Tsk, I'm not going to sprout a pair of ram horns, am I? Alistair thought. Japanese fantasy demons usually had bat wings and horns, but this demon heritage seemed to be a hybrid, given the scales appearing on his body.
He ran a hand over the scales; they were smooth and hard, yet didn't hinder his movement at all. It was a strange, powerful sensation.
Given his current physical state, he decided it was best to keep his distance from certain people for now and stick to casual conversation. The world had only just begun to change, and 99% of people still believed everything was normal. His mutations could easily spark suspicion or lead to someone reporting him.
The only ones who could likely accept his current condition were his existing girls. As for the targets he was still in the process of "conquering," he'd have to put them on hold. Until he could control these physical shifts, it was better not to expose himself.
However, as his progress increased, his control over these mutations was also growing. Alistair estimated that once he reached 60% progress, he'd be able to suppress the demonic features and maintain his human appearance at will.
Based on the information flooding his mind, this mutation was actually a "state." A full mutation was a "Beast" form, while no mutation was a "Human" form. He wasn't sure of the specific differences yet, as the Ring's information was vague, but the distinction clearly had a purpose.
The most balanced form, however, was the semi-mutated state. In Alistair's mind, that was the "Demi-Human" or "Hybrid" state—likely the form the original demon used for peak combat, which matched the blurry mental image he had.
"Hey, kid. Got any cash? Loan me some."
Alistair was walking with his hands in his pockets, plotting his next move to gain progress, when a voice with a thick, clumsy accent interrupted him.
Crack! Crack!
The sound of knuckles popping echoed. Alistair looked up and realized the guy was exceptionally tall. Leveling his gaze, he was staring straight at the man's chest. Alistair was already 5'10", quite tall for the region, but this man was at least 6'3".
Wait, why is his skin so dark?
Alistair tilted his head back. Sure enough, it was a Black man. He wasn't sure if the guy was an exchange student or an illegal immigrant. Japan was generally quite resistant to African immigration, unlike France, which was practically transforming into a different demographic entirely.
But he had to admit, the physical gifts were undeniable. Compared to other races, the raw athletic potential was staggering—almost gorilla-like. Unfortunately, the temperament often matched the brawn; truly brilliant "brothers" were rare.
This guy didn't look like a student. His Japanese was broken and hesitant, suggesting he was likely an illegal. In a world like this, where law and order were becoming suggestions, a man with his physique could probably carve out a decent living in the rougher districts.
"Hey, brat! Our boss asked you a question. If you're scared, just hand over the money. Looking at those designer clothes, your wallet must be fat."
While Alistair was wondering about the man's origins, two hands clamped onto his shoulders from behind. A threatening voice came from his left. Alistair glanced sideways. It was a punk with bleached yellow hair, maybe twenty years old.
"What are you looking at? Pay up! Look at our boss's build, then look at yours. If you don't want to suffer, be a good boy."
The blond kid smirked. Alistair felt a sudden urge to slap the smug look off his face. So, he did.
Slap!
The blond punk was sent flying by the force of the blow. He crashed into the pavement, his head spinning, unable to get up.
"Hey, you!"
The other two were stunned by the sudden violence. The tall Black man reacted instantly, reaching out to grab Alistair.
Hmph!
Boom!
The silhouette of [The World] materialized behind Alistair. He didn't want to waste time bickering with these nobodies for zero profit. To his surprise, the Black man actually saw [The World]. He shifted his palm into a fist and traded a blow with the Stand's knuckle.
Alistair's eyes widened. The man's fist was perfectly fine. Alistair wasn't using full strength, but even a fraction of [The World]'s power should have shattered a normal human's arm.
This guy is wrong!
Alistair leaped back several paces, watching the man warily.
The other lackey was completely bewildered. They were just small-time thugs who ruled this run-down urban-rural fringe. The police here were bribed, and the residents were too scared to fight back. Recently, this foreigner—whom they called "Negro"—had arrived. With his massive frame, they had successfully expanded their territory and lived like kings in the local hostess clubs.
They had gone into the city a few days ago and blown all their cash. Now they were back in the slums, looking for an easy mark. Alistair looked like a walking ATM. They didn't expect him to be a monster who could slap a man into a coma and then punch the air with enough force to create a shockwave.
Remodeled?
Alistair used his mana to sense the man. He didn't feel much "Mystery" from him. Instead, he felt a massive flow of Soul Force circulating through the man's body.
Think of "Mystery" as the mana capacity and "Mana" as the current MP. The former is a fixed stat; the latter is a consumable. The soul and spirit are the same. Spirit can be recovered, but Soul Force is your life's essence—your max HP. If it drops, it doesn't just come back.
This man was flooding his body with Soul Force to substitute for mana, using it for the most wasteful kind of physical reinforcement. He wasn't trained; he was modified. At this rate, he wouldn't live more than a few years. Alistair's one punch had likely cost the man a week of his life just to block it.
Alistair's expression turned grim. This was true "life-burning" combat. No wonder he could trade blows with [The World]. He wasn't using spiritual energy; he was fighting with his very existence.
But he's still just a human.
Alistair released his restraints and commanded [The World] to strike at full power. This man was burning five seconds of life for every one second he spent fighting. By the time he hit twenty-five, he'd be a corpse.
Clap! Clap!
The Black man didn't punch back. Instead, he opened his palms and caught [The World]'s fists, holding them in place.
Holy shit! He's really going for it!
Alistair sensed the man's output. That single hold cost him months of his life. [The World]'s strength grew with Alistair's progress, which was now over 40%. At this level, it could crush steel, yet the man held on.
"You... urgh!"
Crunch!
The man's hands trembled as he held the Stand. He opened his mouth to speak his broken Japanese, but Alistair interrupted him—physically.
"You didn't think I was a slouch, did you?"
Alistair retracted his own fist, a playful smirk on his face as he looked at the man now sprawled on the ground. He was used to letting [The World] solve his problems, but that didn't mean his own body wasn't a weapon.
Crack! Snap! Crunch! Thud!
"AAAGH!"
Following a series of sickening snaps, Alistair planted his foot firmly on the man's chest.
"Now, tell me. Who turned you into this?" Alistair leaned down, smiling pleasantly.