Hardcore Exorcist: Reborn to Grind

That day, a kid from my cohort picked a fight with that annoying pack of punks.

His face got worked so bad, it barely looked human.

Apparently, he told the others, “Don’t tell Ikaku… he’s already dealing with enough.” 

I heard that secondhand.

Why’d he even get into that fight?

“He did it for your honor,” they told me, frustration in their voices.

They couldn’t stand that I was being mocked.

Why get that mad over me?

Turns out, to the 102nd Cohort Boot Camp guys, I’m something special. They think I’m legit.

Got into Boot Camp at six. Always push myself till I drop. Train every angle like it’s do or die. Can’t even use mana, and I still go harder than anyone.

That’s why they respect me—or so they say.

So when someone talks shit, they don’t take it lightly. Especially not when the trash talk’s coming from the 103rd Cohort—punks a year below us. That just added fuel to the fire.

At first I thought, Wait, are they mad at me?

“Those 103rd bastards are getting cocky.”

“We should crush ‘em, seriously.”

“They need to learn their place.”

“Only problem is… they’ve got more guys.”

Their so-called strategy meeting wasn’t exactly reassuring.

“The 103rd left us a challenge letter!”

“No way… Holy crap, they actually did!”

“It’s a duel! Behind the training building!”

Everyone lit up like it was the best news they’d ever heard. Joints cracking. Fists clenched.

“We’re outnumbered, sure, but we’re the elite. We’ll be fine.”

“Just watch, Ikaku. We’ll wipe the floor with them.”

“We know better than anyone how amazing you are. Just sit back and relax, okay?”

“Nah. I’ll be training while I wait.”

A few days later, duel day arrives.

I’m practicing forms on the wooden dummy like usual.

Not just swinging my limbs around—I focus on every move. Every joint. Every breath. Balance. Weight. Flow.

But I can’t concentrate.

“Damn it. Why are they fighting for me? If they’re outnumbered, they should’ve walked away.”

After a while, I stop training.

Master, I failed. I’m losing my cool. Still not grown-up enough to be like you.

I head to the back of the training building.

My cohort’s already down. Beaten bloody.

Fourteen versus eight. The odds were never in our favor.

Still, they fought like hell. The 103rd isn’t looking so hot either.

Four still fresh. Seven dinged up. Three out cold.

“Oh look, it’s the Kung Fu kid.”

“Thought he ran off with his tail between his legs.”

Laughter. Mocking. Doesn’t faze me.

“You up for a one-on-one? Your strongest versus me. If I win, this ends here.”

“You serious?”

The tallest of them steps up. Looks seventeen, and probably their leader.

He’s one seventy-five centimeters tall. I’m one forty-eight. That’s a twenty-seven centimeter difference.

Still in range, though.

My cohort, bloodied and groaning, turn their swollen faces toward me.

Cough cough. “Ikaku… why…”

“You can’t use mana… it’s suicide…”

“Hey! Rest of you stay out of it!”

“We won’t. Isn’t he six years younger?”

“Don’t go losing to some mana-less punk!”

The 103rd leader raises his guard. Solid, basic stance.

He twitches his shoulder, throwing a feint jab. Doesn’t reach me.

Then the real attack comes—a middle kick.

This isn’t martial arts. It’s military hand-to-hand, a Boot Camp staple. Fast-track combat techniques designed to work with mana enhancements.

This kick’s juiced. Full extension of his long legs. Perfect distance.

His instep slices for my temple.

Weight. Reach. Strength. Mana. He’s got me beat on all fronts.

If I block this straight on, chances are my arm’ll snap. I’ll go flying for sure.

So I don’t.

The moment his leg lifts and I catch the scent of wind on leather, I pivot.

Half stance. Deep step.

I slip in under the strike and stop his thigh with a dull thud using my core.

Not the shin—the thigh. The root.

“Ah—!”

I end up right in his chest. He grabs my shoulders tight.

He’s going for an elbow. Obvious.

Raise and drop into a skull-shatterer.

But it’s a two-step move, and I’m already locked in.

My right fist is ready. Distance to his abs: three centimeters.

No wind-up needed. I’m more than capable of making it work.

I drive it in.

His feet leave the ground.

He sails five meters, smashes into the training building wall.

Part of the wall crumbles.

He slumps to the floor, eyes rolled back, foam bubbling from his lips.

All he can do is twitch his limbs in convulsions.

A ripple of shock spreads.