While Ulric Yurael—O’Neil’s father in this life—stood sighing in quiet frustration, O’Neil himself was staring at the girl shielding him… with a headache.

  Astreith, the Clan Leader’s daughter, was a recognized genius of the Barboros Clan.

  Since he was already here in this life, O’Neil had decided to make the most of it. By nature, he was calm and optimistic, so he had accepted everything rather quickly.

  Still, even at her young age, Astreith’s current domineering behavior felt strangely… normal to him.

  When she had been even younger, she publicly declared in front of all the village children that O’Neil belonged to her—and that she would kill anyone who dared compete.

  At the time, poor O’Neil had only been three years old.

  No matter how charming he might have been, being chased by an eight-year-old girl was not something he had expected in life.

  Even now, the memory made him feel slightly conflicted.

  He had never imagined that one day… he would be “raised” by a little girl.

  What made it more hopeless was that as years passed, Astreith showed no intention of changing her mind. Despite O’Neil never displaying any obvious strength before the adults—appearing thin and unremarkable, completely unlike a Barboros who worshiped strength—she never wavered.

  What O’Neil didn’t know was that Astreith had witnessed every time Steve Job challenged him—and every time Job was intellectually crushed.

  That was precisely why Astreith, who inherited the clan’s belief in the supremacy of the strong, was so fascinated by O’Neil—the man worthy of calling her “big sister.”

  O’Neil sighed and gently pulled her aside.

  “Leave this to me, Astreith.”

  She blinked but said nothing.

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  “This is my business,” he added.

  “Fine,” Astreith replied, her regal bearing already obvious despite her age. “Remember, you’re mine. I won’t let anyone hurt you. Only I’m allowed to do that.”

  Ignoring the charming yet still childish girl, O’Neil stepped toward Steve Job.

  Seeing him approach, Job tensed and quietly clenched his fists.

  He had suffered countless defeats at the hands of this boy who didn’t look particularly strong.

  “What, O’Neil? Going to use those little tricks again? Those aren’t things a real warrior should use!”

  To Job, O’Neil’s joint-locking techniques were nothing but childish tricks. For the Barboros people, who hunted demonic beasts without joints, such human grappling methods were practically useless in real combat.

  O’Neil smiled and walked forward step by step, raising his fist.

  “I just want to show you something.”

  “Trying to embarrass yourself?” one of Job’s followers mocked.

  “No,” O’Neil said calmly. “I mean… from now on, shut up.”

  With a sharp roar, his fist shot forward.

  “What?! That strength!”

  A violent force surged toward Job. His pupils shrank, yet he gritted his teeth defiantly.

  “I’ve drunk dangerous blood!”

  Two fists—one large, one small—collided violently.

  But in the next instant, O’Neil’s smaller fist deflected Job’s and, carrying unstoppable momentum, slammed into Job’s chest.

  A tremendous force exploded outward.

  Steve Job was sent flying through the air.

  “What?!”

  “That’s impossible!”

  When Job crashed down from the sky, the adults who had remained nearby were stunned.

  The Clan Leader’s expression shifted repeatedly.

  “No… impossible! Job drank demonic beast blood!”

  “Even if it was only common-grade blood, it’s far beyond what O’Neil—who never drank any—should be able to match!”

  Rebus stared at his son lying on the ground in disbelief.

  “Did my son… really lose to Ulric’s boy?”

  Ulric was stunned for a moment—then burst into laughter.

  “Well, Rebus? What do you have to say now? Your son was beaten by mine!”

  Meanwhile, the Clan Leader’s younger brother narrowed his eyes.

  “Interesting. This child seems to be a genius as well.”

  “But why hasn’t he shown it before? If he had, the clan would have valued him far more.”

  In truth, O’Neil was not merely a genius. With his spiritual-type supernatural ability—the Sea of Consciousness nourishing his body—it would not be an exaggeration to say he was the strongest being in the clan.

  Steve Job’s strength was likely the upper limit for his age group—a Third-Level Transcendent Trainee who had consumed demonic beast blood, albeit common-grade.

  But O’Neil’s physical talent was extraordinary.

  Though his body looked slender, it had been constantly refined and enhanced. If Job’s strength was a “2”—roughly equal to a fifteen-year-old on Earth—then O’Neil’s current strength was no less than a “5.”

  More than double.

  Combined with superior technique, that difference allowed him to defeat Job with a single blow.

  It should be known: O’Neil wasn’t just handsome and cheerful.

  Thanks to the Sea of Consciousness continuously nourishing his body, his physical aptitude had always been the best in the clan—even surpassing the more visibly gifted Astreith.

  He simply never made it public.

  “Impossible!”

  Steve Job leapt to his feet and charged again.

  He could accept losing to O’Neil’s cleverness and strange techniques—but losing in pure strength, the very thing the Barboros revered? His pride could not endure it.

  The result was the same.

  He was sent flying once more.

  “Impossible! Impossible! Absolutely impossible!”

  Job was on the verge of losing his mind.

  He, who had always believed himself the strongest among his peers, had been defeated in both technique and raw power by someone previously overlooked.

  He fell. He stood up. He charged again.

  Again and again.

  Nearby, Astreith watched O’Neil’s performance in astonishment.

  Then her beautiful blue eyes curved into crescents, shining with delight.

  As for Job’s followers?

  They had already fled.

  Compared to Steve Job, they lacked both the courage and the pride worthy of a Barboros.

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