That last exchange—he deflected it using Force Redirection.
I’d expect nothing less of Master.
I dive through the collapsed floor and give chase.
We crash down into the old training yard behind the West Wing.
The place hasn’t seen use in years. The martial artists all moved into the main building.
What’s left here doesn’t even block the wind or rain. Just a relic. A ruin.
“Ahh, now that’s more like it. This is a real fight. You—I’ll drag your Demon ass to hell myself.”
“That’s my line, Master. Of all people, I have to—”
“Aha, hah-hah-hah!”
He rises from one knee—and suddenly, he’s right in front of me.
Some kind of advanced step technique.
Doesn’t matter. I’ve got an answer.
He punches. I slap it away with a redirect.
Fast. Way faster than when we last sparred.
Is this what it looks like when Master’s trying to kill? Or is it the power of Demonification?
Ultra-close combat begins. The perfect range for Eightfold Soulfist.
Pistol under my chin. Trained on his face, dead center. I fire.
His arm knocks it off-line.
I drive a punch toward his gut.
He deflects with his elbow. He shoots a knee at my ribs.
I slam it away with my own elbow.
Using the recoil from the counter, I twist in with a rising wrist strike—angled to cut with the bent bone—straight for his chin.
He swats it sideways.
The P90 rises in front of my face.
I jerk my head to the side.
I drop low and fire an axe-blade kick at his knee.
He dissipates it with Force Redirection.
I swing the muzzle for a close shot.
He knocks it away. I let the gun drop.
The P90 comes for my waist.
I knee-kick it out of his hands.
We’re both disarmed.
“Hah-hah-hah! Ah-hah-hah-hah!”
Master laughs like a man possessed. No—like a beast. Snarling, ragged, inhuman.
That sound shouldn't come out of a human throat.
I take two sharp steps back. Quick-draw my Five-seveN from its holster.
Two shots. Three. Four. Hits land on Master.
He raises an arm to shield his face, staggering, then starts weaving side to side, closing in. Staying mobile, staying low.
Blood sprays—but he doesn’t stop. Not enough stopping power.
“That tickles. You playing around, Demon?”
“Tch.”
He closes the distance. Clamps a hand over my gun, pressing down.
I counter his knee with an axe-blade kick.
With the hand he’s using to grab my gun, I twist his wrist, trying to snap into a joint lock—Binding Clutch.
He slips it.
Fast. Too fast.
I fire at his face.
Nothing comes out. The slide's gone.
“—!”
He broke it the instant he grabbed it?
That’s Brother Ron’s technique. A point-blank disarm. “If the enemy won’t drop the weapon, take it apart.”
Even at his age, Master’s still learning. That was always his way.
I just never thought he’d already mastered it.
I freeze, and that split-second is all it takes.
His turn.
A flurry of strikes comes screaming in. Fists and feet. Upper, mid, mid—upper, upper, mid, upper.
I knock aside every limb that comes near. I won’t let him land a single clean hit.
I scan for an opening in the whirlwind.
There!
A knee shoots forward.
I smash it aside with an axe-blade kick. Push in. Break the flow. Cut his offense short.
I catch my breath and shift into my own assault.
Toss the busted gun. Flip my coat.
My right hand grips the silver knife holstered behind my waist.
I bait out his ki—then leap.
A hard thrust at his face.
He catches it with his arm. Dodges.
Then he kicks low, aiming to break my stance.
I block with my knee and skid back two meters.
He mirrors my retreat. We split again.
Then I see it.
He pulls the silver knife from his abdomen.
The one I stabbed him with.
He dodged the knife I aimed at his face—the bright strike.
But in that same moment, I’d gripped another blade in my left hand. The dark strike. The one he never saw coming. That one hit.
Hidden Force. Techniques designed so the target never realizes they’ve been hit.
Works barehanded. Works even better with concealed weapons.
But... the wound is shallow.
I drove it in with all I had, and still only the tip pierced.
Not enough.
Even silver barely scratches him. Demonification’s given him armor like steel plating. My 5.7mm rounds, quadruple-charged, can barely get through.
I had a feeling silver knives wouldn’t be enough.
Even if I stabbed him a hundred times, he wouldn’t die.
I slide the useless blade back into its sheath.
He tosses aside the bloody one he pulled from his own gut.
“Not bad. Pretty close to human behavior.”
“Master... I’m your disciple. Can’t you tell by the way I fight?”
“Demons lie. They worm into hearts. That’s what I’d teach my students: don’t trust Demon words.”
“...Right. That’s true.”
What a moment.
To fight Master like this—at full strength.
I’ve been waiting my whole life.
Even now, twisted by Demon blood, he’s still my Master. Even if he’s forgotten who I am, his fists haven’t.
He’s still Alek of the Zero Force.
And he’s mastered Demon power too.
Just look at him. The sharpness of his movements.
Started Systema at ten. Switched to Eightfold Soulfist at twenty-two. Then kept learning, combining, refining.
Now he’s seventy-five.
Sixty-five years of martial grind. Pure accumulation. A man who’s fought Demons every step of the way.
That’s what humans can do. That’s what pride looks like.
His Kung Fu’s alive. He’s alive. Standing right there.
As long as we keep trading blows, he’ll stay that way. We could keep sparring forever. And if we never stop, the end will never come.
“Hah…”
I let out a long breath—and shake off the delusion.
Ikaku.
You know better.
That’s not how this works.
I’ve been hesitating this whole fight. Thinking, How do I save him? How do I end this without killing him?
But the answer never comes.
Humans who become Demons—there’s no coming back.
I studied this. I know this.
Once they turn, it’s over. No miracle cure. No legendary hidden technique.
And I’m not having some divine breakthrough here and now.
I should’ve known from the start.
I have to kill Master. With my own hands. As his disciple.
Right here, right now.
If he were still sane, that’s what he’d want too.
But every time our fists met, I felt him. His form. His brilliance. The years in his bones.
And that made me hope.
Isn’t there still time? Isn’t there some way?
He’s still talking, after all. Still speaking like a man.
Cutting that last thread of hope... isn’t it too cruel?
“What’s wrong? You look pained. Tired already? Well then, let’s wrap up this little dance. I can’t waste all day. I’m an Akai family Exorcist. I’ve got people to save.”
“...Yeah. You’re right.”
He slows his breath. Sinks into a stance.
The stance.
I know it. Every line of it. Arms, legs, weight—all textbook Eightfold Soulfist.
He taught it to me.
“You’re right. Let’s finish this.”
Still lecturing me even now. Still guiding me.
We’re Exorcists. We end Demons. No hesitation. No mercy.
We’re the only ones who can give cursed souls peace.
He takes the stance of the past.
I return with the stance of the present.
It’s not his anymore.
This one’s mine.
Version 2.5.