Motohama: Speedrunning Misogyny in 24 FPS

Discord: https://discord.gg/5Azep9Ju) (IT HAS TALL GOTH GIRLS THAT WANNA STEP ON YOU)

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Ethan sat against the door, his back pressed to the cool wood as he exhaled. His mind raced through everything that had just happened. Koneko had been watching him.

The small, white-haired girl had trailed him from a distance, silent yet perceptive. A nekomata—a supernatural being with instincts far beyond those of an ordinary human. If she had sensed even the faintest trace of his Cursed Energy or noticed discrepancies in his behavior, he was already at risk. The realization sent a chill down his spine.

A quiet chuckle escaped his lips. "Didn't think the 'blend into a crowd' trick would actually work."

It was a cheap tactic he had seen in movies. Crowds disrupted patterns, made it difficult for tails to keep track of a single person without drawing attention to themselves. He had gambled.

And it had paid off—this time.

His muscles ached, the exhaustion of the day settling into his bones. His training session had been grueling, but the weight pressing on him wasn't just physical. It was the awareness of what lay ahead.

Still not enough.

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Ethan layed in bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind a whirlpool of fragmented knowledge and speculation. Cursed Energy was an enigma, a force he understood in theory but had no structured training to wield. He had seen it in action in Jujutsu Kaisen, had witnessed its destructive potential, but knowing and doing were vastly different things.

He clenched his fist, focusing on the unfamiliar sensation beneath his skin. It was there, pulsing, waiting. Raw, untamed power. Unlike the controlled, honed abilities of sorcerers like Gojo or Naoya, his Cursed Energy was an undisciplined beast barely held in check.

Yuji Itadori had been trained by Gojo, taught to regulate his output through breathing techniques and mental focus. Ethan had no Gojo.

How had Yuji started? He remembered the first lessons. Cursed Energy was driven by emotions. Positive emotions did nothing—only negative emotions fueled its power. Fear, anger, hatred, frustration. All of it could be refined into a weapon.

Ethan exhaled, trying to summon a feeling strong enough to shape his energy. He thought of Koneko's watchful gaze. The fear of discovery. Nothing.

He thought of Issei. Of the power that boy would eventually wield. Still nothing.

Then he thought of the void.

The silence. The helplessness. The endless waiting.

His stomach twisted. His hands curled into fists. A sharp, electric tingle ran through his skin, like static before a lightning strike. Yes. That fear. That was real.

He latched onto the sensation, trying to guide it, but it slipped through his grasp like smoke, vanishing before he could wield it. Not enough control.

He growled in frustration. Naoya had been trained since birth. He had knowledge. Structure.

Ethan had nothing but trial and error.

And time was running out, but then the realization struck like a bolt of lightning.

Issei was 16.

Ethan sat up, heart pounding. Issei Hyoudou was 17 when the events of High School DxD truly began. That meant Ethan had one year.

One year before the supernatural world swallowed Issei whole. One year before the town became a battlefield of devils, fallen angels, and gods.

One year to turn from a weak side character into someone who could survive.

The air in his room felt suffocating. He was running out of time before he had even started.

One year seemed like a long time—until he considered how little progress he had made. His Projection Sorcery was flawed. His Cursed Energy was unrefined. He had no allies, no training, no solid foundation to build from.

He needed a plan.

But first, he needed sleep.

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Sleep did not come easily. And when it did, it was not kind.

He was floating again.

Weightless. Empty. Nowhere.

There was no air, no sound, no warmth. No sense of self. Just an awareness of existence without meaning. Suspended. Waiting.

Ethan tried to move. His mind willed his limbs to respond, but there was nothing. No body. No sensation.

Panic. The creeping realization that he was stuck. That he was nowhere. That there was no time, no escape, no future. Only waiting.

A flicker of light.

A sound—distant, echoing, yet hollow.

Then pain. A sudden, crushing force against his entire being. Impact. A memory of the truck. The split-second of agony before oblivion. The moment of death. Then—

Nothing.

Ethan gasped awake, lungs heaving, his skin clammy with cold sweat. His heart thundered against his ribs as he gripped the sheets, grounding himself in reality.

Still here. Still alive.

His breath was ragged, uneven. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to shove the remnants of the dream into the deepest corner of his mind. But the fear lingered. The memory of the void never truly faded.

Reincarnation had seemed like an opportunity, a chance to escape the monotony of his old life. But he had already died once.

