Hardcore Exorcist: Reborn to Grind

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I keep training.

Rain or shine. Wind or snow.

Tap, Tap, Tap.

Something’s changing. Barely—just barely—but I feel it.

Alignment optimization. The flow of Force.

Tap, Tap, Tap.

But it feels impossibly far away.

I can’t even execute a proper Seismic Kick, and that’s just basic training movement. 

Actually fighting someone? That’s a distant dream.

I’m on a countdown.

Eighteen years old. That’s when I get kicked out of the dormitory.

If I can’t become an Exorcist worth recruiting by the Akai Clan by then, I’m a goner.

If I can’t get strong, I’m dead.

I got zero talent.

That means I need to train several times harder than everyone else.

But there are only twenty-four hours in a day.

No matter how hard I grind, there are only twenty-four hours.

So I change my thinking. I need to train for forty-eight hours a day.

To pull this off, I increase intensity.

One minute equals two minutes of training.

One hour equals two hours of training.

The workload becomes insane.

Still, I’m confident.

My body can handle it.

I trust myself—the guy who’s been pushed to failure over and over.

I’ve got about twenty-five years of training experience under my belt, counting my last life. I possess unique insights from rebuilding two different bodies. I’ve even honed a special technique that turns raw bodybuilding into real combat power.

Armed with a deep understanding of human physiology, I push past the edge of theory and train until I drop.

I’m lucky I can go all in without holding back, even when I don’t know if it’ll pay off.

With Master shining ahead like a beacon of hope, I can keep grinding forward.

* * *

One Year Since Training Began

* * *

The changes show up when I turn nine.

The sound of my Seismic Kick shifts completely.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

After a full year of Seismic Kicks, the ground looks like a war zone.

One day, Master returns.

It’s been six months since our last meeting—he was away on a long assignment.

Master stares at the destroyed training ground.

“You... this is incredible.”

“Thank you. You look well, Master.”

“Yeah, well. I managed to survive this time too.”

Master serves in the Akai Clan’s direct Exorcist unit, the Coral Terminators. He gets deployed to dangerous locations constantly.

Most recently, he was overseas in Taiwan, working with magical nobility connected to the Akai family.

“That’s some solid Seismic Kick work. Much improved.”

“Really, Master? I’m so glad.”

“And this too.”

Master grabs my arms and legs, testing them.

“I told you to strike gravel three thousand times daily for conditioning... but how many times are you actually hitting?”

“I don’t count. When my skin splits and wounds open, I switch to different body parts.”

“...I see. So that’s why you’re wrapped in blood-soaked bandages head to toe. With that approach, makes sense you’d harden up this fast.”

“Was that wrong?”

“No, if you can handle it, that’s fine. It’s just that most people can’t train that way. 

But listen—don’t overdo it… Though knowing you, you’ll do it anyway.

So here’s what we’ll do. Instead of just basic training that puts direct stress on your body, let’s start practicing more complex forms. These will be less taxing. We’ll reduce the resources you’re burning on this destructive routine.”

“It’s not like I’m some dog or cat, Master. Just say the words and I’ll control myself.”

“No, you won’t. You absolutely won’t. You’ll keep pushing as far as possible. Most people stop when things get tough or painful, but you’re different. You keep going past that point. I’m starting to understand what kind of person you are.”

“Talk about zero trust…”

“What are you talking about? That’s exactly what trust looks like.”

Master retrieves a wooden dummy from storage.

“You’re finally going to teach me how to use that?”

“That’s right. Now you can really go at it even when I’m not around.”

Master demonstrates solo training with the wooden dummy and tells me to record it. This way I can watch the video and review repeatedly.

I can connect with Master’s techniques even when I’m alone.

* * *

Two Years Since Training Began

* * *

Master frequently disappears on long assignments.

In the meantime, I throw myself into high-intensity training. One reason is simple: I want Master to praise my progress when we next meet.

Lately, I’ve started sensing Force.

THUD, THUD, THUD.

My Seismic Kick hits heavier than ever. I’m sure it’s from my deeper grasp of Force.

My Flowing strikes carry real power now, too.

When I practice Seismic Kick behind the dorm, complaints come from nearby rooms.

But when I explain what I’m doing, my neighbors just chuckle and let it slide.

“Hmm. In just two years, you’ve achieved real form. I’d say you can be called an Adept now.”

The martial arts world has ranks for mastery levels.

From the bottom: Novice, Adept, Expert, and Master.

“You understand Force and have mastered advanced bone-centered body control. You can control breathing and extremities. Plus there’s the pride of your five limbs, transformed into weapons through conditioning. I could introduce you to other schools as an Adept without embarrassment.”

“Thank you, Master.”

Right hand in a fist. Left hand open.

I bow deeply with both hands together.

There’s no direct benefit to advancing levels.

But like those licensing exams I couldn’t even take before, gaining this kind of title—and being recognized by Master—gives me real pride.

* * *

Three Years Since Training Began

* * *

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

My Seismic Kicks lands heavy and brutal.

When the shockwaves bounce off the back of the dorm, complaints come from three doors down.

I can’t keep stirring up noise complaints, so I shift my training to empty spots.

That noise incident earns me a nickname around the dorm—“the Kung Fu kid.”

And you know what happens next?

“It’s the Kung Fu kid!”

“I heard he can’t do mana control.”

“What a loser.”

“He’s the only one who couldn’t pass Boot Camp!”

“So now he’s practicing Kung Fu or something.”

“Such a moron~”

When I’m training out in the middle of nowhere, they show up to spy. Packs of fifteen-year-olds.

The moment I lock eyes with them, they scatter.

Annoying, but they haven’t done anything directly, so I let it slide. I know I draw attention.

The Akai Clan dormitory’s huge. I hear it can house five hundred.

Which means it’s fractured as hell.

Even living under the same roof, you’re only tight with the people in your hall. Maybe your cohort. Everyone else? Strangers.

So yeah, this kind of thing happens.

If it were just one of them, I might be tempted to deliver a little lesson.

But a group? Odds aren't worth it.

Master always said the same—if you can choose your fights, go one-on-one.

Don’t cross dangerous bridges. Don’t pick fights you can’t win.

That’s the secret to living long. Like they say, “Discretion is the better part of valor.”

There’ll always be people you don’t mesh with.

No use wasting thought on it.

I’m thinking like a grown-up. Channeling Master’s wisdom.

Then something happens. Something that shakes my calm.