The four-man team sprints for the factory.
A Demon bursts through the second-floor window, hot on a Ninth-Class Exorcist.
The guy’s flailing on the ground, pulling a holy water mist grenade from his belt. Sacred vapor hisses out, buying him a few seconds of life.
“A Demon! Let’s do this! We’re gonna kill it!”
“Uaaahhh!”
“Shoot just like in practice!”
“Yaaaah!”
Haruto Shinagawa and the others scream like they’re storming a castle.
MP5s roar. Full auto, center mass.
Good grouping. Ten meters out, decent accuracy for rookies.
But it doesn’t matter.
The Demon tanks everything with its oversized right arm. Not a scratch.
Every mercury-loaded 9mm round gets swallowed up by that meaty shield of a limb.
Three seconds. That’s all they get.
The roar of gunfire dies. Empty shells clink across the pavement. The stink of gunpowder lingers.
Their bravery fizzles like a wet firecracker.
“The bullets—”
“Shit! They’re not working!”
“New mag!”
“Like we practiced, like we practiced!”
“GROOOOHHHH!”
“Ahh! Stop!”
The Demon charges. Wild speed. Beastly intent.
It slams its hulking right arm down on Haruto. The kid’s body sails through the air and crashes onto the asphalt with a sound like dropped meat.
His chest is caved in. Ribs poking out like snapped branches.
“Gah... cough... transfusion...”
Haruto fumbles for a syringe, hands slick with blood.
If he gets the Ichor in time, he might live.
The others panic. Fumbling mags. Fumbling grips.
They can’t reload. Can’t think. Can’t breathe.
The Demon pulls a hatchet-looking weapon from its skinny left arm.
The thing oozes menace. One-handed size, but reeking of cursecraft.
It hurls the axe. Mami Sunaga takes it straight to the chest.
The blade punches through her body and buries itself in the chain-link fence behind her.
Her light frame goes limp, nailed in place. Blood everywhere.
“Guh.”
The Demon flexes its hand. The axe wrenches free from Mami’s chest and snaps back like a yo-yo.
That must be part of its power, too.
“Meow meow!”
“Yeah. Backup’s backup, I guess.”
I hop out of the car, slide over the hood like it’s an action movie, and sprint to the girl.
She’s twitching. Unconscious.
I jam an Ichor syringe into her thigh. The bleeding stops. Flesh starts stitching itself back together.
I take a knee, shoulder my rifle, and fire.
Fifteen meters. I don’t miss from here.
The Demon blocks everything. Mercury rounds slam into that massive shield like pebbles on steel. Not a dent.
“Hmm? Your mercury rounds are kind of weak, huh?”
“So you can talk too.”
It waits for the lull in my burst fire, then throws the axe.
I dive left. Just miss it.
Still rolling, I slap in a new mag—but I don’t get to chamber it.
The axe boomerangs. Not a straight return. It curves midair, zeroes in on my ribs.
I twist. Narrow dodge.
Back on my feet. Rack the bolt. Ready to go.
Too late. The Demon’s already closed the gap.
Its right arm crashes down.
I duck in, not back. Body slips under the arc. Then I unload a short burst into its back.
Rounds connect. Blood sprays. It flinches—but then whirls around, shield raised.
“Your bullets don’t have any mana, do they?”
Cocky bastard.
Even 5.56mm mercury rounds can’t punch through that thing?
Damn. Magic armor without a neutralizer’s a bitch.
I switch to short bursts, moving in. Close enough to touch. Then toss the rifle.
No good clinging to dead weight.
This one’s tough. Big shield. High defense.
It’s got strategy, not just brute force.
Knows how to block, how to bait.
Most Demons are glass cannons or berserkers. This one’s a fortress.
But it’s scared. That much’s clear.
It’s not committing to offense. It hides behind that slab like a kid with a blanket.
Coward. Can’t even see through the thing. That’s its weak point.
Thanks to that, I can take my time setting up a shot.
I plant my feet. Draw back for a Seismic Kick.
I slam my leg into the ground. The pavement cracks. Asphalt buckles.
My calf sinks into the earth. Raw kinetic energy screams through my frame.
The Demon flinches. Lowers its shield a hair to peek. Then hunkers back down, gripping tighter.
Trusting its defense, huh? That’s fair.
I’ll trust my own work, too.
“Hfff—”
First thing Master ever said to me? “Mastering the large includes mastering the small.”
Start big—Flowing strikes, wide arcs, full-body commitment.
Then condense. Condense again. Eventually, you learn to generate force from three centimeters out.
Or that’s the story.
Truth is, it’s a lie.
The One-Inch Strike’s power? Not even close to a Flowing strike. At best, 60 percent. Even for pros.
When I called him out on it, Master just picked his ear and said, “Well yeah. Big swings hit harder.”
Felt like a scam. False advertising.
But I kept going.
If three centimeters gives 60 percent, then what does six give?
I chased that thought. Chased it far.
What I found wasn’t some mythical punch. It was the philosophy underneath: efficiency in motion. Maximum impact with minimal space.
Once I had that, I flipped it. Reverse ideology.
Apply that compact efficiency to huge movements. Pack the small into the large.
That spring, age fourteen, I found the second half of Master’s teaching.
Master the large to master the small—and the small to reach the gigantic.
Ikaku Style Eightfold Soulfist Secret Technique: Cannon Strike.
“Hffff… HAH!”
I lunge.
All that power. All that buildup. I channel it into one strike—my right fist slams into the great shield.
Steel on steel. Bass note like thunder.
My knuckles don’t stop. A tiny gap blooms on impact.
Then comes the webwork—cracks snaking out from the center.
The shield explodes.
“What?! Impossible!”
“My way wins.”
I don’t stop. Switch hands mid-motion, step in again.
Left arm this time. Flowing strike.
My fist buries itself in the Demon’s solar plexus as it tries to backpedal.
Impact caves its gut.
It crumples. Shieldless. Motionless.
The corpse hits the pavement, chest cratered in the shape of my fist.