Kurogai stood motionless as Mystique's face crawled into something hideous. His voice remained calm, flat, unshaken. "Then you will die here."

Those words were not idle; they were a verdict. No plea could change it now.

Mystique laughed, a harsh, high sound that scraped the metal walls of the hold. "You think you can stop us? Look, all the mutants on this ship obey me, over two hundred in total, more than a hundred crammed into this cabin alone. I made them, and today they will tear you apart."

She paced, confidence like venom in every sentence. The mutated prisoners around her roared in answer, bestial and ready. Ordinary humans twisted into brutal forms behaved unpredictably and violently. That volatility was Mystique's advantage, and she assumed it would be enough to break Kurogai.

Kurogai did not reply. He had kept himself from revealing his full strength for a long time, letting it grow quietly, like an engine warming unseen. Mystique's bravado was no more than a small flare in a night sky to him. He watched, unperturbed, while the mutants lunged.

"Kill him, strip him of life," Mystique ordered, voice full of furious certainty, thinking she had set the terms of the fight.

Kurogai's expression tightened only a fraction. He stepped aside and the chanting warmth within his eyes began to shift. Symbols, ancient and unfamiliar, kindled in the irises and overlapped into a pattern of three crimson orbs that glowed with a slow, terrible light.

"I can give you power," he said, his voice low, "and I can take it away."

Then he spoke the curse. The sound of the words carried like a hammer striking glass. "I bind you, anyone who uses a power not born to them. Use it and it will be sealed, you will not move without my leave, you will be trapped in your own body for the rest of your life."

The effect was immediate. The monstrous prison guards mid-leap stuttered. A striped brute, once a walking shadow of a tiger, felt fur recede and claws thin into fingers. Flesh and muscle contracted back into human shape. Each beast returned to its original, frightened form, then froze stiff as if the clock inside them had stopped.

A stunned silence swallowed the cabin. The mutants, once a tide of violence, stood motionless, eyes blank in frozen faces. Panic spread through their ranks in quiet mutters rather than roars.

"My strength is gone," someone whispered, fear sharp in his voice.

"Why can't I move?" another cried, voice small where it had been fierce.

Mystique's smile flickered into alarm. She had expected chaos, not this sudden stillness. Her plan, built on the assumption of uncontrollable monsters, collapsed like paper under a boot. Her confidence crumbled into hissing panic.

Kurogai moved then, slow and deliberate. A scythe coalesced in his hand, its shape old and dark, the kind of weapon that belonged in stories mothers used to scare disobedient children. It was the demons' scythe, left untouched for a long time, and now it hung in the air, slick with a promise Mystique could not counter.

"You are not worthy of mercy," he said, and the scythe replied with a motion like a crescent moon, blood-red light trailing its arc. It hooked Mystique's shoulder and did not stop. Flesh parted beneath the gleam and she fell, steps halting in a graceless tumble.

Mystique's body collapsed to the deck. For a moment she tried to twitch, to scramble, but the curse held every muscle like iron chains. She had been the architect of their torment, but in the face of absolute control she was reduced to a frightened animal.

Kurogai withdrew the scythe slowly, watching her. He did not gloat. He had never been one for theatrics. Power to him was a tool and a responsibility, and he used it with the measured precision of someone who had seen what power could do when left unchecked.

"You thought you could make gods of them," he said quietly. "You turned people into weapons, but you never learned how to make them whole. That was your mistake."

Mystique blinked, lips trembling. Her plans, her boasts, the years of manipulation, all dissolved into a single terrified realization. She had been confident because she disguised fear as certainty. Now she confronted the consequence.

Around them, the newly still prisoners reassessed themselves in silence. Some covered their faces. Others stared at their own hands as if discovering them for the first time. The ship's hold felt smaller, the air thicker, as the truth of what had happened settled over the room like a wet cloth.

Kurogai did not lower his guard. He kept the scythe at rest, its blade humming with an energy that had not been touched in many conflicts. His eyes, the threefold runes, faded but left his gaze sharper, more attentive than before. He walked among the immobilized inmates, careful not to gloat, careful not to give them hope to cling to.

A few whispered his name, half in awe and half in fear. Others just breathed, relieved that teeth and claws were no longer at their throats. He could have spoken, put them at ease, promised safety, but that was not his way. He had lessons to teach and caution to administer; mercy without wisdom could be as cruel as Mystique's manipulation.

He turned back to Mystique and crouched slightly so his face was level with hers. "You built a tower of lies," he said, "and you thought you could climb above consequence. You cannot hide from what you make."

She tried to laugh, a broken sound. "I will not... I will not be taken."

"You already are," he answered, and the certainty in his words did not need to be loud to be complete.

Kurogai stood, the scythe held idle, and the hold remained heavy with the aftermath. Escape routes had been cut off, plans had been thwarted, and yet the cost of victory lingered in the air like smoke. He had not sought this fight, but when the innocent were twisted into instruments, when men and women became fodder for someone else's ambition, he could not stand aside.

As the ship's crew scrambled to regain control, Kurogai kept his eyes on Mystique and the frozen forms around him. He had undone what she built, but he knew better than most that unmaking a wrong was only the first step. Rebuilding what had been broken would take time, and long after these decks were cleared, the echoes of this night would follow them.

Still, for now, the scythe was sheathed in shadow, and his voice, calm and composed, carried the only promise the room needed. "No one made you what you are without cost. Today that cost has been paid."

____

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