Can a summoned being lie to their summoner?
Why not?
If the conditions are met, it's possible.
Summoned Being Rule No. 3, Clause 3.
A summoned being must obey the summoner's words absolutely, but if they judge that the summoner's life is in danger, they may violate the principle of absolute obedience.
A coup.
A military rebellion had broken out in a neighboring country.
If a military regime was established, they wouldn't apologize for past wrongs—on the contrary, they would provoke at every opportunity.
And then there were the anti-Korean protesters.
What? They dare do something to the summoner?
War against the summoner's country? Killing its citizens?
Gwangma was thoroughly enraged.
Whether those words were meant seriously or just shouted out didn't matter.
They had reached his ears.
And in doing so, they had poked at an incurable wound, branded like a scar deep in his chest.
Are there more summoners who die inside the Tower?
Or more who die outside the Tower?
The latter, by far.
Gwangma's former summoner was one of them.
When Gwangma couldn't be summoned due to the resummon cooldown—
His former summoner was killed by a joint attack from factions that envied and feared him.
Even with sufficient defensive capabilities in the real world, he had fallen.
The current summoner would inevitably face danger one day as well.
The conditions for Clause 3 had been met.
The promise to use only one pun of internal energy.
The vow to strike only once per person and not kill.
If he truly wanted to, he could break all of those.
But right now, he didn't want to.
If he ignored the summoner's request and caused a major incident, the trust he had painstakingly built with the summoner would collapse in an instant.
Well, a promise is a promise.
For now, let's beat them up.
One pun of internal energy.
Even so, that was still about ten years' worth of cultivation.
What kind of martial arts could be unleashed with that?
'Six Harmonies Fist and Ghost Step will be enough.'
It had been a very long time since he'd used martial arts with proper form.
Those who spew filth from their mouths need their teeth knocked out.
True to the name of the footwork, Gwangma advanced like a ghost.
Sliiide.
Without moving his legs or feet, he simply shifted forward.
Pow! One strike to the lower face.
Crack! A jawbone shattered.
Thududud—teeth falling.
Pow! Pow! Pow!
If he hit too hard, they'd die.
Just enough so they'd be limited to water and porridge for a few months—
Sweat trickled down.
That was from controlling his strength.
How difficult it was to subdue someone alive without killing them.
He'd never really done it before.
Letting them live? Hardly.
Anyone who got caught in his hands had been killed outright.
'This is kind of fun.'
It felt like returning to his days as a green martial artist newly stepping into the jianghu.
The vanguard of the anti-Korean protesters—covered head to toe in colorful tattoos like a canvas, looking like yakuza—charged forward with vicious expressions.
"Chikshō!"
"You old Joseon bastard!"
"Kill him!"
Cute little things.
Charging in without an ounce of fear.
Crack! The sound of jawbones being crushed was refreshingly crisp.
He smashed them indiscriminately.
Thud, thud, thud…
But then—
Pow! Pow! Pow!
'…Hmm.'
He made a mistake. This one got hit twice just now.
The guy had been yapping so much that he'd absentmindedly thrown an extra punch.
'I promised only one hit.'
He didn't see it, right?
Juhyeok had settled down at a suitable spot, munching popcorn that Rajiks handed him, enjoying Gwangma's performance.
Gyeondallae sat demurely, Veronica nodded off, and Bardin and Kosak stood nearby guarding Juhyeok.
The elusive Gwangma.
How could a human move like that?
He was like a ghost.
Sliiide—he moved. Spot! He appeared over there.
Pow! A light punch.
Without fail, one protester collapsed, blood dribbling from their mouth.
'His control over strength is insane.'
Juhyeok had seen Gwangma handle Tower monsters before.
In the undead zone, or against Kabalon in the French Black Tower.
Back then, it hadn't impressed him much.
Whoosh—throwing a boomerang of qi, or grabbing a jaw and tearing off wings.
He was a summoned being of Russeal, but the fights themselves were oddly dry.
That was how strong he was.
Did he even need to bother moving his body?
But now it was different.
Gwangma was limiting himself to one pun of internal energy.
To make up for the lack of power, he moved tirelessly.
All kinds of dazzling movements burst forth.
Gwangma was properly demonstrating what fist techniques and footwork truly were.
