The Calamity-Class Artifacts in Ghost Stories Are Obsessed with Me - Chapter 43

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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Calamitous Relics of Urban Legend Fixate on Me — Episode 43
The Iron Pipe, held high above, descended slowly toward the jar.
I thought that if I smashed it now, everything would be over.
But just before the Iron Pipe touched the jar.
Screee—!
Suddenly, a scorching heat erupted from my chest.
The sudden pain made Wuju’s body twitch, and his grip on the Iron Pipe faltered.
—Mmmmmmmmmmmm!
The strange sound that had been tormenting my ears grew even louder, as if I might break down and shatter the jar in desperation.
But I couldn’t ignore the heat. What on earth was burning in my chest like this?
At last, I reached into my chest and pulled out the object.
And then my eyes widened.
It was a book.
It looked like something that might appear in a historical drama set in the Joseon era, but I recognized its true nature at once.
It was the Necronomicon.
‘Why is this here?’
The fact that the Necronomicon was here wasn’t surprising in itself.
Strange vision or not, hadn’t the Iron Pipe, shaped like an axe, been resting perfectly fine in my hand all along?
The question was why it had suddenly interfered. As if it didn’t want me to break the jar.
I narrowed my brows.
Now that I thought about it, the Iron Pipe’s silence was significant.
Under normal circumstances, it would have been buzzing with discontent, urging me to swing it faster.
Was it possible that my two most powerful relics were both restraining me?
‘Could it be…?’
Now that I considered it, something was indeed strange.
Until just moments ago, the jar had been clamoring loudly, demanding I attack. Now it was silent.
It had set up such a sneaky attack, only to be destroyed carelessly in the end?
That didn’t make sense.
‘Was breaking it a trap from the start?’
I recalled what had happened at Smile Park.
The moment I killed some mysterious target, Smiles came swarming like madmen to attack.
Perhaps this jar would fully activate the moment it broke.
‘But leaving it alone feels wrong too.’
Yet leaving the jar as it was felt equally unsettling.
It sat before me now, but from all appearances, this jar had been lodged in my depths from the moment I first discovered it.
As I hesitated, uncertain what to do.
Thrummm—.
The Necronomicon vibrated violently, as if urging me onward.
I looked down at the Necronomicon again.
Whoooosh!
The moment my gaze fell upon it, the Necronomicon opened of its own accord.
From that point on, I didn’t need to hold it anymore. The Necronomicon floated weightlessly into the air.
—Mmmmmmmmmm!
—Screee, screee, screee, screee—!
—Waaah, waaah, waaah, waaah, waaah, waaah!
At the same time, the noises coming from the jar grew even louder.
As if it desperately wanted me to break and shatter it.
But I ignored those sounds as if they didn’t exist, focusing entirely on the Necronomicon.
Where the Necronomicon’s pages had stopped, there was a grotesquely twisted pattern and a black, abyssal hole.
Through that opening, the illusion of tens of thousands of worms crawling out swept across my mind.
“Ah.”
I understood the true nature of the jar.
It was a Gu Poison Jar.
A vile Sacrificial Vessel made by confining tens of thousands of venomous insects in one place and letting them devour each other.
But this jar had gone a step further, fusing itself with a powerful curse so completely they became one.
The poison it channeled worked not on the body, but on the soul.
Now I understood why the jar couldn’t be broken.
That jar was merely a vessel containing a terrible Curse. If I shattered it?
The Curse sealed inside would burst out and spread throughout my entire soul.
That was why the Iron Pipe had fallen silent and deferred to the Necronomicon.
Just as it had been at Smile Park before, this place suited the Necronomicon far better than it did him.
“How tediously relentless this assault grows.”
Wuju’s lips curved into a smile.
The ambush itself, the vicious curse planted in the attacker’s body—all of it was misdirection.
A feint meant to embed this Gu Poison Jar into Wuju’s flesh.
The opponent had likely even calculated the location of the poison shrine itself.
And so they waited, after finally planting the jar in Wuju’s body, for it to rupture.
But then.
They had made the mistake of coveting the Necronomicon while dismissing its true potential.
Wuju gazed upon the Necronomicon.
More precisely, at the new incantation inscribed upon its pages.
The text was written in a language no ordinary human could comprehend, yet Wuju could read it.
‘The name of the spell.’
With the Necronomicon’s power, sealing away this curse would be no difficulty at all.
But the Necronomicon offered him something far superior.
To turn the curse back upon its sender—and to amplify it in the doing.
—Shrieeeeeek!
The jar convulsed wildly, as if sensing the vicious energy descending upon it.
But Wuju paid it no mind, placing one hand upon the jar’s surface.
“Maledictus Reverti.”
In that instant, black tentacles erupted from the Necronomicon, swiftly coiling around the jar in a strangling embrace.
“Vade retro, maledictio. Ad fontem sceleris.”
—Shrieeeeeeek!
The vicious energy that had been tearing free from within the jar was forcibly driven back down into itself.
Wuju continued his incantation without pause, his eyes glowing violet as he fixed his gaze upon the jar.
The jar trembled with increasing violence.
It was not the tremor of rage, but of exultation.
A malevolent curse always harbored deep resentment toward its master.
All Wuju had to do was give that resentment a clear direction and sharper fangs.
And so he pronounced the verdict.
“Oculus pro oculo, anima pro anima.”
In that moment.
A thread of crimson light unfurled from the jar, piercing through the illusion that veiled Wuju’s eyes, toward some distant place beyond.
It tore through space itself, seeking out its master and drifting forth.
Wuju’s lips curved upward again.
