I slam a Seismic Kick into the spacious garden floor of the villa.
Muscle to joint. Joint to bone. I feel the Force stream through every fiber of my body, aligned and efficient.
I isolate each connection, dial in tight.
Hundreds of movements resolve into thousands. Then tens of thousands.
Click. Everything locks into place.
“Hup!”
The recoil from the ground fires up through me.
I drive it into my fist and smash the air.
CRACK! The garden rings with the sound.
“Meow!”
“Did I wake you, Milady?”
Lady Ayano bolts upright from her nap and starts hammering the typewriter with her paws.
Clack clack clack—ding.
[That wasn’t a normal Force Release, was it?]
“Sharp as ever, Milady. You can tell?”
[Hmph! I AM your top disciple, after all!]
She raises both paws and unleashes a furious flurry of shadow punches.
“Mew-mew-mew-mew-mew!”
Cute enough to give a man cardiac arrest.
“Got knocked around pretty bad by that self-destruct yesterday. My body’s balance was off. Needed a tune-up.”
[Wait, what?! Were you hurt?!]
“Nothing serious. Just lost some precision. Needed to recalibrate.”
For someone like me—no magical bloodline, no sacred birthright—raw output isn’t enough. I need perfect control.
If the body’s off, even a little, the whole system’s compromised.
That’s why daily tuning is non-negotiable.
“Force Release is an advanced technique. With normal strikes, a good hit is a good hit. But with this? If your form’s even slightly off, you feel it. The whole power output hinges on alignment and Seismic Kick working in perfect sync.”
[Bogdanov always praised your alignment precision, Ikaku.]
Among the disciples, I had the best.
Master used to rank the alignment of Force like this:
20%—Chaotic Rhythm.
50%—Single Rhythm.
80%—Full Rhythm.
And 100%? He called that Dragon’s Roar.
“Realistically, you’re not hitting 100% in the heat of combat. Not consistently. Dragon’s Roar is the miracle shot—if you’re lucky, you land it once in your life. Even in training, no one could pull it off on command.”
I glance at Lady Ayano with a grin.
“Except me.”
I tighten my stance and fire another punch. CRACK!
Air snaps. Leaves scatter. Birds take flight.
My fist leaves a trail of vapor in its wake.
That’s it. The roar of sharpness—why they called it the roar of a dragon.
Back when they were choosing my nickname, it came down to “Dragonsing Ikaku” or “One-Shot Ikaku.”
“Mee-ow~♡”
[That’s my Ikaku!]
“That said, no one aims for Dragon’s Roar in real combat. It’s impossible. You either hit it or you don’t. Anyway, tuning’s done. Shall we get going?”
[Time for a beatdown! Let’s crush those Demon-loving creeps!]
I strap in, pack the trunk, and fire up the NSX.
* * *
8 PM.
I’m parked across the street from Neon Circle, a nightclub blazing with LED signs that outshine the four-lane boulevard.
It’s the hangout for that suicide bomber’s crew.
The smug Brit spent her day touring Exorcist Guild branches, meeting the Akachi family, and poking around the charred remains of Coral Eldarian.
She messaged me, “To the Oriental Dance Master: Notify me of any developments.”
Always one word too many, that pompous tart. I ignored her.
We’ve got four targets with names. Two faces confirmed.
I’m bagging all of them.
“Milady, can you hear me?”
I whisper into the radio.
Lady Ayano presses a paw to the headset on her fuzzy ear.
“Meow!”
I made this setup in case she got lost in the club crowd. At least I can track her voice if she wanders off.
“Let’s move.”
“Mee-ow~!”
I check the Desert Eagle—loaded. Holster it. Step out of the car and head for the back entrance.
I scoped it earlier. It’s tucked in a grimy alley, way too low-profile.
I watch from the shadows.
Sketchy types drift in through the back. No frisk, no delay. Just a nod from the gorilla on door duty. Facial recognition access.
“Found them already.”
“Meow…”
There he is. A face from the intel photos, pulled off a burned phone and reconstructed by the Red Guild’s analysts.
I straighten my tie, lower Lady Ayano to the ground, and walk up like I belong here.
With a smile and confident nod, I stride toward the door. Try to make it through like a VIP.
Naturally, the guard steps in.
“Excuse me, sir. This entrance is for members and guests only. Please use the front.”
“I’m an Exorcist. There’s a high chance some Demon-worshipping bastards involved in serious crimes are inside. I’d appreciate your cooperation.”
“Exorcist…?”
His face shifts. Doubt. Panic. Calculating.
He reaches for his radio.
I twist his arm behind his back.
“Grah! What the hell?!”
“No calls.”
I take the radio. Almost crush it, but decide not to. Might be useful.
I slide it into my pocket.
“Let go, asshole!”
He fights back. I feel the shift. Mana.
“You’ve got Ichor in your blood.”
“So what if I do?”
“I don’t tolerate traitors. That power isn’t for Demon work.”
“Hah! You think God’s grace has a user manual? I use it however the hell I want!”
He tries to break free.
I let him go, then kick him straight in the ass.
He stumbles, spins, draws a pistol.
“You bastard, I’ll blow your—”
Bang! Bang!
Two in the chest. 5.7mm mercury rounds.
The gun clatters. He collapses.
“Gah, cough—”
He fumbles for Ichor with shaking fingers. A syringe, aimed at his neck.
I stomp his hand. Crunch. The ampoule shatters.
Liquid miracle spills across the ground.
“Guh, gurgle—”
“I hate traitors most of all.”
I shoot him in the head. His skull bursts red into the alley.
Even a mana user dies from a bullet to the brain.
No more miracles now.
“Meow! Meow!”
“Let’s go, Milady.”
Lady Ayano’s swatting at the corpse with furious little cat punches.
We step through the back door.
Right into the belly of the beast.