And if he wasn't strong enough?

He would die again.

And this time, there would be no second chances.

Ethan clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. His Cursed Energy flared instinctively, reacting to his fear and frustration, but still, he couldn't control it. Not yet.

But he would.

He had to.

With a deep breath, he forced himself to focus. Training would resume tomorrow. He would find a way to master his power, to refine his skills. The old Motohama would have been a footnote in history, a joke character destined for irrelevance.

Ethan refused that fate.

He would make this life his own.

He would never return to the void.

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Ethan woke up with a start, his body drenched in sweat, the remnants of the nightmare still clinging to the edges of his mind. The void. The endless nothingness. The sheer, suffocating weight of it. His breathing was uneven, his pulse hammering in his ears.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, trying to steady himself. The fear was still there, simmering beneath his skin like a wound that refused to close. The weight of his new reality pressed down on him harder than before. One year. That was all he had before the supernatural chaos of High School DxD truly began.

Never again.

His fists clenched involuntarily, a flicker of Cursed Energy sparking to life before vanishing just as quickly. He needed to train.

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Ethan moved through his morning routine with a new sense of purpose. He showered, dressed, and gathered his things, but his mind was elsewhere. He had spent too much time playing it safe, trying to blend in. That had worked before, but it wouldn't be enough. He needed to be more than just unnoticed. He needed to be prepared.

As he grabbed his bag, he hesitated for a moment before making a quick detour. There were things he needed—training supplies, books on martial arts, and any reference material he could get his hands on. He didn't have a mentor, but he had determination, and that would have to be enough.

His thoughts churned as he made his way to school. He barely registered the conversations of Matsuda and Issei as they joked around. His focus was singular. Time to stop stalling.

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After school, Ethan found himself retracing his steps to the abandoned lot. The secluded, debris-filled space was as good a training ground as he could find without drawing unwanted attention. The fences were rusted, the pavement cracked, but that didn't matter. Here, he could push himself.

He dropped his bag onto the ground and took a deep breath. Cursed Energy first.

Closing his eyes, he focused inward, trying to summon the same sensation he had felt last night. The fear. The void. The desperation.

It was like trying to cup water in his hands. The energy flickered, unsteady, slipping through his grasp. He exhaled sharply, frustration bubbling to the surface. Control. He needed control.

Yuji Itadori had used emotion to harness his energy, but Gojo had drilled the importance of steady, constant output. Positive emotions were useless. Negative emotions fueled Cursed Energy.

Ethan latched onto his frustration, the feeling of helplessness he had known in the void, the creeping dread of his approaching deadline.

A pulse of energy flared to life.

It was raw, unfocused, but it was progress. He held onto it as long as he could before it flickered out again. Better, but not enough.

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Ethan flexed his fingers, feeling the weight of his own body, the way his limbs moved, the strain in his muscles. Projection Sorcery wasn't just about speed—it was about control.

Projection Sorcery divided one second into twenty-four frames, allowing the user to lock their movements into those frames and execute them instantly. The problem was, once a path was set, it couldn't be adjusted. A single miscalculation could freeze him in place, leaving him vulnerable.

He took a stance, focusing on a simple movement—stepping forward.

One frame at a time.

He moved—

1 FPS.

A shudder ran through him as his body struggled to match the unnatural rhythm.

3 FPS.

The sensation was jarring, like his limbs were skipping frames in a low-quality video.

5 FPS.

He stumbled, his foot catching on an uneven patch of pavement. The loss of balance sent him sprawling onto the ground, the impact jarring his bones.

Gritting his teeth, he pushed himself up. Again.

He repeated the process, each time adjusting, refining, learning. The strain on his body was immense. His breath came in ragged bursts, sweat dripping from his forehead.

But he was improving.

At 10 FPS, his steps were smoother. At 15 FPS, his speed was unnatural, his body moving in bursts that defied normal perception. He could feel the acceleration building, but his body could only take so much.

His mind wandered to Naoya Zenin. The man had used this technique effortlessly, like a second nature. His movements had been fluid, efficient, terrifyingly fast. Ethan was nowhere near that level, but he was beginning to understand the mechanics. Build momentum. Refine precision. Never let a mistake trap you.

After an hour, he collapsed onto the ground, his limbs screaming in protest. This wasn't just about training his Cursed Energy. His body needed to keep up.

