A Loser with a Combat Power of Only 5

The sun was scorching enough to roast the earthworms in the fields into curls. Old John hunched over, wrestling with several ridges of dirt clods as hard as his wife's kidney stones.

Beads of sweat ran down his old, furrowed face and struck the soil without making a sound.

He spat, just about to straighten up and pound his nearly broken old back, when the corner of his eye caught a blinding thing in the sky. With a "whoosh," it trailed a long tail of white smoke and carried an ominous air as it plunged straight into his patch of radishes that had just sprouted!

"Good Lord above!" Old John did not even care that the hoe in his hand had slammed down on his foot with a clang. A farmer's reverence for heaven and earth was instantly swallowed by fury over his precious seedlings.

"Which damned bastard dared smash up my field?!"

With a roar, he spun around and charged into his shabby straw shed. When he emerged, he was gripping his ancestral Double-barreled Shotgun, its rifling nearly worn smooth, the gun barrel gleaming with Pig Iron's distinctive cold sheen beneath the sun.

He stumbled toward the smoking radish field, his heart trembling in his chest.

Before the smoke and dust had fully dispersed, he saw a bizarre object in the field, shaped like a gigantic iron cocoon. Someone stood beside the crater.

That person was absurdly tall, clad in tight armor that looked painfully restrictive. His hair was long enough to drag along the ground, while a high tuft was tied at the back of his head.

Most terrifying of all was the strange one-eyed device fixed to his face. It was aimed in Old John's direction, red light flickering within its lens as it emitted electronic sound