By the shores of Lake Kagutsuchi, the sky shattered into a deep crimson. The night was like a womb, holding the world's cries, each second a bubble of time. Ibaraki-dōji, her body scarred, stood beneath ancient roots that hung over the water's surface. She gazed at her reflection—Oni, monster, traitor, victim. All names blended into one, like blood swirling in a spiral.

  Kagutsuchi no Ura, the eternal figure, appeared by the lake, light and shadow dancing on her skin.

  “Ibaraki… it’s time. All curses are just waiting for the moment they are ready to be unleashed—or embraced deeper.”

  Ibaraki, her voice soft, asked, “Can an Oni be reborn? Will the world remember me as anything other than a curse?”

  Ura lifted her face, her eyes flashing with mysterious light. “You are still trapped in the shadows of the past, Ibaraki. Remember, every time you use that spiral power, you bind yourself deeper to the chaos.”

  Ibaraki growled softly, “This pain is my inheritance. That spiral power flows in my blood, but what happens when I fight against my own fate?”

  Ura shook her head, “Every turn carries a risk. A new life will only strengthen this curse. But if you dare, if you are willing to play with the currents of destiny, remember—power doesn’t just mean doing more, but also daring to take greater risks.”

  Ibaraki, looking tense, replied, “And if that power turns against me? What if I become something worse than an Oni? Fate is not a desire, Ura. It can become a prison.”

  “Every Oni that enters the reverse spiral pays a price,” Ura continued, her voice heavy with emphasis. “You see, the pages of history bear witness to the darkness of Yamato, where Oni create and destroy. Only those brave enough to explore the boundaries of darkness can find the path to healing.”

  Ibaraki stared deep into the lake's water. “Are you sure that path exists? Or is this all just an illusion, as striking as light hiding behind darkness?”

  Ura stepped closer, her voice penetrating. “In every spiral, there is possibility. But be careful, for exploring the depths can also turn you into something more terrifying than the Oni itself.”

  “I am not afraid to face that darkness,” Ibaraki declared boldly. “But with you, how many more must be betrayed?”

  “Ask yourself, Ibaraki,” Ura replied, “are you brave enough to summon deeper waves or choose to continue lamenting memories? Every decision will birth a new monster, or perhaps, the hero you seek.”

  The wind ceased. The lake's water swirled into a red spiral beneath Ibaraki's feet.

  Ura, calm, said, “It’s not about the world, but about your own name. If you wish to end, return to the womb of the spiral. If you want to rewrite your fate, let me absorb every wound and reshape your body.”

  “But,” Ibaraki gazed at the thousands of red glimmers in the lake, “am I merely a painting that can be erased and fixed? Every drop of this curse is a part of me.”

  “Every wound is a knot in the fabric of your fate,” Ura's voice pierced the silence, “All those wounds can be synthesized anew. This spiral magic has limits, dear. Each use will split your power and thoughts, trapping you in a darker cycle.”

  “You call this magic? This spiral only strengthens my curse,” Ibaraki pondered, recalling the Yamato legends of gods lost in circular order, lost in endless darkness.

  The wind stopped. The lake's water swirled into a red spiral beneath Ibaraki's feet. Ura's roots entwined her body, closing every wound, every curse rune on her right hand began to glow, then melted into her body.

  “You are right, Ibaraki,” Ura reminded, “Every step forward is also a risk. All the deities here have struggled with their own shadows. Those who fight against the wind will be swept away in an endless cycle.”

  A wordless song echoed from within the water, the voices of ancient spirits, dead deities, and unborn souls whispering. “They are listening to us,” Ibaraki admonished. “Guiding us back to the darkness that eternally torments.”

  Ibaraki closed her eyes, her body dissolving into the lake's spiral, entering the formless dark. “I do not know if when I emerge again, all this will fight for hope or only give me more curses.”

  Ura looked at Ibaraki sharply, “You can still choose, Ibaraki. But remember, every choice carries consequences, just like when Shuten-doji ignored the certainty of her fate. Which do you desire? A power that separates or a power that unites?”

  Ibaraki, breath hitching, replied, “I do not know what remains of me after all this…”

  Ura, stroking Ibaraki's head, said, “Perhaps it is not you who returns. But something that is finally willing to accept all its forms—including the wounds.”

  “Wounds that will never heal!” Ibaraki shouted, a flame of anger surging within her. “Every life I have taken, every betrayal I have faced, makes me a part of this spiral, trapped in darkness.”

  “Well, that’s how it is,” Ura replied calmly, “the spiral is not just for viewing. It is the thread of fate that binds to the depths of your soul. Every seed of red light that is born carries an unbearable burden. They are our wounds, and what you do with them—that is what matters.”

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  Ibaraki's body shattered into thousands of red light seeds, each carrying a name, trauma, and betrayal. Each seed fell to the lake's bottom, digested by Ura's spiral roots.

  Time stopped. In the womb of the world, Ibaraki was trapped in a whirlpool of dreams:

  She saw all the faces she had ever killed, the voices of souls whispering, “Forgive. Forgive.”

  “Do you want me to forgive?” whispered one of those faces, a dark aura enveloping it.

  “Or do you just want to repeat the same mistakes?”

  She saw Shuten-dōji standing on the spiral altar, blood dripping from a cup. “I leave a mark on every step you take,” Shuten said with a proud smile, “Do you feel the weight of that burden?”

  She saw her mother smiling, her father patting her small head, then disappearing into flames. “The fire that burns, and is reborn. Spiral magic is a tool and a weapon, but remember, there is a price to pay. Every manipulation will erode your soul step by step.”

