Reality slowly reasserted itself for Ravel Phoenix.
The expected agony—fangs rending flesh, bone pulverizing under hydraulic pressure—never manifested. Instead, warmth. Security. A voice she'd recognize across dimensions murmuring near her ear.
Only when Bokue spoke did she dare open eyes she hadn't consciously realized she'd squeezed shut.
His profile dominated her vision, mere inches away. Beyond him, Fenrir—legendary god-slayer, terror of Norse mythology—whimpering. Blood streamed from its ruined mouth in thick rivulets.
Wait. Hold on. Inches away??
The proximity registered like delayed detonation.
Ravel's carefully-constructed subjugation plan had involved subtle positioning, manufactured scenarios for brief contact, perhaps an "accidental" brush against his arm during victory celebrations—
—and fate had delivered a princess carry during her most vulnerable moment instead.
This is... this is too fast!
Her mind spun wildly. 'We skipped like fifteen relationship milestone flags! Is this that thing humans call 'when one door closes, a window explodes open'? Or was it 'accidentally planting willows while deliberately farming melons'?
The sheer whiplash from "imminent death" to "maiden's fantasy scenario achieved" left Ravel's thoughts pleasantly scrambled. Unreality wrapped her consciousness in cotton-candy clouds.
She tilted her head upward, gazing at him through eyes hazed with adolescent infatuation—practically seeing cartoon hearts and sparkles.
"B-Bokue-sama... you came to save me..."
Fenrir still lurked meters away, growling threats with toothless menace. Yet somehow, cradled in these arms, Ravel felt she occupied the universe's safest coordinate.
"Well, yeah. Couldn't exactly keep spectating after that, could I?"
Bokue angled his head slightly, peripheral vision catching the golden-haired girl he'd scooped up single-handedly.
"Besides, you don't seriously think Sirzechs assembled this subjugation force expecting you guys to shoulder the demon realm's entire survival, right? He's a Maou. If protecting his territory genuinely required rookie squads handling it solo, he should resign and retire to rural farming."
His tone shifted toward grumbling. "Though his choice of 'backup plan' was... tch. Should've put more force into that elbow strike earlier."
The explanation deteriorated into muttered complaints halfway through.
"Oh! Are you injured, Bokue-sama??"
Reality pierced Ravel's euphoric haze. Bokue had intercepted Fenrir's bite—those legendary god-slaying fangs—with his bare body. She squirmed in his grip, frantically scanning for wounds.
"Me? Obviously not."
Bokue shrugged dismissively.
True enough—Fenrir's fangs carried genuine god-slaying properties. Even prime-condition Two Heavenly Dragons would suffer catastrophic injuries from careless exposure to those jaws.
But for him? Barely registered as threat.
Magnetic force cultivation had transformed his physical body into the world's supreme weapon. Divine armaments, legendary blades, god-forged implements—all became tissue paper when measured against Bokue Keikain's tempered flesh.
"Anyway, let's wrap this up quick."
He released Ravel gently, attention shifting toward the retreating god-slayer. One hand extended, conjuring a blank paper talisman from nothing—ancient onmyouji techniques made manifest through casual gesture.
"Come to think of it, haven't visited Yura in a while," he mused aloud, voice carrying absent contemplation. "Should bring a souvenir when I drop by next. This'll work... assuming my technique hasn't gotten rusty."
"AWOOOO—!"
Perhaps sensing intent, Fenrir released another atmosphere-shredding howl. Divine power surged—stanching blood flow, regenerating shattered fangs at visible speed. Four legs bent, claws gouging earth as the beast assumed attack posture.
Then—
BOOM!
Hind legs detonated with apocalyptic force, forelegs providing vectored thrust. Despite mountain-sized proportions, Fenrir achieved velocity that defied physics—ground cratering from launch pressure as it charged with meteor-strike momentum.
Already lost teeth once and still charging headfirst. Maybe not as intelligent as advertised...
Bokue's mental commentary accompanied his physical disappearance.
Instantaneous relocation. He manifested directly above Fenrir's trajectory.
What observers perceived as "lightning speed" registered to Bokue's senses as frozen stillness. Fenrir hadn't even processed its target's vanishing act before—
His fist descended.
One punch.
The charging god-slayer's head embedded into earth without warning—no gradual deceleration, no skidding friction. Pure perpendicular redirection. Like a race car executing ninety-degree turns at terminal velocity without braking, without steering input, purely through localized gravity inversion.
Fenrir's skull became ground-anchor, driving meters deep. Only hindquarters remained visible above surface—motionless, systems shocked into emergency shutdown.
Full-sprint momentum arrested instantaneously generates forces beyond biological tolerance. Death wasn't guaranteed, but severe concussion rendering unconsciousness? Absolute certainty.
Bokue descended gracefully, retrieving his hastily-crafted paper talisman.
Toes touched wasteland soil. Vast oceanic spiritual power—golden luminescence incarnate—exploded outward with him as epicenter. Within heartbeats, the radiance engulfed Fenrir's embedded form completely.
A single crooked finger gesture reversed the flow.
That tsunami of spiritual energy rewound like film projection running backward, dragging the god-slaying wolf into dimensional compression—sealing everything within the small paper construct.
[Shikigami Binding]
Fundamental onmyouji curriculum. Conceptually identical to Pokémon capture mechanics—defeat target, establish dominance, claim ownership.
Young Bokue had always considered it philosophically redundant. If I've already beaten something into submission, why waste effort commanding it as proxy combatant? Just handle threats directly.
This marked his first practical application in over a decade. Last exposure? Childhood lessons at the main Keikain estate, elderly instructors lecturing on theoretical frameworks.
Yet his technique executed flawlessly. Muscle memory transcending years of disuse.
Perfect.
Once demon realm business concluded, he'd gift this to Yura.
Shikigami Fenrir... Admittedly, Norse nomenclature clashed aesthetically with traditional onmyouji practices. But functionality trumped thematic consistency.
Good enough.
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