What does he mean by “not ordinary”?
I ask the monocled gentleman.
“It may be like preaching to the Buddha to explain mana to a skilled Exorcist, but please indulge me for a moment.”
“I don’t mind. I’m not exactly an expert.”
“Your patience is deeply appreciated.
Mana resides in tools. That’s an ancient truth. Even laymen understand it. Tools used for years soak up their owner’s spirit. Especially weapons—entrusted with lives, soaked in blood—they’re the quickest to become magical tools.”
He gently places the shotgun on the counter and gestures toward it.
“This one has mana. I can hear its voice. It’s been through hell. Survived by its owner’s side, fight after fight. May I ask who the previous owner was?”
“He was a strong Exorcist. Lived to seventy-five. Demons didn’t get him.”
“No wonder. You intend to use it, Mr. Akamuro?”
“Is that a problem?”
“There is but one concern. Magical tools tend to choose their wielders. To draw out a magical tool’s true power, you must earn its loyalty.”
“Loyalty?”
“Without it, the weapon may turn on you. Especially one like this—it could even end up taking your life.”
“So how do I know if it’s loyal?”
“That’s the hard part. Only the weapon knows. We gunsmiths just listen.”
He shakes his head slightly in a helpless manner.
I pick up the shotgun—Master Aleksandr Bogdanov’s gun. Alek’s Shotgun.
I trace my fingers along the barrel, over the worn stock, the pitted scars of old battles. The grip’s molded to his hand after fifty years of use.
“May I borrow a 12-gauge shell?”
“…Of course, Mr. Akamuro.”
He places one cartridge on the counter.
I take it, load it, and press the muzzle firmly against my temple.
“What are you doing?! Mr. Akamuro, please stop!”
One deep breath.
I pull the trigger.
Click.
Dry, metallic.
No boom. Just silence.
The gentleman exhales hard and wipes his brow with a handkerchief.
“You’re quite the bold man.”
“I figured this was the only way to test it.”
“Even if that may be the case… Nevertheless, it seems the gun favors you. Truly remarkable.”
I pop the shell and set it on the counter.
“Returning this.”
“Heh heh. Thank you.”
He pockets the cartridge.
“With this shotgun, I believe mercury rounds will hit harder. The gun’s mana will mesh with yours and ride the bullets.”
“Sounds good. Really good.”
“Indeed. Extremely rare, this kind of item.”
No wonder Master never let it go.
—Chime chime.
The bell above the shop door jingles. I glance over.
Three men enter. The kind who wear violence like a second skin.
Gun shops must get this sort of crowd. I keep my eyes forward, focused on the gentleman.
“Mr. Akamuro. Would you like night-spec customization?”
“Night-spec?”
“A matte black finish that doesn’t reflect light. Perfect for night work.”
“Then please do that.”
“Very well.”
The gentleman takes the 12-gauge shotshell from his pocket and quietly slides it across to me.
That’s when I hear it.
Clack.
“Hands up, both of you! Don’t move!”
“Step back from the counter!”
“Don’t try anything funny, big guy. Turn around.”
The gentleman raises his hands and leans back against the gun rack.
“Huh? This guy’s an Exorcist? Hah! Perfect.”
I lift my hands, slow and easy, and glance behind me.
It’s the three who just walked in—two are grinning like jackals, guns drawn.
Demon worshippers. Should’ve guessed.
“This city’s gone to hell,” I mutter.
“No damn nobles around to keep us honest anymore. Hey, old man! All the guns and ammo. Now!”
I study them.
Black, veined marks pulse across their skin. Resembles Possession-Types, but they look capable of reasoning.
Not pure Demons. Not mimics either. Somewhere in between.
Different from ordinary people transfused with Ichor.
Contractors. Two of the three are clearly hosting demons.
“Demonic Ascension, was it? Seems the Demons have taken a liking to them.”
The Demon worshippers deepen their grins.
“A friend of mine looked like that recently,” I say. “Must be trending.”
“Shut it, asshole. Step away from the counter. Turn around!”
One of them’s twitchy.
I sigh and lower my hands. I pick up the shell and the shotgun.
“Hey! What the hell are you doing?!”
“Shoot him!”
“Dumb Exorcist!”
Gunfire cracks behind me—once, twice, three times.
Fourth’s off—time to move.
Three barrels. I already clocked their models, calibers, angles, stances, breath control, center of gravity—all from reflections in the glass cases while we were talking.
I shift my head just enough. The bullets whistle past.
Fifth, sixth, seventh shot. I tilt again, let them miss.
The trick’s called Sensing Force. Bullet-dodging through prediction.
No eyes needed, just information.
While slipping past the fourth bullet, I finish loading Master’s shotgun and spin.
Boom. One Demon contractor takes a slug to the chest.
He flies backward, body blown wide open.
“Ahhh! What is he?! Why can’t we hit him?!”
Amateurs panic. Even one meter away, they miss. Because shooting another person—no matter how twisted you are—messes with your head.
And that shows in your aim.
“Aim, damn it! Exorcist’s are still just flesh and blood! Shoot ‘em and they die!”
If you land those shots, sure. No hit? No threat.
I weave in, dodging their fire. Then slap a Flowing Strike into the normal worshipper among them.
“Guhh—!”
Upward hit. He smacks the ceiling, drops like a sack of bricks.
“What the hell are you?!”
The last contractor’s out of bullets. Click, click. He tosses his gun and takes a fighting stance.
“I’m gonna do it! I’ll fuck you up!”
I extend the shotgun forward. My arm plus fifty-five centimeters of barrel reaches well into his range.
He fails to react. I masked my movement using Void.
Finally, he notices. Tries to bat the barrel away.
Too slow.
The gun’s not even loaded. But I don’t need bullets.
I drive my heel into the ground and launch a Seismic Kick, delivering a One-Inch Strike through the shotgun’s tip.
Thunk.
His chest caves in like a kicked-in drum. He slams into the back wall and crumples.
Eyes roll back. Blood and foam froth from his mouth.
“Kung Fu fires guns without bullets. Learn something?”
No answer.
I glance down at Master’s shotgun.
My body feels... clearer. Like something’s guiding me.
Dodging, striking—it’s instinctual.
“Master’s memories…?”
Maybe. The gun’s soaked in them. His technique, his rhythm.
And the barrel didn’t even dent. Must be tough as hell—or just magical enough to take the hit.
I confirm all three are down for good.
These lunatics aren’t shy about self-destruct tactics.
Neutralizing them in one strike is crucial to avoid being caught off-guard. That’s what I learned today.
I’ll search their bodies later. Might be tied to the Hidden Flame.
“Is… is it over?”
A face peeks up from behind the counter. The gentleman surveys the wreckage with mild awe.
“My, my.”
“Sorry for the mess.”
“Think nothing of it. That was magnificent Exorcism, Mr. Akamuro.”
He smiles pleasantly and adjusts his monocle like a gentleman.