Inside the primary pavilion, Naobito Zenin—head of the clan, master of Projection Sorcery, and a man whose blood was roughly seventy percent sake—stared at the three senior sorcerers kneeling before him.
"Zenin clan leader..." Naobito drawled, setting his gourd down with a heavy clunk. "So you're telling me that Toji's kid tamed Mahoraga. And now he wants my job." He broke into a raspy, booming laugh. "Haaah! Give me a hit of whatever shit you guys are on! That's hilarious!"
None of the three men laughed. They didn't even twitch. Their faces weren't just pale—they bore the frozen, terrified expressions of men who had stared directly into the abyss, and the abyss had offered to kick between their legs.
Naobito's laughter sputtered out. He wiped a drop of sake from his mustache and narrowed his eyes. "Wait. You bastards aren't playing a twisted joke on me?"
"Leader, we are dead serious," one of them choked out, his hands trembling against his knees.
"Where is he right now?"
"He... he wasn't in the dining hall. He said he was hungry, so he went to the main kitchen."
Naobito's face twitched. Hungry. Unannounced. Demanding food. The sheer, shameless audacity immediately resurrected memories of a certain heavenly-restricted parasite who used to leech off the clan before running away.
Naobito let out a long, weary sigh, rubbing his temples. God damn it. Do I really have to deal with this brat before I die?
"Fine," the old man grunted, pushing himself up. "Let's go meet our little guest."
Inside the Kitchen
"Hey! Bring me another chicken!"
"Y-Yes, young master! Right away!"
A terrified maid hurriedly placed a massive, whole roasted chicken on the counter. Megumi Fushiguro—currently six years old and absolutely refusing to care about clan hierarchy—grabbed the roasted bird by the leg and took a bite so huge it defied the laws of toddler anatomy.
He scarfed down the rest of it in record time, let out a loud, deeply satisfied burp, and wiped his greasy mouth with the back of his hand. Full belly achieved. Now, the heavy wave of post-meal sleepiness was kicking in.
Megumi didn't care that he was in enemy territory. Why? Because looming quietly within the thick shadow cast behind his tiny stool was the Eight-Handled Sword Divergent Sila Divine General Mahoraga.
Megumi had deliberately left the shadow summond, using the giant divine beast like a passive, ultra-violent security system. Taming Mahoraga had been a pain in the ass, but the main reason he was so eager to get it done was simple: convenience. Now he could catch a nap anywhere without worrying about some Zenin clan assassin sneaking up on him with a kunai. If anyone tried anything, Mahoraga would instantly turn them into paste before Megumi even had to open his eyes.
Before he could close those heavy eyelids, the kitchen doors burst open with a violent BANG.
Standing in the doorway was a white-haired old man with a massive mustache, reeking of alcohol.
"So, brat," Naobito grunted, crossing his arms. "I hear you want my position."
Megumi let out a long, dramatic yawn, squinting at the old head. "Yeah. So, do I have to kill you, or will beating you black and blue be enough?"
Naobito let out a harsh laugh. "Haaaa! You brat are just like your deadbeat father."
"Oh?" Megumi tilted his head, his tone completely flat. "Did he beat you black and blue too?"
"Ha! Scratch that," Naobito muttered, his forehead vein throbbing. "You're even more frustrating than he was."
"Anyway, old man, don't waste my time," Megumi said, stretching his arms. "Let's go outside. I want to start enjoying my new position soon."
"Heh. Fine by me. I want to see this legendary General Mahoraga with my own eyes anyway."
Truth be told, Megumi didn't actually hate the old drunkard. Naobito could barely be considered a decent human being—calling him 'decent' was a massive stretch—but he wasn't outright evil like the rest of this garbage clan. The old guy only really cared about his frame rate, his sake, and good fights. Megumi figured Naobito was probably the only reason Toji hadn't massacred the entire Zenin clan years ago.
Besides, Megumi didn't want to kill him. If he became clan leader, he still needed someone to do all the actual paperwork and administrative bullshit while he kicked back and relaxed. Naobito was the perfect candidate for forced labor.
The Courtyard
"Hey! Did you hear?!" a Zenin guard hissed, grabbing his buddy by the shoulder. "Toji's son challenged the clan leader! They're going to fight right now on the main training ground! Word is the kid actually subdued Divine General Mahoraga!"
"What? Why are you joking first thing in the morning?" the second guard scoffed, shaking his head. "Mahoraga? A six-year-old? Get real."
"I'm not joking! Look at him!" The first guard pointed to a third sorcerer shuffling painfully behind them, his face completely pale, his hands desperately clutching his own lower abdomen.
"He's literally holding back a massive dump right now," the first guard whispered solemnly. "He refused to go to the bathroom because he didn't want to miss the fight. Do you think a grown man would risk shitting his pants in front of the entire clan for a joke?"
The second guard looked at the sweating, bent-over sorcerer, whose eyes were filled with pure, desperate determination.
"...Damn," the second guard said, visibly shaken. "Okay, let's go. But if this turns out to be a prank, I'm burning your entire dirty magazine collection today."
The Training Ground
Within minutes, a massive crowd of Zenin clan members had gathered around the wide stone arena. The atmosphere was a bizarre mix of intense skepticism, morbid curiosity, and absolute confusion.
In the center of the arena, Megumi stood with his hands shoved casually in his pockets, looking up at the old head.
"Old man," Megumi said, glancing at the dozens of onlookers lining the walls. "I thought you wanted to fight alone."
"Hmm? Brat, do you think I give a damn about being embarrassed?" Naobito snorted, taking a swig from his flask. "In the Zenin clan, strength is king. If you defeat me today, you're the king from today onward. Simple as that." He set the flask aside and narrowed his eyes. "Anyway... summon Mahoraga. I can't wait to see it."
"As you wish," Megumi muttered.
He didn't bother making a complex hand sign. He simply shifted his weight, and the shadows beneath his feet boiled over like black ink.
The temperature in the courtyard plummeted. A suffocating, crushing wave of cursed energy burst forth as a towering, monstrous figure began to materialize out of the darkness—eight-handled wheel spinning lazily above its head, blade extended from its wrist, white muscular hide looming over the small boy.
The entire crowd went dead silent.
"M-Mahoraga..." someone whispered, their voice cracking. "He... he actually summoned Mahoraga..."
SLAP!
A loud, violent crack echoed through the silence. A young sorcerer in the front row suddenly spun around, clutching his bright red cheek, and glared at the guy next to him.
"You bastard! Why the hell did you just hit me?!"
The guy who did the slapping didn't even look at him. He just stared in horror at his own trembling palm, his eyes wide as saucers. "It... it hurt," he stammered. "I'm... I'm not dreaming..."
The slapped man's mouth twitched violently in pure rage. "You bastard! Hit yourself to test if you're dreaming! Why are you hitting me?!"
Before a fight could break out between the two, a wave of intense, frantic murmurs swept through the entire crowd like a wildfire. Panic was setting in fast.
Up front, Naobito's face didn't show fear—instead, his eyes lit up with wild, uncontrollable excitement. He looked at the towering white titan standing obediently behind the six-year-old boy.
He didn't need to test it. He didn't need a demonstration. The instinctual, visceral danger radiating off the white beast was more than enough to confirm the terrifying truth.
It was real. The six-year-old brat had actually conquered the untamable monster.
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