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As the sun began to set, Ethan leaned against a rusted metal beam, catching his breath. His mind wandered back to the realization from last night. One year.

One year before the world would shift. Before Issei's journey began. Before everything spiraled into chaos.

His hands curled into fists. One year to prepare.

It wasn't enough time. But he would make it enough.

He glanced at the darkening sky, determination hardening in his chest.

Survival wasn't guaranteed. Strength wasn't a luxury—it was a necessity.

He pushed off the beam, grabbed his bag, and made his way home. Training would continue tomorrow. There was no room for hesitation anymore.

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Ethan staggered as he reached his front door, the weight of exhaustion clinging to his every step. His limbs ached, his clothes clung to his sweat-drenched skin, and his mind reeled from the strain of today's training. Pushing his body beyond its natural limits was a necessity, but he was quickly realizing how taxing it was.

He leaned against the doorframe for a moment, steadying his breath before finally stepping inside. The moment he shut the door behind him, he collapsed onto the floor, his back pressing against the wood as he exhaled deeply. Every fiber of his being screamed for rest, but he wasn't done yet.

He couldn't afford to be.

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The rusted lot had become his second home, a training ground where his failures piled up like the debris scattered across the pavement. Yet, with each stumble, each failed execution, progress carved its way into his movements.

Projection Sorcery wasn't just a matter of speed—it was a mastery of time. A second wasn't just a second anymore; it was twenty-four frames of precise movement, each one demanding absolute commitment.

Ethan wiped the sweat from his brow, steadying himself. His muscles burned from overuse, but he ignored the pain. His body would adapt, or it would break.

He took a step.

1 FPS. His foot lifted slightly off the ground, his body weight shifting. A minuscule adjustment, but one that demanded his complete focus.

3 FPS. His foot was mid-air, his body's center of gravity already calculating the next step.

5 FPS. The shift in motion felt unnatural, disjointed, like his body was fighting against a force it couldn't comprehend. But he refused to stumble again.

10 FPS. He could feel it now—momentum, efficiency, precision. It was coming together. He stepped forward again, faster this time.

15 FPS. His acceleration spiked, the world blurring slightly at the edges. He moved in short, sharp bursts, unnatural yet controlled.

20 FPS. The familiar click of time locking into place filled his mind. He could sense the acceleration compounding, but his body struggled to handle the increasing speed.

24 FPS.

Then he was flying.

The world snapped into crisp, frozen moments. His body glided forward as if propelled by an unseen force. It was exhilarating. It was terrifying. He barely managed to stop himself before crashing into a rusted metal container.

A deep, shaky breath left him. He dropped to his knees, his lungs burning for oxygen.

It's working.

The realization sent a thrill through him, but it was immediately overshadowed by frustration. Naoya had done this effortlessly. For Ethan, it took everything he had just to maintain it for a few seconds.

Not enough.

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If Projection Sorcery was a test of precision, then Cursed Energy was a test of endurance. His previous attempts at harnessing it had been wild, uncontrolled, and entirely dependent on his emotions. That wasn't enough. He needed constant, steady output. Not wild bursts.

Gojo had taught Yuji the concept of keeping Cursed Energy flowing at all times, like a steady heartbeat. Ethan needed to do the same.

He sat cross-legged on the pavement, closing his eyes. He focused on the core of his being, the pulse of energy buried deep within him.

The void crept at the edges of his consciousness, a chilling reminder of what awaited if he failed. He wasn't going back.

The fear ignited something within him.

A faint hum of energy spread through his limbs, flickering and unstable. He tried to hold onto it, mold it, but it sputtered out after a few seconds. His fingers twitched. He tried again.

Cursed Energy should be like breathing.

Breathe in. Control.

Breathe out. Sustain.

The energy sparked again, lasting a fraction of a second longer than before.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

The energy lingered, wrapping around his arms like static electricity. He could feel it pulsing, no longer a chaotic surge but something more stable. Not perfect. Not even close.

But it was progress.

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Ethan had learned two things today.

One: He could maintain Projection Sorcery at higher speeds, but his body was struggling to keep up.

Two: His Cursed Energy control was improving, but at a rate far too slow for his liking.

Time was not on his side.

He had to push harder, train longer. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized something terrifying.

Even if he mastered his abilities, even if he trained every day, would it be enough?