The protesters surged forward in an excited mob.
Yet not a single one managed to touch even the hem of Gwangma's clothes.
Even when they rushed him all at once—
Sliiide—
He twisted his body this way and that, throwing straight punches.
Pow pow pow pow!
When they lunged for his legs, he vanished—sliiide—and reappeared at their side, striking again.
Pow!
Evade, strike, retreat, then strike again.
It felt like watching a perfectly choreographed martial arts film.
A smile bloomed on Gwangma's face.
He was enjoying himself.
Pow pow pow pow!
He did keep his promise.
Every single one got hit exactly once.
But why did he always aim his fists at their jaws?
"It's the best cost-performance ratio. If I accidentally strike a vital point, they'd die on the spot. That would mean breaking my promise not to kill civilians."
So he shattered jawbones and knocked out teeth instead?
"Isn't that the hardest to recover from? And the most expensive."
True.
Even if the jawbone healed, how much would it cost to fix those teeth?
A dentist's best friend.
The Tooth Thresher, Gwangma.
The formation of the anti-Korean protesters began to collapse.
Only now did they seem to realize—
That the stylish old man in the suit before them was no ordinary person.
"Ugh…"
"M-move aside!"
"Spare me!"
The right-wingers who had been screaming "Kill the Joseon bastards!" with blazing eyes began to flee.
But Gwangma was relentless.
With only one pun of internal energy.
A ghostlike lightness skill unfolded from just that.
Spot! Spapapat!
He chased down the fleeing protesters to the very end, landing a single blow on each.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
No matter that he wasn't killing anyone…
'Cruel. This is cruel.'
There was neither blood nor mercy in him.
Old anti-Koreans, young anti-Koreans, even female anti-Koreans—all of them ended up taking Gwangma's fist, their jawbones shattered, teeth spat out.
For a while, they wouldn't be able to eat properly.
They'd need metal pins in their jaws, and with no teeth left to chew—
At least it was only one pun of internal energy. If he hadn't imposed that restriction, it wouldn't have ended like this.
It would've turned into a true sea of blood and flesh.
'Still… he basically shot a full wuxia action movie.'
And it really was being filmed.
By tourists from all over the world who had come to see the Black Tower.
Perception-disruption talismans worked only when you acted quietly and inconspicuously. Once you went wild like that, attention was inevitable.
'Lord Gwangma has debuted.'
At that very moment!
Kosak pointed at Gwangma with a finger, making a fuss.
"Th-th-there! Look at that. Gwangma broke his promise."
Why is this guy like this again?
"I saw it with my own two eyes. He said one hit per person, but he hit that guy twice."
Did he?
"Well, what's the big deal?"
Mistakes happen. Sometimes you hit twice by accident.
"This isn't something to take lightly. Two hits become three, three become four."
So what are you trying to say?
"I'll go myself and monitor how many times Gwangma hits people."
"…"
Monitor, my ass.
Just watching must be making his butt twitch.
He wants to get involved himself.
"You're really just monitoring?"
"Yes, sir!"
"And you won't hit people?"
"I swear. I won't hit civilians."
"And soldiers?"
"…Uh, well, um, hehehe."
Meaning: he'll hit them.
And would he just hit them?
Kosak of the Red Ribbon.
A chilling assassin who decorates the necks he personally cuts with ribbons.
"Can't we just leave it alone? This isn't Korea, it's someone else's country—Japan."
"It's too close of a country. It will definitely become a threat."
"And if I stop you?"
"Ah, uh, um."
Meaning: he'd go anyway.
"Kosak, are you also activating Rule 3, Clause 3?"
"…Yes."
A decision had to be made here.
Release Kosak—or not.
Another problem on top of Gwangma.
If Kosak moved, someone would definitely die.
Loan sharks. Terrorists. The Chinese chairman…
Judging by the situation, it would be the Self-Defense Forces' coup faction this time.
What should he do?
Until now, no matter what happened, if it didn't involve him directly, Juhyeok had always remained a bystander.
He couldn't help it.
What could a miserable 25-year-old youth, barely scraping by day to day on part-time jobs, possibly do?
It wasn't that he chose to be indifferent.
He simply couldn't do anything.
He was too weak. Interfering would've been pointless. So that was how he lived, naturally.