For only a brief instant, he saw it.
Someone sitting rigidly in that distant darkness. An elderly figure with white hair.
His gaze and Wuju’s met for the merest fraction of a second.
—Crash!
Not long after, the jar shattered and vanished without leaving even a speck of dust.
It had traveled back along the path Wuju had opened, returning to its master.
Carrying with it malevolent malice.
—Whooooosh!
As a bonus, the tentacles that had freed themselves from the Necronomicon flew after it, their eyes wide and bloodshot, following that same thread.
With such a generous gift in return, disappointment would surely be the least of their concerns.
—Click.
The moment the incantation ended, the Necronomicon, which had been hovering in empty air, shut itself closed and gently came to rest upon Wuju’s palm.
“Hah.”
Wuju staggered under a crushing wave of exhaustion, barely managing to steady himself.
Every time he used it, he felt the same thing—the Necronomicon’s spells were never merciful.
Despite having spoken only a single incantation, he felt as though he’d sprinted at full strength for hours.
Had the Iron Pipe he carried not breathed vitality into him, he would have collapsed then and there.
—Shhhhh.
He felt the Necronomicon grow cold in his hand.
The magical power that had roiled around him moments before, ready to devour everything in its path, now lay perfectly still.
Wuju slowly surveyed his surroundings.
The strange whispers that had filled the space were gone, and the jar had vanished without a trace. And then.
—Crack!
Fractures began to form in the empty air. The illusion was shattering.
At the same moment, a powerful gravitational pull emanated from the rifts.
Wuju surrendered to it instead of resisting.
It was time to go home.
* * *
A Curse is, in truth, a formidable power.
If one does not know how to counter it, they are likely to suffer its effects unknowingly, and once a Curse has extended its grasp, dispelling it is no simple task.
Yet Curses are not without their flaws.
Setting aside the effort and labor required to manifest one, a Curse harbors a fundamental weakness.
It is the backlash that occurs when a Curse is broken.
When a Curse fails, its price is paid in full by the caster.
It becomes a Curse more potent than the one originally cast, turning to strike down the caster themselves.
This is an absolute law.
“Aaaahhhhh—!”
And so even Rowendle, called the master of Curse arts, could not escape that law.
“Aaahhhhh—!”
Rowendle’s screams tore from his throat.
Around him stood dozens of dolls, rigid and motionless.
They were Sacrificial Vessels—objects prepared to bear the cost should a Curse be shattered.
But now every doll serving as a Sacrificial Vessel had turned blackened.
In the moment the Curse reversed, nearly all ninety-nine prepared Sacrificial Vessels were neutralized simultaneously.
As a result, Rowendle was forced to endure the full brunt of the remaining backlash with his own body.
“Gaaahhh—!”
Yet even in that agony, Rowendle did not succumb passively; he fought to minimize the damage.
He channeled the Curse’s force directed at him deliberately into one hand.
When one arm had turned completely black.
Crack!
Without hesitation, Rowendle severed his own arm.
Splash!
From the severed limb, crimson tentacles erupted in violent profusion.
Rowendle, his face drained pale, hastily chanted words to banish them from sight.
“Hah… hah…”
When at last those processes were complete.
Rowendle’s appearance was that of a broken wreck.
His white hair, once always combed back neatly, now hung wild and disheveled; his eyes were bloodshot red.
“Curse this. Damn this all.”
Rowendle dripped saliva from the corners of his mouth, muttering harsh syllables.
He had known there was a possibility the Curse could be broken.
That was why he had carefully prepared the Sacrificial Vessels.
But he had never anticipated the returned Curse’s power to be this overwhelming.
This was far more than simple Curse-breaking.
For this to happen, a sorcerer of at least his caliber—or greater—must have intervened, layering additional power onto the Curse.
“How is it possible…”
Rowendle glared into the void with bloodshot eyes, muttering to himself.
Could that wretch have awakened to the true essence of the Necronomicon?
Had that notoriously difficult and inscrutable tome already whispered its secrets to its new master?
“It cannot be.”
Rowendle rejected the possibility outright.
It cannot be.
Not some obscure hedge sorcerer, and certainly not in this Eastern backwater—some yellow ape could never become the true master of the Necronomicon.
Such a thing could not exist. It was impossible.
“Hah…”
He wanted nothing more than to hunt that creature down immediately and tear him apart.
But Rowendle suppressed his rage, cold sweat beading his skin.
The damage he had sustained was far from trivial—at least several months of recovery would be required.
And while this petty nation’s government held no fear for him, the Inspection Bureau demanded caution.
A direct confrontation with them was never a wise choice.
The one consolation was that the Movement of Constellations had grown irregular of late.
“Given time, an opening will come.”
If the constellation’s movement held true, chaos would not diminish—it would only intensify.
An age hospitable to the rampage of strange things would stretch on for a considerable span.
When confusion reached its apex, an opportunity would surely arise for him to strike anew.
Rowendle comforted himself with these thoughts before closing his eyes as if losing consciousness.
Continued in the next episode ▶
Calamity-grade relics from urban legends obsess
Author
Lee Segyesa
Publisher
Kim Seok-hwan, Choi Se-ra
Published by
Grae Publishing
Inquiries
[email protected]
Publication Date
May 26, 2026
UCI
G720:N+A327-20260410110
※ This e-book is protected under copyright law. Unauthorized reproduction and distribution are prohibited, and violations may result in criminal and civil liability.
※ Pentagram is awaiting your precious manuscript.

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This chapter was translated by Lunox Novels. To support us and help keep this series going, visit our website: LunoxScans.com
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