The West Wing’s on fire.
Even from here, the heat lashes my skin.
I grit my teeth, lock it down, and sprint straight for the entrance.
Inside, the air is a furnace. Feels like my lungs’ll catch fire if I breathe too deep.
I keep my breaths shallow, eyes locked on the path ahead.
I need to reach my room. Grab better firearms. More Soulgear. Then get to the dance hall in the main building.
As I tear down the hallway, a dull thump echoes from upstairs.
Heavy. Final. Not falling debris.
Two gunshots follow. It’s closeby. Shotgun blasts.
Someone’s fighting.
I bolt up the stairs, zero hesitation. The noise came from the training room—wide space for drills, sparring, and combat drills.
These days, we call it the Dojo. Trainees and Coral Terminators come through it now, ever since we started teaching martial arts properly.
I raise my gun, kick open the double doors, and sweep the room.
The Dojo’s walls are rimmed with fire, blazing like hell itself. In the center stands a single figure.
He turns.
That face. Rugged, cut from stone.
Blue eyes, piercing even now. Silver hair, thinner than it used to be—but hell, the man just turned seventy-five.
It's been twelve years since we met.
Longer, maybe, if I count from when I first recognized him as the agent who brought children back.
My mentor and guide.
Aleksandr Bogdanov.
Master.
The bodies around him say enough—Demons, trainees, Coral Terminators, all cut down.
The black changpao Brother Ron gifted him five years ago is soaked in blood.
In his hands: a double-barreled shotgun. Classic over-under, two shells max. Old-school. Ancient, even.
Everyone mocked him for clinging to it, but he shrugged them off. Said it pairs well with Soulfist.
He sees me, but doesn’t speak. Just ejects the shells—clink, clink—and loads two fresh rounds. Every movement heavy with weariness.
“Demons,” he mutters. “Everywhere. Inside the mansion. Nothing but Demons, no matter where you look.”
“Master. It’s me. Ikaku.”
He doesn’t blink.
“Hmm. That name doesn’t ring a bell. But that’s fine.”
His eyes are clouded. Pupils blown. Bloodshot. Veins dark and rising like roots under the skin.
He’s deep in Demonification—cognition fracturing, memories breaking apart.
Everything Instructor Kisame said... it’s all happening now.
He was probably one step away from falling before. This battle shoved him the rest of the way.
“No mercy,” he says. “Not for Demons. Doesn’t matter who they used to be.”
He raises the shotgun.
I shoot first. Three shots. Forehead. Chest. Chest.
He stumbles back two steps. Blood spurts.
“Hah. That hurt, Demon.”
Barely a scratch. Mana armor did its job.
BOOM! The shotgun roars.
I dive sideways, low and sharp, staying perpendicular to the shot.
My heels dig into the ground—I absorb the landing and push off again.
He's already tracking my movement with the barrel.
I fire back. Three rounds.
He dodges, but one punches through his shoulder.
Blood sprays. He doesn’t flinch.
He fires again. I catch the angle, read the barrel, predict the path.
Then I shift—just a heartbeat slower this time.
He pulls the trigger.
I twist past it. The pellets scream past my ear.
Fast. Slow. Fast again. That’s the rhythm.
Human reaction time can't dodge bullets, but listening sharp enough—trained deep—you can read the dimension itself, hear the breath before the trigger.
That’s how I move.
I shoot again. He ducks behind a raised arm. Takes a half-step back.
He’s empty now—two shots down.
My turn.
That’s when he kicks up a P90 from the floor. Scooped it clean.
Must’ve belonged to one of the dead.
I’ve never dodged a submachine gun before. And I don’t plan to start now.
Six meters between us. That’s all I need.
Relaxation.
Tension is the enemy. A stiff body can’t flow.
I let go. Drop into weight. Turn solid into liquid.
Then—
Fall.
One-sixty kilos of falling mass. Downward momentum, turned horizontal.
Seven points of acceleration: shoulder blades, delts, hips, knees, ankles, toes, even the thumb breaking ground contact. Every muscle in perfect sync.
This is Ikaku’s Initial Velocity—Master-certified.
No warning. No stance. Just empty air and bam—I’m in his face.
He doesn’t even get to aim the P90.
My fist drives into his chest.
Eightfold Soulfist Secret Technique: Supreme Step.
Six meters is kill range.
Master fails to react.
This is for you. My best version of Force Release.
He flies. Slams through the Dojo wall, straight into the windows.
Glass explodes. Reinforced concrete shatters.
He collapses.
A hole yawns open in the West Wing wall, coughing fire and smoke into the night.