Hardcore Exorcist: Reborn to Grind

Ikaku Akamuro leaves the gruesome chamber behind him.

He rounds a corner and returns to the hallway where he’d interrogated the woman. Steel doors line both sides of the corridor.

Old men and women fill the passage. Some are slumped against the thick doors, heads bowed. Others speak quietly amongst themselves. A few have expressions of grim resolve.

Seeing Ikaku return, their faces show a mix of emotions: terror, awe, resignation, despair. The melody of Demons feasting on flesh and bone reached their ears as well, so their reactions are only natural.

Ikaku glances at the floor. A white line has been drawn there, made from scattered white particles. It’s been disturbed in places, but it still holds its shape.

“Eighteen of you. It seems you’re all here.”

Ikaku kneels and traces the white line with his finger. White grains stick to his fingertip. It’s salt. But not just any salt.

It’s salt that has been consecrated by a member of the clergy—Purifying Salt. A type of Exorcist Soulgear.

“None of you were able to cross this line. That’s what this means.”

Ikaku had drawn lines of salt on either side of the straight hallway, creating a barrier. In doing so, he had effectively imprisoned the eighteen elderly people within the corridor.

With a deliberate stride, Ikaku steps over the salt.

By now, everyone present understands the significance of that act.

He can do it. They can’t.

It’s the definitive line that separates humans from Demons.

“Mr. Exorcist,” a nearby old man asks with an air of sad realization, “is it too late for us?”

“We don’t have much time left, and yet we can’t even die in peace,” a woman sobs, her pupils dilated and unfocused. “Becoming a Demon and causing suffering for others…? I can’t bear it… ugh…”

“I don’t want to die,” another old man declares, his voice firm.

He glares at Ikaku with stubborn eyes, taking a step or two back as if frightened by the gun in Ikaku’s hand. He clenches his fists.

“Mr. Yoshio Sato,” Ikaku says, addressing the stubborn man. “I’m afraid I can’t let a single one of you leave here alive. I ask for your understanding and cooperation.”

The stubborn old man—Yoshio Sato—presses his lips into a grim line and glares at Ikaku. The strength drains from his fists.

“I don’t want to die. There were still things I wanted to do… But becoming a Demon… that’s even more unbearable. You, boy. Ikaku Akamuro, was it?”

“Yes.”

“You’re an Exorcist from the Akai Clan, aren’t you? Will the Akai Clan punish the vile wretches who did this to us?”

As if in agreement with Yoshio Sato’s words, the other elderly people turn their gazes to Ikaku.

Their eyes are pleading, filled with a sense of entrustment.

Ikaku knows those eyes.

“That is why I am here. The Akai Clan is exposing all the misdeeds of the heretical cult, the Hidden Flame, and bringing them to justice. Tonight, the hammer of judgment will fall upon the Demons who have tormented you.”

Ikaku makes his promise without hesitation. The old folks let out sighs of relief, murmuring, “I see,” and “That’s a small comfort, at least.”

“Young Exorcist,” a trembling old man begs, “what… what should we do? Please, tell us what to do.”

Ikaku closes his eyes in thought, then opens them again.

He pulls a silver rosary from beneath his shirt. Taking it from his neck, he grips the chain so the crucifix is visible and holds it before his chest, displaying it proudly.

“—I am the agent of the Lord. God’s lightning. Heaven’s sword. The punisher. I am the destroyer of Demons and the savior of souls. I will embrace your soul and guide you to your rest. You who are without sin. Listen to my teachings, learn from me, and follow me.”

A solemn voice, vibrating from the depths of his being, echoes through the hallway. 

The volume, the power—it’s breathtaking. The old men and women flinch, their eyes wide as they stare at the young man’s magnificent figure.

There is a divine strength about him, a solemnity that makes them feel the presence of God.

Under Ikaku’s guidance, they close their eyes, drop to their knees, bow their heads, and clasp their hands before their chests.

“I am the one who hears all voices. The one who walks beside your heart. I hear you. This is your final destination. The end of your journey. Tell me of your happy memories. Report to me what you have accomplished.”

The elderly people begin to whisper, their voices a low murmur.

“I still remember it. I found her abandoned in front of my house. I raised her all by myself. It was so difficult. I took any job I could find. Looking back now, I don’t know how I managed.
The men she brought home were all scoundrels… but I hear they’re getting along now, even if they still fight. That’s enough for me. But is it too much to wish she’d call just a little more often?”

“I got nothing special to be proud of. The work I did was something anyone could do. The only thing I can boast about is being blessed with three sons. I get angry that they’re all so selfish and barely contact me anymore, but when they come home for New Year’s, I can’t help but be happy—”

With a slow, deliberate pace, Ikaku walks among the kneeling elders, listening to each and every voice.

Then he disappears from the hallway. A moment later, music begins to play from a speaker.

It’s coming from the broadcasting room. A famous piece of classical music they all recognize.

Pachelbel’s Canon, a piece both ephemeral and full of hope.

Ikaku had found a gramophone in the facility, placed it near the broadcasting room’s microphone, and set the needle on the record, hoping the beautiful canon would block out what was to come.

When Ikaku next appears in the hallway, he is holding a gun.

He walks slowly and stands before an old woman deep in prayer. She has her eyes closed, a faint smile on her lips, reporting on the happy moments of her life.

Ikaku shoots and kills her without hesitation.

After killing one, he moves to the old man praying beside her. And again, he does what must be done.

He fells seventeen of them.

Then he aims his gun at the last one.

“I’m sorry, young man.”

“...Don’t worry about it.”

“Thank you.”

The last old woman falls.

“…”

Ikaku remains silent. Pistol in hand, he leaves the hallway with brisk steps.

He leaves the basement and returns to the surface. Bodies are strewn everywhere, and several cars are engulfed in flames—the aftermath of the rampage he’d unleashed upon entering the hideout.

Ikaku trudges toward a battered SUV—and stops.

He looks toward the source of a sudden presence and sees a man standing there. A sword is held in his hand.

“You’re Ikaku Akamuro?”

“I am.”

“You admit it so easily.”

The man quietly draws his sword. The red flames of the burning cars reflect off the polished white blade.

“Do you know who I am, Ikaku Akamuro?”

“Kuro Kemurishima of the Ember Creed… also known as Kuro of the Demon Sword. Am I right?”

“Saves me the trouble of explaining. Then let’s begin.”

Kuro smiles roguishly and tosses his scabbard aside.