjustment feature—a small detail that became crucial in dangerous situations.
If the imitation face was injured during use—scratched by the tip of a blade, bruised by a heavy blow, or even sliced deeply—the mask's outer layer would react automatically.
Its surface would pulse faintly before displaying the wound with near-perfect realism. Skin appeared split open. Blood flowed naturally, following gravity in convincing rivulets. Even the color of bruises shifted gradually over time, darkening and fading as though the body had truly suffered physical trauma.
And yet, beneath it all, my real face remained intact and protected.
The injury existed only upon the false "skin" formed by the resonance of Cursed Energy. No sting penetrated inward. No flesh was truly torn. Even if the outer layer appeared severely damaged, the original structure underneath remained safe, concealed like an untouchable secret.
Blood might seem to spill. Skin might appear shredded. Everything followed the illusion's internal logic. But behind it, the user's true face remained whole and unharmed. The wounds belonged solely to the fabricated surface created by the mask.
However, power of that magnitude did not come without limits.
The mask's usage duration was capped at one hour.
Once that hour passed, the energy resonance within it would weaken on its own. The transformation would not collapse abruptly; instead, it would fade gradually, like mist dissolving under the first light of dawn.
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