The Weight of the Soul

The Iron Eater's seal weighed five physical kilograms, but it weighed a ton on Renji's conscience.

He hid the object under a loose floorboard in his apartment, wrapped in an old towel. For thirty days, that square of loose wood became the center of gravity of his life.

Renji continued going to Kuma Gym. He continued hitting the bag, sparring, running. And he continued to be mediocre.

"You're too stiff, Renji!" Kenji shouted, while Renji took a kick to the thigh from a sixteen-year-old rookie. "Loosen your hips!"

Renji fell. Got up. Limped home.

The temptation to go to the temple, perform the ritual, and use the magic to impress the coach was almost unbearable. I have the power right there, under the floor, he thought, staring at the loose board at night. I could be a god right now.

But the Master's voice echoed in his head: "One week of collapse. One deadly week."

If he used the magic too early, he would arrive at the qualifier looking like a walking corpse. He needed patience. He needed to be a monk waiting for war.

There were three days left until the tournament when the registration lists were posted at the Nerima sports center.

The place was chaos. Fighters from every corner of Tokyo—and some who looked like they came from worse places—crowded in to confirm their weight and documentation. The smell of testosterone and camphor oil was thick.

Renji stood in line, feeling small. In front of him was a man with cauliflower ears and a neck thicker than Renji's thigh. Behind him, a Muay Thai practitioner was banging his shins against a concrete pillar to pass the time.

"Hey, isn't that 'Canvas Sato'?" someone laughed in the next line over.

Renji lowered his head, signing the liability waiver form.

"Heard he's trying for the Wildcard spot." "Spot 32? Poor guy. Did you see who else signed up? The 'Shredder' from the Roppongi underworld is here."

Renji looked where they were pointing. Leaning against a soda machine was a gigantic, bald man with tribal tattoos covering his skull. He was crushing a full juice can with just the strength of his fingers.

That was the level. Humans brushing against the limit of what was natural. Monsters without magic.

Renji handed his form to the receptionist, who looked at him with pity. "Are you sure, Mr. Sato? There are no refunds in case of withdrawal or... hospitalization."

"I'm sure," Renji said.

On his way out, he locked eyes with the bald giant. The man didn't even blink. To him, Renji was part of the scenery.

Renji clenched his fists in his jacket pockets. Just wait, he thought. Wait until tomorrow.

The night before the fight was cold and cloudless.

Renji walked to Koganji Temple with his heavy backpack. The storage shed was silent. He pushed the bookshelf—now much more easily, thanks to habit—and stepped into the darkness. The seal on the black door burned blue, welcoming him.

He crossed the floating stones. The Master's dimension was the same: silent, ethereal, frozen in time.

The Master was on the veranda, tuning a shamisen that produced melancholic sounds.

"You're late," the Master said, without stopping playing. "Your fight is tomorrow at nine in the morning. If we do the ritual now, you'll have power until ten at night. Is that enough?"

"If I don't win by then, I'll be dead anyway," Renji replied, placing the heavy seal on the tea table.

The Master stopped playing. His black eyes shone with anticipation.

"Take off your shirt, Warden."

Renji obeyed, feeling the cold air of that dimension on his bare skin. He sat in the lotus position in the center of the tatami.

The Master picked up the black seal. The object floated from his hand, glowing with that furious orange of the Iron Eater's core.

"This is not going to be pleasant," the Master warned. "I'm going to have to fuse the creature's spiritual essence with your nervous system. Your body will reject it. Your mind will panic. You have to accept the weight."

"Just get it over with."

The Master recited a word in a language that sounded like tearing metal and pressed the seal into the center of Renji's back, right on top of his spine.

Renji screamed.

It wasn't a common scream of pain. It was a primal scream. He felt as if someone had poured molten lead into his spinal cord. The heat spread through his vertebrae, invaded his ribs, descended to his femur, hardened his skull.

Every muscle fiber in him contracted violently. He heard his own bones creak, but they didn't break. They were becoming... dense.

"Accept it!" the Master's voice thundered. "Do not fight the iron. Be the iron!"

Renji bit his tongue, tasting blood. He stopped trying to run from the pain and visualized the scrap monster. The hardness. The stability.

Gradually, the unbearable heat turned into a comforting weight. The sharp pain turned into a dull pressure.

Renji fell forward, panting, his hands resting on the tatami.

When he opened his eyes, the world seemed... fragile.

He looked at his hands. They looked the same, perhaps with the veins a little more prominent and grayish. But when he closed his fist, he heard the sound of dry friction, like two stones rubbing together.

"Stand up," the Master ordered.

Renji stood up. The movement was strange. He felt heavy, as if he were wearing a hundred-pound lead vest, but his muscles moved that load effortlessly. He felt anchored to the ground. Immovable.

The Master threw a heavy ceramic cup at Renji's head.

On instinct, Renji raised his arm to block.

CRACK.

The cup didn't just break. It pulverized against Renji's forearm. He barely felt the impact. It was as if a mosquito had bumped into him.

Renji looked at his arm. Not even a red mark.

"Twenty-four hours," the Master reminded him, returning to his tea. "From now on, your skin has the density of industrial steel plating. Your bones are girders. But your internal organs are still human, albeit protected. Concussive blows can still make you dizzy if they rattle your brain, but no one is going to break your ribs."

Renji put on his shirt and jacket. The fabric felt rough against his sensitive skin, but the weight in his body was armor that gave him intoxicating confidence.

"Thank you, Master."

"Don't thank me. You're just paying for your stay," the Master smiled. "Now go. Put on a show. I hate boring entertainment."

Renji left the temple and walked through the deserted streets of Nerima. He passed a metal lamppost. He stopped.

Without technique, just out of curiosity, he threw a short punch, from twelve inches away, at the pole.

GONNNG!

The sound vibrated down the entire street. The metal of the pole crumpled inward, forming the perfect impression of Renji's knuckles.

He looked at his intact hand. Then he looked at the moon.

"Tomorrow," Renji whispered, feeling a predatory smile form on his face. "Tomorrow, the 'Punching Bag' hits back."