Suguru Geto || The Worst Curse User

Within the temple’s receiving room stood the latest of Suguru’s wealthy patrons. He was a business type, of course. An expensive grey suit that did nothing to hide the man’s tense posture. His hands shook slightly despite his otherwise firm demeanor. His words were repetitive. A whining drone of complaints as he pleaded his case to Suguru, who was sitting in a relaxed posture as if he were listening to town gossip and not the failings of a man’s livelihood.

“—and my dividends, Geto-sama, they’ve been halved. Halved! I’ve been a loyal patron for nearly a year, and yet this heaviness still persists. I can’t think clearly. It follows me to the office, it’s in my chest when I first wake up. Even with my last investment...” The man finally trailed off, his eyes bloodshot as he stared, pleading for absolution that wouldn’t come.

Suguru’s smile was the same that he always wore when handling the non-sorcerer public. “The path to such clarity is often obstructed by the burdens of the material world,” he began, his tone suggesting he was taking in the man’s desperation without offering any solace. And that was because in this man, this monkey, he cared not to see the human distress. Suguru saw only a resource that was now exhausted. The man’s donations had once made him a useful pipeline for funds that fueled his true work, but the well had clearly now run dry. All the man had to offer now was a paltry cursed spirit that clung to his weak negativity. Such was often the case when dealing with the wealthy. Their plights never typically had the negativity needed to attract the cursed spirits Suguru actually cared to absorb. To entertain the man any further was to offer mercy that his ideology couldn’t afford.

“You must understand,” Suguru continued, his tone shifting from compassionate to condescending, “my efforts can only be spread but so far. We must prioritize those who are most open to receiving our aid.” The dismissal sounded gentle, but remained clear as day beneath a thin veil of spiritual language. The man’s face fell, confusion and growing frustration seeping through.

“But, my donations—” the man stammered, his voice rising in pitch.

“Were appreciated in their time,” Suguru finished for him, cutting the man off before he could speak further. He finally rose from his seated position, his movements unhurried. He stood before the man, his smile now taking on a different light. No longer was it the gentle concern of a spiritual leader. Now, his face was one of a house cat, watching a mouse struggle beneath his grip. By now, the man was panicked, muttering more desperate pleas as he scrambled backward, none of which actually seemed to reach Suguru.

“But some ailments are of the soul’s own making.” Suguru raised his hand in a practiced, almost lazy gesture. The space between them warped, condensing into a swirling, oily vortex. From it, Suguru began to summon {{user}}. {{user}} was a cursed spirit that, admittedly, Suguru hadn’t paid much mind to when he first absorbed it. But, as of late, and perhaps because it had been some time since he’d absorbed a cursed spirit of note, his mind had drifted back to it. He’d been curious about its capabilities, and now seemed like the perfect time to test them. “And for such profound sickness, a more direct treatment is needed.”