  Ibaraki, in the darkness, screamed, “I want to return! I want to prove that I am not just a curse!”

  “Do you want to return, Ibaraki?” Ura's voice echoed from all directions, “Then take your own name. Do not just live from their hatred—find a new reason to write your history.”

  “But how? When millions of souls are still trapped in its depths, screaming in despair?”

  “Every trace you leave is a form of spiral power,” Ura replied, “There will be limitations binding you, but also a path that will free you. Remember, they will not let you go easily.”

  Ura's voice echoed from all directions, “Then take your own name. Do not just live from their hatred—find a new reason to write your history.”

  On the lake's surface, the red spiral glowed, and Ibaraki rose with a new body:

  Her skin was free from old runes, but on her chest and left arm appeared new symbols—roots and spirals intertwined, representing birth and destruction at once. She gazed at that red light, feeling the energy vibrating within her, “Every step I take is a rejection of the fate that has been determined.”

  Her eyes no longer filled with vengeance, but held a deeper, calmer ember of will.

  Kagutsuchi no Ura smiled, “Welcome back to the world, Ibaraki. This time, you are not just an Oni. You are a new knot in the spiral of the world.”

  Ibaraki, clenching her fist, declared, “My name remains Ibaraki. But I will not repeat the old curse.”

  She looked at Ura with intensity, “What do you know about the fate that constrains me? Why did you allow that curse to exist?”

  On that same night, the spiral wind carried the aroma of sake, blood, and bitter nostalgia. From behind the mist emerged a tall shadow: Shuten-dōji, older than memory, her body adorned with old wounds and a crown of dragon bones. Darkness enveloped, and Ibaraki felt a chill run down her spine, “Your wounds are the traces of a forgotten tale, are they not?”

  Shuten-dōji, her voice heavy, asked, “You return from the womb of the world, my child. For what? To challenge me again, or merely to seek forgiveness?”

  She glared sharply, “How dare you still speak to the shadow you left behind?”

  Ibaraki, gazing at her former master, replied, “I do not seek forgiveness, Shuten. I do not wish to repeat the old tale filled with vengeance or why you destroyed me before. To carve a part of this dark legacy? I do not care about that. Essentially, Yokai are weak beings.”

  “Oh, you have grown up now,” Shuten remarked.

  Her eyes glowed, “Every trace of history shapes the labyrinth we inhabit. We fight for freedom, not for forgiveness.”

  Shuten-dōji took a sip of sake from a skull cup, “Because the world needs monsters, Ibaraki. Every story must have a curse that remains unhealed. If you wish to be a different spiral, you must understand that this magic is not a game.”

  She added with precise tone, “Using this spiral magic is like painting darkness into the soul—every spell demands payment from the deepest aspects of yourself.”

  Ibaraki stepped closer, “Or the world needs someone crazy enough to bear that curse—so others can learn from the wounds.”

  Shuten-dōji smiled bitterly, “You are wiser than I expected. But do not think the world will change just because you do.”

  Ibaraki replied, “The world does not change, but I can choose where my hands move. I do not wish to kill you, Shuten. But I want our names to mean something other than fear.”

  “I have seen it all. The past of the Oni. We are merely slaves of this world,” Ibaraki said, “After all, only humans are destined to lead this world.”

  Shuten-dōji chuckled, her tone melancholic, “Ah, how beautiful your words are. But are you ready to wager your life? In this fate?”

  Ibaraki, with tension sharpening, replied, “Who wants to wager? This is not a game, Shuten. You will never know the depths of the human heart's darkness.”

  Shuten-dōji, staring intently, said, “That is why power is not everything, but without it, we are merely shadows of our wounded selves.”

  Shuten-dōji laughed, dark and hollow, “If you are sure, show me. Or this curse will only repeat.”

  Both stood beneath the red moonlight. The spiral aura vibrated between them. Ibaraki raised her new left hand, forming the New Spiral Redemption technique—roots and light enveloping Oni energy, each spiral twist resonating with a powerful soul.

  Ibaraki explained, “Watch closely, every thread of energy we experience now collaborates, but there is a price to pay. This power brings relief, but my warning—it also brings helplessness if you do not understand this flow.”

  Ibaraki, gazing at Shuten-dōji, declared, “This time, I will rewrite my story—and perhaps, yours too.”

  Shuten-dōji, looking into the fire in Ibaraki's eyes, said, “Prove it, my child. But do not be surprised if the world chooses to reignite your hatred.”

  Ura, emerging from the shadows, asked, “The blazing fire is not a solution, but something we must face. Are you brave enough to sip the edge of uncertainty in this spiral, or will we be trapped in an eternal cycle?”

  Around them, the spirits of Yamato began to gather, wanting to see if the cycle of vengeance could be ended or if everything would be swallowed again. “This is the awaited moment, Ibaraki,” Ura's voice echoed, filled with both hope and threat. “Are you ready to face the consequences of your desire to change fate?”

  Ura, in the distance, smiled deeply, “Finally, the spiral of the world moves again. Not out of hatred, but because of the will to write a new meaning.”

  For the first time since the fall of Mount ōe, Ibaraki no longer felt alone. “This path is full of shadows, Ura,” she stated firmly, confronting the uncertainty ahead. “Every step is entangled in the universe's curse, and every decision will invite hell.”

  Finally, she added, “I walk not just as a victim of history—but as a writer of a new chapter in the spiral of Yamato. However, every ink I carve has the potential to poison the subsequent pages.”

  “Realize this, Ibaraki,” Shuten-dōji's voice echoed, “our magic spiral does not just spin. It bites, it tears, and often hides a deeper darkness. Master its technique wisely, or you will be trapped in the web you weave yourself.”