The job change is a bizarre and calamity; the nation begs me to tone it down.

The moment those words were uttered, Kanzaburo felt like his blood vessels were about to explode.

The saints behind him weren't much better off; their faces looked like they'd been constipated for three days and then suddenly been told the toilet was out of service.

The technology is inadequate.

These four words are truly poisonous.

Because it fundamentally denies the tragic nature of "losing".

If you say, "If you die, it's because you weren't strong enough"—that's harsh, but at least it's somewhat respectful.

But what does "not technically proficient" mean?

The implication of being technically inept is that you didn't lose because of a lack of talent, resources, or fate.

You lost because of the food.

It's just plain food.

So bad that even their death wasn't graceful enough.

Yamamoto Furukawa's temples were throbbing.

He could feel his entire face burning, as if it had been repeatedly ironed with a red-hot iron.

It has been at least several hundred years since he became a demigod.

Over the centuries, he has experienced countless negotiations, confrontations, and even life-or-death battles.

But never before had he felt so frustrated as he did today.

The other party did not make a move.

He wasn't touched even with a finger.

He just sits in a dilapidated sedan chair, crosses his legs, and talks.

And that's how they forced him, a demigod, into this predicament.

Either take the risk and risk your life.

Either admit defeat and leave.

Both roads lead to dead ends.

The worst part is that there were a lot of onlookers.

Behind him stood several saints, and satellites from various countries hung in the sky. Although the millions of people in the Cherry Blossom Kingdom on the ground could not see the details clearly, the live broadcasts and discussions on social media were almost crashing the servers.

The whole world is watching.

Yamamoto Furukawa took a deep breath, his fourth.

The air he inhaled tonight was enough to inflate a hot air balloon.

He did not answer immediately.

Silence, a long silence.

Yamamoto Furukawa remained silent, and Gu Xu was not in a hurry either.

He sat there in the Styx ghost sedan chair, tapping the side of the chair with his fingers, his eyes half-closed, like someone waiting for takeout—no rush, it will arrive sooner or later anyway.

But this lack of urgency, in Yamamoto Furukawa's eyes, was more unbearable than any kind of urging.

Because he knew that Gu Xu's reluctance to urge him wasn't out of kindness.

It's not because the other party cares how long he agonizes over it.

Whether you hesitate for a second or a whole day, you still have to accept the decision.

In any case, the final result won't change.

Time passed second by second.

Kanzaburo stood beside Yamamoto Furukawa, his lips tightly pressed together, and the veins on his forehead throbbing.

He tried to say something several times, but each time the words got to his lips, he swallowed them back.

What are you saying?

Should we refuse on behalf of Lord Yamamoto?

Insufficient.

To fight on behalf of Lord Yamamoto?

They are even less qualified.

Give me some ideas?

The only idea he could think of right now was to run.

But if he were to utter those two words, his reputation as a ninth-tier saint would be ruined and he could be used as a washboard.

Right at this delicate juncture.

"Ugh."

Gu Xu sighed.

The sigh wasn't loud, but it was exceptionally clear in this environment.

"Old dog Yamamoto."

Then Gu Xu spoke, tilting his head and looking at Yamamoto Furukawa's ashen face: "It seems—you've already made your choice?"

These words were spoken softly, but each one was like a nail, piercing the eardrums of everyone present with unerring accuracy.

Yamamoto Furukawa gripped the hilt of the sword with his right hand once again.

This time, he didn't let go.

Because he knew that if he remained silent any longer, it wouldn't just be a matter of "taking another hit."

The problem is "being treated like a grandson in front of the whole world".

He can endure humiliation.

But I cannot accept this humiliation.

The worst outcome of such an attack would be serious injury.

If you don't accept the offer, the worst outcome is a ruined reputation.

But for a demigod who has lived for hundreds of years...

Reputation is sometimes more important than life itself.

Yamamoto Furukawa gave Gu Xu a deep look.

There was a lot in that look—hatred, murderous intent, resentment, and fear.

But more than anything, it represents a resolute determination to burn one's bridges.

"it is good."

There is only one word.

But the moment Yamamoto Furukawa uttered that word, his aura underwent a dramatic change.

boom--!

This is not a sound.

This is the impact on the air caused by the force taking on physical form.

The demigod aura that Yamamoto Furukawa had been suppressing all night was now completely unmasked.

Like a wild beast that has been locked up for too long finally snapping its chains.

It poured out in all directions without reservation.

The sky is buzzing.

It's not the kind of buzzing sound you hear in the wind or thunder.

Rather, it is a physical phenomenon caused by the forced resonance of the entire atmosphere under the pressure of a demigod-level force field.

The voice was deep, resonant, and lingering.

It was as if a piano had fallen from the sky, and the strings were still vibrating.

The clouds within a radius of tens of kilometers were instantly torn apart by this aura.

It broke into clumps of cotton wool and retreated frantically in all directions.

They looked like a group of mice fleeing for their lives at the sight of a cat.

A huge circular gap was torn open in the sky.

Above the gap, the starlight is cold and clear.

Beneath the gap, Yamamoto Furukawa's figure appeared and disappeared amidst the vast white aura, his hair flying backward in the raging energy storm, the hem of his kimono fluttering in the wind.

He slowly drew out three inches of the katana that had always been tucked at his waist.

It's only three inches long.

But the cold light emanating from that three-inch blade directly cut a spatial rift tens of meters long in the void in front of him.

The crack was hissing and emitting white smoke, as if a red-hot iron had been pressed onto a piece of tofu.

Demigod.

This is a demigod.

Even a mere three-inch blade can unleash enough power to make anything below the ninth rank feel despair.

Kanzaburo instinctively took a step back.

It's not that I'm afraid of Lord Yamamoto, but his aura is just too strong. Standing next to him makes my bones ache.

Needless to say, the saints behind him were even more formidable.

The weakest of the eighth-ranked individuals was as white as rice paper, and could barely stand.

On the ground in the distance—

Those citizens of the Cherry Blossom Country who were still looking up and observing felt this overwhelming pressure without exception.

The entire street fell silent instantly.

That silence wasn't voluntary; it was forced.

It was as if an invisible hand was pressing down on everyone's vocal cords.

Breathing became difficult, and the sound of my heartbeat was amplified several times in my ears.

Some ordinary people's legs went weak and they sat down on the ground.

fear?

Yes, a little.

But more than anything, it was a sense of relief at surviving a disaster, and a blind trust.

"Lord Yamamoto has made his move!"

"See that?! That's the power of a demigod!!"

"Yes! That Sherlock bastard is finished! A demigod has made a move, how could he possibly withstand it!"

"Kill him! Long live Lord Yamamoto!"