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In the Three Realms, humans have always been the weakest.

For most of history, humanity existed at the bottom of the food chain—prey for youkai, demons, and spirits alike.

Physically, humans didn't stand a chance. No matter how much they trained, they'd only end up becoming leaner meals. And when it came to supernatural abilities? Forget it. In the earliest eras, humans didn't even possess spiritual energy.

And yet, in spite of that absurd handicap... humanity survived. Through sheer, unrivaled numbers, they clawed their way into existence. Somehow, through generation after generation of desperate survival, they awakened what no other race had:

Discipline.

Because they were weak, they had to stick together. They had to cooperate.

Like in Multiverse of Madness—when Scarlet Witch attacked Kamar-Taj. None of the sorcerers there could stand up to her one-on-one.

But together? Even Wanda had to pause. They held the line.

That same principle was ingrained into every child raised in the Keikain Clan. From the moment they began Onmyōji training, they were taught one rule above all:

No one fights alone.

Elite Onmyōji worked in pairs. Average ones moved in squads of five to ten—complete with scouts, buffers, and dedicated combatants. Like a military unit.

So when Bokue Keikain broke through a cursed horde solo, charging in fists-first like some Shōnen protagonist... it wasn't bravery. It was a gamble.

He knew it too.

If he didn't make a move, they were all going to die. So he bet everything—his life, his blood, his future—on a single charge.

But what he hadn't expected... was for the so-called "Heroes" to fold.

They chickened out.

Cowards.

❁❁❁❁

SLASH!

A sharp, wet sound tore through the air—like fabric ripping apart under pressure.

Then came the pain.

A burning, icy spike of agony exploded across Bokue's shoulder as a sword pierced up through his collarbone. Blood gushed like a geyser, spraying the sky in arcs of crimson mist.

"Ghh—!!" Bokue staggered forward, coughing violently as the taste of iron filled his throat.

But he didn't stop, he couldn't stop.

This was the kind of rule every gamer knew by heart—never stop moving. Like a glass cannon in a roguelike, you deal damage from range but crumble the moment something touches you. If even one cursed soldier got close? That was it. Game over.

And Bokue wasn't even a glass cannon. He had no range. No AoE. Just fists—and a short-ass health bar.

Worse yet, humans had weak spots. The blade had gone through his shoulder, but if it had been just a few centimeters to the right, it would've pierced his heart and ended him instantly.

"God—dammit...!"

With a furious roar, he pivoted and slammed his fist into a nearby cluster of undead, smashing them to pieces.

His left arm was wrecked—completely numb. The sword had clipped something vital. He'd already lost more than half his combat ability.

And he'd barely cleared a tenth of the battlefield.

What a joke.

Bokue gritted his teeth as he clutched the injury.

Should've known. Should've never trusted those idiots.

He'd assumed they were just like him—trained, disciplined, ready to die for the mission. But they ran. Abandoned him. If he'd known, he would've thrown every last one of them into the cursed mob as decoys.

Now?

Now he was bleeding out in the middle of the horde—and the pain wasn't even the worst part.

He was about to die. And then... he heard it.

A sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a growl—slipped through the battlefield.

His eyes cut toward the source.

Through the mass of cursed flesh and twisted limbs, he saw a figure watching him with eerie amusement. A man named Seito.

Bokue had never met him before. Didn't recognize the face. But Kurumi had mentioned the name earlier—and the others had pointed him out before retreating.

Now Seito's body was no longer his own. His features, once gaunt and vaguely human, had twisted into something monstrous. The cursed spirit sealed inside the sword Brynhildr had fully taken control—and now it was staring at Bokue with a mocking grin.

Like a cat playing with a half-dead mouse.

You smug little shit...

Bokue's vision sharpened. Not with fear. Not with despair. But with heat. Something deep inside him—something primal—began to boil.

He was supposed to be scared... be begging for his life... be dead already.

Instead—

His heart was pounding with something far worse than fear.

Rage.

A rage so hot, so intense, it seared away every trace of logic, honor, or duty. He wasn't thinking about the village. He wasn't thinking about his clan.

He just wanted to kill that bastard.

"You son of a bitch..."

"Keep smiling. I dare you."

BWMMMM—

The very air around him pulsed.

The golden spiritual energy that had once surrounded Bokue shifted—flickering violently like a shorted-out light.

It wasn't fire anymore. It was electricity.

Sparks crackled across his skin, then sank into his flesh. The wound on his shoulder began to knit itself together—bone welding to bone, tendon fusing with tendon—as arcs of energy surged through his body.

Spiritual Energy → Electric Current → Rotational Magnetic Field

It all clicked. In a split second, his power evolved.

And the undead felt it, they recoiled.

They didn't have minds. They didn't have fear. But they still backed off.

Even the cursed spirit puppeteering Seito faltered for a moment, expression tightening.

Then—

In the heart of the horde, Bokue raised his face.

His skin glowed with crimson claw-like tattoos. Flames of gold surged behind his eyes.

BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

A shockwave exploded outward as power erupted from his body. Dozens of undead were blown apart instantly.

Bokue stepped forward, fist clenched, a whirlwind of pressure spiraling around his knuckles.

"God-Slaying Overlord Fist..."

Five Hundred Horsepower of Rotating Magnet Force!

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