Kinzoku Divine Arsenal Arts.
A legendary technique born from a simple truth: as a martial artist rises through the realms, their weapons fail to keep pace. Long-time companions shatter, get left behind, or become physical bottlenecks. No weapon, no matter how masterfully forged, can withstand the power of a Master, let alone a Sage.
There were exceptions, sure. But for most of the world, this was the fatal flaw of weapon-based martial paths.
Centuries ago, the Kinzoku founding clan head broke that barrier. By utilizing a martial artist's own internal energy and imbuing raw intent into a blade, he didn't just protect the steel—he forced it to transcend its limits. His ascension to Martial Sage sealed its legacy: a divine technique usable with any weapon.
It became the crown jewel of the Kinzoku Clan, a mandatory requirement for any who sought the mantle of Patriarch.
Until Nobunaga, the 4th Patriarch. On the eve of battle against the Great Britannian Empire, his own brother stabbed him in the back. Nobunaga died before his heirs could master the art.
What followed was desperate chaos. Political factions rushed their supported heirs through the training. Impatience replaced discipline. One by one, young prodigies collapsed, their internal organs destroyed by rushed, improper training of the Divine Arsenal. The Patriarch's seat was fractured among high-ranking elders, but it wasn't enough to maintain the clan's authority.
As a result, the Kinzoku slipped into a slow, deadly decline while rival clans rose.
In a last-ditch effort, they threw open the vaults, teaching the exclusive art to any promising martial artist in hopes of birthing another Sage to restore their former glory. Fools and geniuses alike flooded Kinzoku lands, driven by ambition.
The success rate remained virtually zero.
And now... the technique sat in my hands.
I stared at my clenched fist. It was glowing a dull, angry red, pulsing with contained violence. My blood boiled as thick, turbulent energy flooded through my veins.
Cool.
Ouch.
The aura snapped off abruptly, dropping me back to normal. Minor internal tears. Nothing my body couldn't knit back together in a few hours.
This power felt familiar. Very familiar.
Isn't this just Kaioken?
Yeah. That Kaioken. Goku's bread and butter right up until he unlocked the shiny yellow-haired transformation.
The only difference was the trigger mechanism.
I had to stay furious.
At least, that's what Father's notes insisted. Temper oneself. Maintain a state of perpetual, burning rage where the body releases exponentially amplified energy.
In short: stay pissed off.
Which was a hell of a lot harder than it sounded.
Think back to the angriest moment of your life. Really think about it. Can you sit there right now and feel the exact same white-hot rage you felt the second it happened?
Time dulls pain. It blunts edges. And frankly, nothing in this second life had hurt me deeply enough to sustain that kind of boundless rage.
If anything, this life had been... great. Too great.
There were too many reasons to smile, too many people worth protecting.
To reach that state, I had to dig for smaller things. The cold looks the villagers gave my family. The way those Kinzoku martial artists ignored my sister's cries for help. The mere thought of someone laying a finger on my parents or sisters.
...
BOOM.
My body erupted again. A crimson aura surged outward, my muscles swelling as veins stood out sharply against my skin. Power flooded my bloodstream like molten lead. Heat built at an appalling rate, my heart hammering against my ribs at nearly five hundred beats per minute.
The world slowed to a crawl. Pain faded. My thoughts sharpened into a narrow, predatory point. Movement felt weightless, faster, terrifyingly stronger.
Then it immediately ended as my body snapped back to normal with a heavy thud.
Ouch.
Every time I tapped into it, the backlash hit like a sledgehammer. But this time, it hurt slightly less.
Was my body adapting already? Do I get mini-Zenkai boosts every time I survive my own heart almost exploding?
Still, I couldn't continously maintain the anger. That was the curse of having a modern man's brain. Logic always crept back in. Rationalization. Context.
A learned fellow knows how to keep his temper.
Honestly, it'd be easier if I were an idiot. If I could just consume rage-bait and stay perpetually furious over nothing like people back on Earth did every day.
Even so, just touching that threshold was a miracle. Looking over Father's Volume I notes, I knew for a fact that if he hadn't been guiding me every step of the way, my first attempt would have blown my heart out. Even with a Saiyan physique. Heck, canon Goku literally died of a heart disease which sparked the whole Android-Cell timeline.
Father stayed right beside me, forcing me to dig deeper into my mind. To find an ember that wouldn't die.
At first, nothing worked. For people born into this brutal world, a defining trauma burns itself into their soul early on. But me? The first thing that surfaced was petty past-life nonsense—like web-novel authors dropping three consecutive cliffhangers on a Friday.
A tiny spark flared in my chest. Wait, that worked?
Then it vanished. Reset.
Sigh...
I stayed in deep meditation, pushing past the trivial irritation, past the mild annoyances, digging into the dark corners I usually kept locked away.
Then it hit me.
How the hell could I forget?
My death.
Hands grabbing at a screaming girl. Boots slamming onto the pavement as I ran forward. Laughter—sloppy, drunken laughter. Then pain. Confusion. A suffocating rage I never got to unleash before the lights went out.
The three men who killed me twisted together in my mind. Their faces warped, their voices fused, their bodies stretching and merging until they coalesced into a single, grotesque boar. A monstrous, deformed pig twice the size of a house, bristling with dozens of jagged tusks.
This fucking pig.
The pig that almost killed Ichigo and made her doubt her path.
The pig that nearly crushed Ringo, shattering her arm.
The pig that forced Mikan into a life of constant, terrifying danger.
The pig that made me feel weak.
You don't get to exist.
"Merun, stop!" Father's voice shouted, cutting through the red haze.
I snapped back to reality. Father was kneeling in front of me, grabbing my head with both hands, shaking me hard.
"…Did I fail?" I croaked out.
"What do you feel, Merun? Are you alright?" His voice was tight with sheer panic.
"…My body feels like I was jumped by a dozen bad guys."
Father stared at me for a long second. Then he let out a huge, breathless laugh.
"I don't get it... but you did it, my son," he said, smiling softly. "Congratulations."
I did it.
Months of preparation—not just the grueling physical torture guided by Father, but tempering my mind. Learning to hold fire without letting it consume me.
I raised my hand and clenched my fist.
My first technique. My first true step onto a martial path.
It had felt like I was fighting against the universe itself—a world that refused to give a Saiyan a natural martial path. It felt like defying heaven.
"I won," I said, grinning through the pain.
Father laughed loudly.
…
Ouch.
My body really fucking hurts.