The morning sun rose.
A ruined city greeted a new day.
Among the broken walls and fallen tiles, the only thing still standing—relatively speaking—was the lord's manor at the center.
A youth in training clothes, long black hair tied back, fine-featured and clear-eyed, stepped out of the main hall and came to the edge of a long-dried pool. He spread his legs into a firm horse stance and began to box.
Each movement looked unhurried, yet coiled with power.
No need to imagine it: if that fist landed on an ordinary person, it would shatter their insides in one blow—certain death.
His morning practice lasted about an hour.
Only then did Ren slowly exhale. A terrifying gust blasted from his mouth; even the air seemed to ripple.
[White • Basic Fist Technique: Lv 8]
"I started punching at three years old. Fifteen years later, my fists are already Level 8," he thought. "But…"
"I've been stuck here for almost a year. No idea when I'll break through."
Ren lifted his gaze to the blue sky. "Come to think of it… it's been eighteen years since I reincarnated into this world."
Eighteen years ago—
On a certain Blue Star, Ren had just graduated from college. On day one, a fortune-teller told him he was about to hit the jackpot.
Well, he did—by getting hurled across worlds.
He smashed straight into a land where the Night Parade of a Hundred Demons was real and humans and spirits lived side by side.
The usual transmigrator package applied: both parents dead, nothing else to say.
Worth mentioning, though: after crossing over he gained a special ability. System? Hard to say. He can see "Traits," and anything he studies and learns can become a Trait.
Once a Trait is unlocked, it seems to have no upper limit—as long as he puts in the work.
Work hard and you get stronger. Period.
[White • Basic Fist Technique: Lv 8]
[White • Basic Legwork: Lv 7]
[White • Basic Bladework: Lv 6]
[White • Basic Swordsmanship: Lv 7]
[White • …]
[Purple • Spiritual Power: Lv 4]
Ren glanced over his Traits—a whole wall of white entries.
From childhood on he'd learned fistwork, sword, blade, staff… you name it.
In short, if it could be learned, he learned it.
But a person's time and energy are limited. Levels rose unevenly, and only his fistwork—his bitter-end specialization—stood the highest.
As for spiritual power?
He hadn't mastered any onmyō arts, but he had a solid grasp of the basics, and not at a low level.
And…
[Purple • Yokai Power: Lv 4]
That's right.
A human who wields yokai power.
Absurd? Sure.
But Ren's Traits were absurd like that—if he'd seen it or tried it, he'd just… pick up yokai energy.
"About this undocumented cheat of mine," he muttered where he stood, "from what I've worked out, the level cap is probably 9. That last step is brutal."
His cheat came with no manual, no origin story, no support—yet he'd done his homework.
Levels ran from Lv 1 to Lv 9.
As for rarity, so far it looked like White, Green, Blue, Purple.
Why?
Because he had Whites, Greens, Blues—odds and ends of everything—and the highest he'd seen were the Purple entries for Spiritual Power and Yokai Power.
Anything higher?
Hasn't shown up yet.
"Ren-kun, breakfast is ready."
A gentle, feminine voice drifted from the main hall.
"Oba-san, coming."
Ren shook off his scattered thoughts and walked back inside.
He'd analyzed this for years—countless times. At this point, it was just a morning habit.
The manor, compared to the city's rubble, was in better shape.
Most of its facilities, though, were still abandoned.
The main hall had been refitted into a two-bedroom, one-living-room home with a kitchen and bath.
It was the largest, most intact building, after all—easiest to convert.
Ren stepped into the hall. In the living room, a tall woman with long black hair cascading to her shoulders—kimono top over a black long skirt, white socks, wooden clogs—was setting dish after dish on the table.
Over her clothes she wore a translucent silk shawl. She radiated tenderness, a beautiful, motherly glow.
"Welcome back, Ren-kun."
Sensing his return, she turned, revealing a stunning face—and, at the center of her brow, a faint golden mark.
"Oba-san."
Ren sat without standing on ceremony.
"Sit tight; the soup will be ready in a moment." Smiling, the beautiful woman placed the dishes and returned to the kitchen.
Ren shook his head with helpless warmth. "Oba-san, you really don't have to go to all this trouble."
"You're still growing, and you train so hard every day. This is just the basics."
Her gentle voice floated out from the kitchen.
Ren didn't press the point. His aunt had looked after him for eighteen years; he was used to it.
This ruined city, in fact, was Ren's property—his private fief, really.
In this world where monsters walk and humans and spirits coexist, powerful beings raised cities and became their lords; everything within belonged to the lord alone.
Ren had been reborn into a womb here. By the time he arrived, his ill-fated parents had already passed on.
And this dilapidated city had fallen to him, naturally, by inheritance.
As for his aunt?
Her name was Machiyoi—not a blood aunt, but a great yokai. Thanks to her protection, he'd survived and grown.
Machiyoi, the Ubume.
Just hearing her name told Ren what kind of world this was. Clearly the Onmyoji-verse had bled in.
Think of all the terms he'd heard: the Heian Capital, Nurarihyon, the Western Lands, the Yokai Sage—a whole jumble.
This world was likely a stew of crossovers.
Why did Oba-san protect him, treating him as the dearest person in her life?
Ren had asked before, but his aunt never answered.
If she didn't want to say it, he wouldn't pry.
"Ren-kun, the soup's ready." Machiyoi emerged from the kitchen with a clay pot. Her warm smile brimmed with motherly light. Those golden eyes seemed to hold only Ren—leaving no room for anything else.
(End of Chapter)
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