Hardcore Exorcist: Reborn to Grind

“You really are a disciple to be proud of. It’s been ten years since I first saw you, hasn’t it? You were different from the other kids at the orphanage. Watching you train that little body of yours like a machine… it honestly scared me. I suspected demonic possession.”

That’s fair.

“Why could you handle such brutal training? It should’ve broken you. At thirteen, you’ve reached Expert level. It’s beyond comprehension. It’s magnificent! I didn’t get there until I was well into adulthood.”

“All thanks to you, Master. I owe you everything.”

“I’m glad to hear that. But I just pointed you in the right direction. You were intelligent, earnest, and above all else, completely insane. In a good way, mind you. That’s why you’ve come this far.”

Master’s always been humble.

“But Ikaku… if you want to join the Coral Terminators, you’ll need to go further.”

“You mean reach Master class, not just Expert? Got it.”

“Sharp as ever. But don’t get the wrong idea—I’m not saying your close-quarters combat isn’t up to par.”

He pauses to sip from his plastic tea bottle.

“If you could use mana, you’d already be on the team. You’re smart, precise, deadly with the quick draw, and you’ve mastered both knife work and military arts.

But the mana thing… that’s the wall. That’s what makes even ordinary Exorcists look down on you. Always has, always will. You learned Kung Fu to cover that weakness. I respect that. It’s a long road you chose.”

“Yes.”

“You’re a tremendous fighter now. But if you want to change how they see you? That’s not enough. They’ll still say, ‘So what? Big deal.’ It’s not just about their belief in mana—it’s how little value Exorcists put on hand-to-hand combat.”

Ordinary people can’t boost their physical output or bodily durability enough to go toe-to-toe with demons in a slugfest, even with Ichor in their systems. Maybe it evens the odds a bit.

But if a demon closes the gap, you’re done. If it lands a hit, you die.

What we ordinary folk got is mercury bullets. Our one shot.

But me? I can’t even use mana. That’s all the average Exorcist is supposed to do—and I can’t.

Plenty of reasons not to put me in a unit. Not a single good reason to add me.

“To flip that script, you’ll have to prove your fists are stronger than guns.”

“Stronger than… guns?”

“Become not just ‘tremendous.’ Unbelievable. Only then will your path mean something. Only then will you stand on equal ground with an ordinary Exorcist.”

I think back to my previous life.

That body of steel that crushed national competitions.

Nutrition science. Exercise physiology. Training theory. The pure art of bodybuilding, born of pain and precision. All shattered by a pathetic knife not even six inches long.

It’s not like I trained thinking I’d be immune to blades. I never believed I could build a body that shrugs off getting stabbed.

Still, I’m just… pissed.

That’s how it ended? After all that?

Now I got the same problem.

I got refined Kung Fu. A body sculpted into a weapon. The mechanics of Force, dredged from the abyss. Movement as tight as a watch spring.

And all of it—worth less than a gun.

How? How is that acceptable?

“Master. Do people die when they get shot?”

“They do. Same goes for being stabbed.”

“Even if they’ve trained for years?”

“Indeed. Doesn’t matter how much you’ve honed yourself. Humans aren’t monsters. We break easy.”

Obvious answer. But it hits hard.

My thoughts settle.

“Then guns and knives really are stronger than fists.”

“Mm. That’s right.”

Bare hands are single-digit weapons.

Knives? Double-digit.

Guns? Triple-digit!

Train your fists for five years? Still single digits. The ordinary can’t break that ceiling. Not without something more.

And in this world, there is something more.

Mana. The four-digit domain.

By the numbers, I can’t win.

But I don’t buy that.

It’s not about underestimating knives, guns, or mana. I know how strong they are.

But I refuse to believe they’re everything. That they’re absolute. That’s not how I live.

“Even single digits can climb. You keep stacking—eventually you hit double, triple, even four. Nothing’s absolute. There’s no romance in that.”

“Hah. No romance? Interesting. You’ve always had that fire in you. Still blazing, even without mana... Your martial spirit shines a bit too bright sometimes. Tell me, Ikaku. How do you keep going like this?”

“I don’t want to die. So I train and evolve. I do everything I can. That’s how I’ve always lived.”

“How mysterious. With how weak your mana is, I shouldn’t think you’re capable of anything. And yet, I do. I’ll arrange a new training environment for you soon.”

He ruffles my hair, proud.

* * *

Several Days Later

* * *

It’s morning at the shooting range. Air’s warm.

I loosen my wrists and raise my gun.

“Two to thirty-five meters. Random. Moving targets. Level five.”

I always burn through my monthly 500 rounds. Can’t afford sloppy aim. For people like me, marksmanship is survival.

“Ah, Ikaku. There you are.”

“Morning, Master.”

He sets up at the booth beside mine, loading his magazine.

“Care for a little competition?”

“Sure. You wanna jump straight in?”

“Always ready for battle. Martial artists don’t stretch.”

“Two to forty meters. Random. Moving targets. Level five.”

It’s a point-based format. Targets pop up fast—you shoot faster.

This is the big draw here at the dorm. Win or lose, people come for the thrill.

Rapid gunfire rings out.

Final target pops up forty meters away.

Two shots crack in unison.

The target drops.

“That one was mine.”

“Nope. That was mine.”

The booths display our scores. The Akai family’s Target Code spell tracks everything, reports magically.

I got 15 hits. Master? Zero.

“Master…”

“Well… I wasn’t warmed up.”

“What about ‘always ready for battle’?”

“That was idealistic.”

We laugh a little.

“Moving demons are even harder to hit, right?” I ask.

“You sound like you’re asking if such a poor shot can handle it.”

“I wouldn’t go that far…”

“Let’s switch to shotguns. I’m a scattergun guy.”

“I don’t have shells. Besides, I’d still win.”

Master looks unconvinced, but we’ve got other plans today.

We leave the range and head behind the West Wing to the usual training ground.

Two huge men are already there. Strangers. Both asian with continental features.

One wears a black changpao and shades—classic martial arts getup. The other’s in priest robes, silver rosary swinging.

Master says, “I’m glad we could meet again while we’re still breathing. Ten years changes a lot.”

“Master Aleksandr. It’s been too long.”

“Indeed it has... So this is your youngest disciple?”

Master and the mysterious men trade martial salutes.

“Listen, Ikaku.”

“Yes, Master.”

“You’ve reached Expert level. That means I’ve taught you all there is in Eightfold Soulfist. You got here in five years. But Kung Fu doesn’t stop at Expert.”

“Yes.”

“I inherited Eightfold Soulfist from my master. Let’s call that version 1.0. What I passed to you is version 1.5—completely different. My life, my fights, my experience with demons and cults—it all reshaped it. Times change. Weapons and Soulgear have evolved. So must martial arts. Do you understand, my boy?”

“I do.”

“My master’s Soulfist became my Soulfist. Mine will become yours. You’ll improve it. Optimize it. Fuse it with the present. Forge it into the ultimate weapon against demons.”

He nods toward the two men.

“These are my disciples too. Each has their own version of the Soulfist. Learn from them, Ikaku. Their fists will feed yours.”

I face my senior disciples and slowly bow in a martial salute.