Chapter 25: Max-Level Boss

Without a doubt, just as a man can’t stand being called short and a woman can’t stand being called fat, this old kappa couldn’t stand hearing the words “shrinking turtle.” It wasn’t merely an insult—it was a blade to his pride. And beyond that forbidden phrase, he carried another deep insecurity: his height.

Standing barely a meter tall—shorter than most elementary schoolers, and not even remarkable among kindergarteners—the old creature’s stature was a source of unending frustration. He had lived through centuries of mockery and whispers. And the thought of being in a fight, only for someone to hold him back effortlessly with one palm on his forehead while he flailed helplessly with short arms and legs—it was a humiliation he could not bear. His dignity, his ancient pride, would be crushed in seconds.

So, this time, the old kappa wasn’t going to risk such shame. Instead of wading into battle, he stood proudly by the edge of the lake. His posture straightened, eyes flashing with rage, and both arms spread wide as he began to summon the power of the waters themselves.

“Dog Demon Night!” he roared, his voice echoing across the surface.

His fingers twisted and locked in rapid succession, forming intricate seals faster than human eyes could follow. Then he slammed both hands down. The lake rippled violently. A deep, blue-white light surged outward in expanding circles, and a vast magic circle appeared, spinning across the water’s surface like a glowing sigil of ancient power.

The lake churned. Bubbles boiled up from below, followed by waves that slapped the shore. Then, one after another, hulking shapes emerged from the depths—seven, eight, perhaps more—massive hounds formed from water itself. Their bodies shimmered and dripped, translucent yet tangible, their forms moving with frightening precision.

Each beast’s eyes glowed red like molten gems. Liquid drool streamed from their jaws in thick ropes that splashed to the ground as they snarled. They gave off no scent of flesh or blood, but the killing intent radiating from them was suffocating.

And worst of all—they were enormous. Each stood well over two meters at the shoulder, their outlines solid as if sculpted from steel and shadow. In nature, power often matched size, and these constructs looked ready to shred any living creature apart.

This spell was infamous—a forbidden art that used the restless souls of drowned dogs, binding their grievances into vessels of water. Each individual spirit was weak, but when gathered, their combined malice became a tide of death. They did not fight as warriors—they swarmed, overwhelmed, and devoured.

The hounds growled and advanced, claws tearing shallow grooves into the wet ground. As one, they sprang—three separate attacks aimed toward the shrine maiden, Kouya, and the fallen Hirata Sachiko, who still struggled on the ground clutching her ankle.

The shrine maiden’s eyes widened. “Rina!”

“Meow~!”

A sharp feline cry cut through the stormy air.

A petite silhouette burst from the shadows beneath the trees, moving so fast it blurred, intercepting one of the hounds mid-leap. The impact scattered droplets like shattering glass.

It was the catgirl, Rina.

Though small and deceptively cute, she was more than a simple shrine attendant—she was the heir of the Chiba Shrine, bound by duty and pride. Having accepted this mission, she could not retreat without dishonor. Even if it cost her life, she would stand her ground. Her ancestors’ blood demanded no less.

Her sharp claws slashed outward, leaving glowing arcs of blue energy through the air. Sparks of youki flashed each time her attacks struck a hound, sending splashes scattering across the night.

“Ruri’s” black hair flew wildly in the wind as she turned toward Kouya. “Kouya-kun! Take care of Miss Sachiko!”

Kouya nodded once. “Don’t worry.”

Just two simple words—but they carried something indescribable. Confidence that couldn’t be faked. Assurance that rooted itself deep in the heart.

This boy… he didn’t even look afraid. Was it arrogance born from ignorance, or the calm of someone who truly knew he would win?

Even Ruri herself felt her pulse slow. For reasons she couldn’t explain, after hearing him speak, the tension in her chest eased. The chaos around her faded for a heartbeat, and she found herself believing—absurdly—that everything would be fine.

But battle left no time for such thoughts.

As the group’s main fighter, she needed to focus. She tightened her grip on her charm, and her voice rang clear: “Come forth—Tetsumaru!”

A new array ignited at her feet, its runes spinning in colorful light. The air crackled. Then, with a sound like thunder splitting wood, a towering armored figure emerged from within the magic circle.

The scent of blood and rust filled the air.

The samurai’s armor was scarred and mottled with dark stains—not rust, but the dried blood of countless victims. From behind the black metal mask, red light flared like coals from hell.

“Grr… gahh… gahhhh—”

The joints shrieked with grinding metal as the warrior’s sword slowly rose. The aura it radiated was cold, suffocating—pure death itself.

It was the Ghost Warrior, one of the most powerful shikigami known to exist.

For someone of Ruri’s current power to summon such a being was remarkable. It likely wasn’t of her making, but an ancestral spirit contract handed down through her family, bound to her bloodline.

“Kill!”

The command echoed with inhuman weight. The Ghost Warrior moved instantly, vanishing in a blur of black metal.

“Swish!”

The blade sang. A crescent of silver light sliced across the battlefield, swift and lethal. A water hound lunged to counter, but its body was severed before it could even blink—split into two clean halves that dissolved into rain.

The attack struck true—but the backlash was fierce. The disintegrating hound exploded in a wave of pressurized mist, forcing the Ghost Warrior to stagger backward. The ground trembled beneath his armored feet.

Ruri frowned. A pyrrhic strike. A trade of eight hundred for a loss of a thousand.

…

Meanwhile, Rina’s battle grew fiercer. The catgirl’s small frame flickered in motion, wrapped in a soft, blue aura. Her movements blurred—each step silent, each leap precise. She was a streak of living lightning.

Her opponent snarled, frustrated and confused, its jaws snapping at shadows. Her agility was unmatched. She landed blow after blow, tiny claws carving through water, each strike leaving ripples of energy behind. It was only a matter of time before it fell apart entirely.

Then came the scream.

“K-Kouya-kun!” Hirata’s voice trembled with panic. “More of those monsters—they’re coming this way!”

Kouya turned calmly, his gaze steady. Three hounds had broken past the defensive line, charging straight for them with crimson eyes blazing.

He didn’t even flinch. He walked forward slowly, the rain hissing softly around his boots, his presence calm as the storm itself.

The hounds roared. To them, his composure was provocation. They lunged—massive jaws wide enough to crush a man in one bite.

But Kouya didn’t dodge. Didn’t lift a weapon. Didn’t even blink.

Hirata’s heart pounded so violently it hurt. She wanted to scream at him to run, to do something, but her voice caught in her throat.

What was he doing? Was this madness? Suicide?

Then—he raised his hand.

Snap.

A crisp, almost casual sound.

The world froze.

The three hounds halted midair, their red eyes widening as if shocked. Their bodies trembled for half a second—and then, without a sound, collapsed. Water spilled out, splashing harmlessly at Kouya’s feet. No explosion. No death cry. Just silence.

For a heartbeat, even the rain seemed to stop.

Rina froze mid-leap. Ruri’s incantation faltered. Even the old kappa, half-hidden by waves, stared dumbly from the lake.

That boy had simply snapped his fingers… and three summoned beasts had ceased to exist.

The impossible had happened, plain and simple.

But to Kouya, it was nothing.

If the Demon Lord couldn’t destroy three low-grade water dogs in a blink, that would be worth worrying about.

As for faking weakness—pretending struggle for three hundred rounds before barely pulling off a victory?

Don’t be ridiculous.

Would you stop to duel a mantis standing in your path?

Pathetic.

A max-level boss has the dignity of a max-level boss.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep