Chapter 93: One Punch Explosion
"Impossible!"
Kirigiri scread, his usually deep voice rising in a pitch of disbelief so sharp it nearly cracked the still air.
His most powerful technique—the proud, deadly “Spear of Fog”—had just been caught between two fingers. Two fingers! By a calm-faced youth who looked more like he’d just swatted away a fly than stopped an attack that could pierce through steel.
That wasn’t just impossible—it was humiliating!
Jesus! Did you think that was breakfast food!? Don’t treat my ultimate move like a damn fried dough stick!
“So, you really do have so strength,” Kirigiri growled, his expression sinking into shadow. “No wonder you had the guts to provoke …”
The air around him quivered. His once playful tone lted into pure malice. He took a long, deep breath, his chest expanding as his skirt flared outward. Then, with a thunderous stomp, the ground beneath his heel fractured like shattered glass. Dust and dirt burst upward, swirling around him like a cyclone.
He was no longer holding back.
Without warning, he reached into the mist and drew forth a weapon—a long, jade-green bow that seed to pulse with life.
The bow was bizarrely beautiful, almost alive. Its wood still bore tiny sprouting leaves, and the air around it shimred faintly, as if the weapon breathed. The string was woven from sothing thin and pale—a spider’s silk with a faint silvery glow that humd like a vibrating string of light.
He drew the bow without a word.
No arrow.
No hesitation.
The string pulled tight, crescented like the moon above.
Mist began to roar and surge from every corner of the forest, a thousand ghostly tendrils rushing toward the bow. The fog twisted and condensed, layer upon layer compressing into the form of a massive, tangible arrow. The air hissed as the moisture condensed into killing intent.
And then—he loosed.
The bowstring twanged like thunder. The arrow shot forth, glowing white with power, trailing spiraling coils of wind. Its head burned faintly with white fire, and though it looked slow enough to track, it carried a pressure that distorted the very air around it. Every tree and blade of grass trembled in its wake.
The arrow scread forward, closing the distance with breathtaking speed.
“The outco is decided,” Kirigiri murmured with a cruel smirk, his painted lips curling. His eyes glead with victory’s certainty. This was his masterpiece, his absolute strike. None had ever survived it.
Hanako Takeda gasped and pulled Ai into her arms, covering the child’s eyes. “Don’t look!” she cried, turning her face away.
Even the shrine maiden flinched. Her delicate brows furrowed, her expression tightening. That arrow—she could feel the power emanating from it. If it hit, even a reinforced temple barrier wouldn’t survive intact.
But at that instant, Kouya moved.
His body didn’t blur with speed. He didn’t summon a shield or call upon power. He simply… raised his hand.
His eyes half-lidded, calm as still water. His movent was slow, almost lazy, as though he were brushing aside a curtain of smoke.
And yet, what followed left everyone paralyzed.
The fog arrow, which monts earlier had torn through the air like a cot, shattered silently. No explosion, no light—just sudden, quiet dissolution. One mont, power; the next, nothing.
It was like watching a storm vanish mid-scream.
The forest fell still. Even the crickets stopped.
Only the sound of the cold night breeze brushing through the trees remained.
Kirigiri’s pupils contracted. “No… no, that’s impossible!” His voice cracked. His chest heaved as he stumbled a step backward.
His fog-kill technique wasn’t ordinary mist—it was infused with the innate spiritual energy of his kind. A mixture of demonic essence and soul force. It could pierce iron, bypass walls, devour barriers. No normal defense could withstand it.
And yet—this boy had undone it with a single wave.
Could he be a hidden youkai? A divine being disguised as a mortal?
But there was no aura. None at all. His energy was perfectly still—human, fragile, normal.
Kirigiri opened his mouth to demand answers—but froze.
The air had changed. A pressure, deep and unfathomable, sank down upon him like a heavy mountain. All sound seed to fade into a distant hum.
His breathing hitched. His hairs stood on end.
Then, he saw them—those eyes.
Calm, silent, and utterly unreadable. Yet within them burned sothing vast, ancient, and predatory.
It felt like standing before a god—or worse, a beast that had long since devoured gods.
His knees weakened. His instincts scread to flee.
Kouya took a single step.
And vanished.
No blur. No displacent of air. One mont he was there, and the next—gone.
When he reappeared, he was directly before Kirigiri, so close that the scent of mist and perfu mingled in the air.
He raised his right fist.
A single, clean motion.
“Damn it!” Kirigiri roared, his body exploding into vapor. Half of him turned translucent as he tried to phase into mist.
That state should have made him untouchable. Physical attacks couldn’t harm mist.
But Kouya’s fist didn’t care about logic.
It ca down.
Boom.
A thunderclap. The mist shattered, scattering like glass shards of vapor. The shockwave flattened the grass and sent ripples through the fog itself.
Kirigiri’s body was flung backward like a rag doll. He spun through the air, blood spraying in a crimson arc, before crashing into the dirt and rolling, again and again, more than ten tis before coming to a stop.
The impact shook the ground. The sll of blood mixed with broken mist.
Kouya started forward, eyes still calm—but Kirigiri suddenly shrieked:
“Wait!”
Kouya paused, hand lowering slightly. “What now?”
To everyone’s disbelief, the once proud crossdressing boss scrambled upright, then fell to his knees, forehead pressed to the dirt in an almost theatrical bow.
“Please spare !”
Kouya blinked. “...”
Wasn’t this the sa guy who claid to be fearless? Where was the dignity, the pride, the fire?
A mont ago, he’d looked like a tragic antihero. Now, he was a groveling codian.
Wasn’t the script supposed to go—‘fight three hundred rounds, die gloriously, and shout For the Tribe?’ Not... this?
Kirigiri sniffled pitifully. “Dignity? That disappeared the mont I put on won’s clothes,” he murmured, voice filled with tragic self-pity.
‘You’re not tragic, you’re addicted!’ Kouya thought, deadpan.
Behind them, the smaller youkai finally snapped out of their daze.
“The boss was defeated!” one cried.
“Save the boss!”
“Yeah! Get him out of here!”
The mob surged forward—until Kouya rely turned his gaze toward them.
That single glance was enough.
The air thickened with invisible killing intent. The small youkai froze mid-step, their throats locking. Then, as if a spell had broken—
“Wind! Wind tighten and pull—run for your lives!” soone scread.
The entire group broke into chaos, scattering into the forest like terrified pigeons. The bushes rustled, and then—silence.
Kouya exhaled quietly. “They can go,” he said flatly. “You, however, stay.”
Kirigiri froze mid-crawl, forcing a shaky smile. “O-of course, my lord. Anything you command.”
Being defeated wasn’t the end of the world. Kirigiri had lost before.
But stupidity after defeat—that was fatal. Survival belonged to those who could read the room.
And this boy—no, this monster in human skin—was soone even a fool wouldn’t dare cross twice.
Kouya’s eyes narrowed. “Why were you after that old man?”
If Kirigiri hadn’t been tied to the commission’s mystery, Kouya would’ve ended him already.
Kirigiri swallowed and bowed lower. “Because that human’s life is fading. When he dies, I plan to reclaim Lady Hotaru’s heart.”
“You liar!” Takeda Koji shouted, face contorted with rage. “Father’s perfectly healthy! There’s no way he’s dying!”
Kirigiri sneered. “Foolish human. You know nothing—”
But before he could finish, a trembling, aged voice echoed behind them, carrying shock, pain, and disbelief.
“You... you know Hotaru?!”
“Father... you...”
Koji turned in astonishnt. His words caught in his throat as he saw the old man step forward—eyes wet, hands trembling, tears glimring in the moonlight.
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