But now things were different.
With a single word, he could invalidate a coup in a foreign country.
Even if all he did was summon someone—but those someones possessed the power to change the world.
And they obeyed his words, willing to do anything to protect him.
Ahhh. This was far too difficult a decision for a weak man.
Was it really okay to do this?
A long hesitation.
A coup. Japan's return to military rule. Deep-rooted anti-Korean sentiment. Potential threats…
Ah, screw it. Whatever happens, happens.
"I hope not too many people die."
"…Pardon?"
"…I won't forcibly cancel your summoning."
"Yes, sir!"
In the end, he let Kosak loose as well.
The Tokyo Black Tower in Japan had become a rising tourist attraction.
Opportunities to see such a massive tower in the middle of a city were rare.
And then, overnight, a sudden coup.
Tourists were confused at first.
Of course they were—there was a coup.
But as time passed, anxiety gradually turned into excitement.
Tanks and armored vehicles passing in front of the Black Tower, armed soldiers, helicopters flying overhead, protesting crowds.
Everyone pulled out their smartphones.
Some took photos, some recorded videos, others went live.
And in the middle of it all appeared an old man.
Wearing a fedora and a stylish suit, he seemed to argue with the protesters—
Then suddenly threw the first punch.
A fight broke out.
Against hundreds of protesters.
How could you not film this?
This was prime live-stream content.
ㄴWho's that old guy?
ㄴIs this a martial arts action movie?
ㄴMy god! Look at those teeth flying—those aren't special effects.
ㄴWhoa! Every punch lands perfectly.
ㄴAnd that footwork?
ㄴThe anti-Korean protesters are getting absolutely wrecked.
ㄴThis vicarious satisfaction is insane.
ㄴHonestly, I've wanted to do that at least once.
ㄴBut that old man… he's so cool. That suit fits him perfectly.
ㄴAhhh, my heart's racing. Was my type actually seniors?
ㄴThat's not a person. That's a ghost.
ㄴGhosts show up on camera?
ㄴThey do. Like a spirit photo.
ㄴGhosts aren't affected by gravity. How is he fixed in the horizontal coordinate system? He's human.
It was the moment Gwangma's one-pun strength was revealed to the world.
A large stage had been set up in front of the Black Tower.
Matsumoto Junichi, Chief of the Joint Staff, sat on a chair on the stage in full uniform.
Beside him sat Hongo Tetsuo, a Self-Defense Forces player.
The coup had succeeded just as expected.
The cabinet ministers had sworn loyalty to him.
Killing one as an example made everything proceed smoothly.
With a bullet hole in Acting Prime Minister Usuda's head, who would dare resist?
The Imperial Palace?
What could they possibly do?
He had secured the support of Japan's right-wing factions.
The Chiefs of Staff of the Ground, Maritime, and Air Self-Defense Forces had all acknowledged the success of Matsumoto's coup.
The U.S. Forces Japan were a concern, but the overall trend had already shifted.
They wouldn't have a choice.
Now, only the declaration remained.
The proclamation of a new Great Japan to replace the incompetent cabinet government.
"Tetsuo, no problems with the 58th floor climb, right?"
"None at all. I'm confident."
A difference of a full 5 levels. Failure was unthinkable.
The only lingering concern was the lack of trait enhancement.
"If we succeed this time, I'll obtain a Rune of Trait Enhancement for you by any means necessary."
"Thank you."
The finishing touch of the coup was the clearing of the 58th floor.
If that failed, their justification would collapse.
"Then prepare for the climb—"
That was when it happened.
Noisy commotion from the front of the stage.
Screams and shrieks.
People collapsing with loud cracking sounds.
'…What is that now?'
A fight?
It seemed a disturbance had broken out among the right-wing protesters who had come to support the coup.
'Who the hell are these idiots?'
With Self-Defense Forces troops deployed everywhere, and they still had the nerve?
"Bring me binoculars."
"Yes, sir."
Matsumoto Junichi raised the binoculars brought by his adjutant and looked toward the source of the commotion.
'…Huh?'
It was indeed a fight.
But was that real?
It was just a single old man.
And yet, hundreds of protesters were getting beaten down by that one man.
A burly young man went down with a single punch.
Blood streamed from his mouth as he writhed on the ground.
