Hardcore Exorcist: Reborn to Grind

Thud! Thud! Thud!

“Hah!”

I demonstrate the Seismic Kick to my martial arts brothers. Run through a few forms. Slam the wooden dummy.

Final opponent: a watermelon.

It’s just sitting there on a platform, unsecured. Master went out first thing this morning to buy it.

I tap it with my fingertip to check my distance. Step in. Drop my heel with a Seismic Kick.

All my weight crashes down. Force surges up from the ground, shoots through my posture, flows into my fist.

I punch.

The watermelon splits. Top half flies off. Bottom half doesn’t move an inch.

Clap clap clap clap.

The brothers applaud, and I finish with a martial salute.

“Impressive for your age.”

“So he’s a prodigy, huh?”

Master agrees. “Hmm. Ikaku’s a genius, no doubt. But a particular kind.”

“What do you mean?”

“Show them your hands, Ikaku.”

I hold out my fists. They crowd around, poking and pressing in curiosity.

“This from five years of training…? These are thirteen-year-old hands?”

“No way. These fists are at least twenty… No, thirty years deep. Master-grade.”

They step back, faces wary. Like I’m dangerous.

I wonder why.

“I told you, lads. Ikaku’s a different breed. I’ve seen ‘sensory’ geniuses—guys who just get it. Pick up moves in a flash. But he’s a rare ‘mental’ genius.

No matter how much someone loves the art, people are weak. Sooner or later, they fold. Conditioning’s the test. It hurts, they quit.

But not Ikaku. Even bleeding, he keeps slamming gravel into his wounds. Even on the worst days, when anyone would slack off—he doesn’t. Not once. Not a day in the year. Not a second in the hour.

I’m overseas? He trains. I eat? He trains. I train? Of course, he’s training. That’s Ikaku.”

Heat creeps up my neck. Embarrassed doesn’t even cover it.

“And all of it is just so he doesn’t die. I’m not about to let Demons chew up a kid so purely driven. You all feel the same, don’t you?”

My martial brothers nod, solemn.

“Well then… Let me start with some instructions.”

First up is the man in black changpao and round sunglasses—looks like a Chinese mafia enforcer in his late thirties. Has sharp features.

“I am Ron of the Hidden Force, first disciple of Alek the Zero Force. I work out of Taiwan’s martial arts scene.

What I want to teach you comes from real combat experience—strategic and tactical thinking, and how to switch between armed and unarmed combat states.

We’re not going to do anything complicated. You can already do the complicated stuff. It’s about how to use what you know. That’s what matters in real combat.”

Ron pulls a gun, drops the magazine, and holds it tight against his torso at about stomach height—close-quarters stance.

“As you know, our Kung Fu comes into play when we’ve allowed the enemy to get close. We don’t approach them ourselves. Not usually, anyway.

Naturally, you’ll start with a rifle or submachine gun, or whatever—some kind of firearm. Ikaku, try to take my gun.”

I move in, reach out.

He flows around me, redirects my force, locks my wrist and shoulder in a Binding Clutch.

“Ow, ow, ow—”

“One-handed Binding. Then I shoot. Bang. Or maybe a stomp. Finish with a Seismic Kick. Or—” He jabs me in the ribs with the barrel. “—this.”

“A Surge strike with the gun barrel...?”

It hurts like hell.

“The gun you’re holding is also part of your five limbs. With practice, you can channel Force through it. Considering what to do when you’re out of ammo, the gun barrel short strike is most definitely a useful technique to master.

Just be careful—it can damage the gun. The more complex the mechanism in newer guns, the more prone they are to malfunction.”

He keeps going, walking me through moves with guns and knives. Everything comes from real-world fights.

“There’s plenty more I could teach, but this is a good place to start your training.”

“My turn!”

Ron steps back.

Next up: the notably thick-built man in priest’s robes. Mid-forties, strong presence. 

“Lee Hookfinger. I’ll say, Ikaku, I’m smitten with you.”

“Uh? Well... thank you.”

“These hands! I have to call them magnificent. I was wondering what techniques to pass on to promising students when I came all the way to Japan, but seeing these hands gave me instant inspiration.”

He flexes his fingers, hooking them like claws gripping an invisible ball.

“This is the ultimate stance of Hook Finger Style. A body pushed to the limit can take anything—and cut through everything.”

He slams a practice block. His five fingers gouge deep trenches into it.

“Whoa!”

“Conditioning turned my fingers into steel blades. Grip strength? Neutral: 110 kilos. With Mana Ascension: 300. Focused all in my hands—1.5 tons. I rip through Demon flesh like paper.”

“Amazing!”

“Here’s how else you use it.”

The monster in priest’s robes stabs the wooden dummy.

Five clean holes.

“The Heaven-Piercing Five.”

“Holy crap...”

“And this—” He thrusts again. “—the Rending Spear.”

His hand punches into the dummy up to the wrist.

I glance at Master and Ron, wondering if this is normal at Master rank.

“Uh, this is how my student evolved...?”

“Lee developed some incredible techniques while I wasn’t looking...” Ron mutters.

Even Master and Ron look disturbed.

“And for the finish. After driving Rending Spear into the abdomen, I twist my wrist to directly attack the enemy’s internal organs, then rip my arm out while spilling their entrails.”

He yanks his arm out, dragging sideways.

The dummy splits clean in two, sending chips of wood flying.

In real combat, all of that would’ve been the enemy’s guts.

Talk about tremendous killing power. This would definitely be fatal.

“This is Hook Finger Style’s ultimate secret technique: Organ-Rending Palm, from the Eightfold Soulfist. If Rending Spear is tough to land, dig in with Heaven-Piercing Five, then slice sideways and spill everything out.”

Definitely lethal. But my body isn’t anywhere near ready to pull that off.

Ron begins to argue. “Still, getting close seems tough. You’d need to step in past normal striking range.

And that stance? Doesn’t work well with weapons. Would you deliberately throw away your gun to switch to that? Tell me the advantage it offers instead of a knife.”

“If we start down that path, martial arts becomes meaningless. Ron, don’t use logic just to argue me down in front of Master Alek. I want more constructive opinions.”

The martial arts debate-turned-argument moves forward without me, expanding into various discussions about tactical levels, strategic levels, situations, equipment, and anticipated opponents.

I watch, silent. Fascinated.

I’ve never seen this before. Not just training. Actual discussion. Three Master-class martial artists sharpening each other like blades.

Until now, Master only taught me techniques one-way.

But this… I guess this is what evolution means.

I stand on the edge, watching. Someday, I’ll stand in that circle of Masters.

* * *

Six Years Since Training Began

* * *

Rain again.

I stand at a funeral, umbrella raised against the cold drizzle.

I hear muffled sobs. A priest’s low voice.

It’s the same scene. I’ve seen it too many times.

Three urns wait in the cemetery. The same group burial plot.

“Rest in peace. Amen.”

I squeeze my silver rosary in prayer. Then I turn and walk home.

Last year, three classmates turned eighteen, left the orphanage—and died.

They’re the very same guys who sparred with me that morning, wishing that I would survive. They even let me test techniques too risky to try otherwise.

I carry their kindness in every bone of my limbs.

“I’ll become the meaning of your lives.”

Back in the dorm, I go straight to the wooden dummy. Start striking.

Tears blur my vision. Doesn’t matter.

My striking hands don’t drift a single millimeter.

* * *

Seven Years Since Training Began

* * *

At fifteen, Master and my martial brothers recommend me.

I become a Candidate.