Others were caught while trying to flee, beaten, and dropped where they stood.
Like a lion bursting into a peaceful village of rabbits, the right-wing protesters were scattered in utter panic by a single elderly man.
The scene had descended into chaos.
A new nation's founding ceremony was about to be held—what kind of absurd situation was this?
And that old man…
Was it even possible for one person to knock down hundreds on his own?
What's more, he was smiling leisurely as he beat them.
Without changing his expression, he drove his fist straight into their jaws.
Even watching through binoculars sent chills down the spine.
Gulp.
A sudden sense of unease crept over Matsumoto.
At this rate… could he come all the way here?
No matter how many armed troops were guarding the area—
"…Adjutant."
"Yes, sir!"
"Kill that old man immediately. Authorize live fire."
"Uh—he's mixed in with the protesters. If we fire carelessly—"
"Doesn't matter. Even if a few die, make sure that old man is killed."
"Y-yes, understood. I'll relay the order immediately—"
At that very moment!
Tzspit! A slicing sound tore through the air. Shhk.
The adjutant, who had been stepping off the stage to deliver the firing order, froze in place.
"Huh? What are you doing? Hurry and give the fire order—"
Sliiide—thud!
Gurururur.
The adjutant's head rolled across the stage.
"…Ghk!"
It wasn't just the adjutant.
Spot! A sudden gust of wind.
The few remaining strands of Matsumoto's hair were whipped violently aside.
Tzspit! Tzpipipit! Tzpipipipipit!
Shhk! Shhgrrk! Shhgrrgrrgrrk!
The stage flashed.
Flashing here, flashing there.
In broad daylight.
As if psychedelic lights had been switched on.
Matsumoto couldn't move.
Neither could the Self-Defense Force soldiers guarding the stage.
They couldn't even tell what was happening.
And then—
Thud, thududud, thud thud!
Thunk, roll, thunk, rollroll, thunk-torothunk, gurururur.
Heads rolling everywhere.
Bodies collapsing one after another, bereft of their heads.
All of them were the central figures of the coup—his subordinate generals.
The Self-Defense Force commanders who had been sitting on the stage, waiting for the ceremony to begin, all lost their heads.
Even Hongo Tetsuo, the trusted Self-Defense Forces player.
Ahhh—Tetsuo was dead?
A player?
Before he could even enter the Tower?
"W-what is this…?"
Matsumoto Junichi, Chief of the Joint Staff, doubted his own eyes.
A sight impossible to comprehend through any rational thought.
Suddenly—
"Konnichiwa."
A voice came from behind.
"W-who's there?"
"Watashi wa jōsenjin desu."
"…What?"
Jōsenjin?
"Sayonara."
"W-wait! Let's talk fir—"
"I can't speak Japanese."
"…W-what?"
"Makudonarudo!!!"
Tzspit! Shhk!
A sharp heat.
Something keen sliced across Matsumoto's neck.
Thankfully, there was no pain.
Only darkness rapidly closing in.
'It was right in front of me… success was right there…!'
Thud! Thump.
After cleanly severing Matsumoto's head as well—
"Hoo… what do I do now? This is troublesome."
Kosak pondered seriously.
"I killed too many."
There wouldn't be enough ribbons at this rate.
"Well, it can't be helped."
He'd decorate just the leader's head.
But with the utmost care.
Kosak tied a red ribbon around Matsumoto's head, decorating it into a bow.
Was it a little crooked?
It had been so long since he last tied a ribbon—his touch seemed rusty.
But then he felt a piercing gaze.
Turning his head, he saw Self-Defense Force soldiers staring blankly at him, rifles in hand.
They were completely frozen.
No matter how well-armed they were, with their commanders turned into corpses right before their eyes, there was nothing they could do.
And a perverted killer tying ribbons around severed heads, no less.
"Sumimasen?"
Kosak grinned as he spoke.
"AAAAAAAH!"
Screaming, the soldiers scattered in all directions.
Guns didn't matter.
Tanks and armored vehicles didn't matter.
Helicopters circling overhead didn't matter.
Their heads were all dead.
The command structure had completely collapsed.
Matsumoto Junichi, Chief of the Joint Staff, had his head cut off and decorated with a ribbon.
With that—
The coup was over.