This world was cruel. The supernatural forces at play were beyond anything an ordinary human could fight. Even with Projection Sorcery, even with Cursed Energy, he was still a weakling in comparison.

He wasn't Rias Gremory. He wasn't Vali Lucifer. He wasn't even close to Issei's eventual strength.

A heavy weight settled in his gut. He needed more than just training.

He needed an advantage.

But where the hell was he supposed to find one?

The realization gnawed at him as he packed up his things and made his way home. The night air was crisp, cool against his overheated skin, but it did little to ease the storm brewing in his mind.

There had to be a way.

There was always a way.

He just had to find it.

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Ethan trudged home, each step dragging with exhaustion, but his mind refused to rest. His body screamed for relief, muscles burning from the relentless training session, but his thoughts churned, restless and unsatisfied. Progress. It was there, tangible yet frustratingly slow. Projection Sorcery had potential—he had glimpsed it, felt the way time itself seemed to bend under its influence—but the technique was demanding, both mentally and physically. Every attempt at refining it left him drained, and despite his best efforts, he was barely scraping the surface of what it could do.

And then there was Cursed Energy.

He could feel it now, lingering under his skin, a pulse of untapped potential, but calling upon it felt like trying to grip smoke. He could generate a flicker, a spark—but it wasn't enough. Not yet.

As he turned onto his street, the distant hum of the city felt eerily distant, his own heartbeat drowning out the sounds around him. The air was crisp, cool against his overheated skin, but even that failed to soothe him. He had to do more.

Ethan barely acknowledged the act of unlocking the door before stepping inside. He kicked off his shoes and leaned against the wall, exhaling deeply. He let the exhaustion hit him all at once, body sagging against the wooden frame. The rational part of him screamed that he needed rest. His muscles demanded it, his mind pleaded for it, but the fear gnawing at his gut overpowered every ounce of common sense.

He had one year.

One year before the supernatural world fully unfolded, before devils, fallen angels, and literal gods would walk into Issei Hyoudou's life and reshape reality. One year to survive.

He slid down the wall, resting his forearms against his knees. His fingers twitched, instinctively trying to grasp something—Cursed Energy, Projection Sorcery, anything. He hated the helplessness, the feeling of standing at the base of an impossible mountain with no clear path upward. Training alone wouldn't be enough. He needed knowledge.

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The next morning, Ethan found himself in the quietest corner of the school library, hunched over a pile of books ranging from human anatomy to reaction speed drills. They weren't perfect—he wasn't about to find a How to Master Projection Sorcery manual in a high school library—but understanding his body, reaction times, and movement efficiency was a start. The human body had limits. He needed to break them.

Flipping through the pages of a book on biomechanics, he traced the diagrams of muscle contractions, absorbing information with an almost manic focus. Acceleration. Reflex conditioning. The role of fast-twitch muscle fibers. Projection Sorcery was unnatural—it forced the body into movements it wasn't meant to handle. If he didn't condition himself properly, he wouldn't just fail; he'd snap his own bones trying.

But even this wouldn't be enough.

He needed something real—something tied to the supernatural. The knowledge existed, buried within the world of exorcists and sorcerers. But how the hell was he supposed to get access to that?

A thought struck him.

Religious texts.

He had been so focused on martial training that he had overlooked an obvious resource. The supernatural in DxD had deep roots in mythology, theology, and ancient texts. He wouldn't find magic tomes in the school's library, but historical records? Religious studies? There was knowledge to be gained.

Ethan immediately switched focus, scanning the shelves for books on folklore, demonology, and anything that might hint at understanding supernatural forces. He flipped through pages detailing exorcisms, myths of divine protection, even obscure accounts of warriors who fought against demons in ancient Japan.

Most of it was useless. But there were patterns.

Rituals. Symbols. Methods of channeling energy.

Not all of it applied to Cursed Energy, but there were concepts that resonated—mentions of life force, spiritual pressure, manifestations of power through sheer will. Sorcerers in Jujutsu Kaisen wielded their power through refined control, but in DxD, it was more instinctual. Magic, a force shaped by imagination and intent, differed from Cursed Energy in its approach.

But what if he could bridge the gap?

His mind reeled at the implications. If he could refine his Cursed Energy while understanding the principles of magic, would it allow him to expand his potential? Could he learn from both worlds, forging a path no one else had walked?

He needed more information.

And there was one place where he might find it.

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Kuoh Academy's old archive was rarely visited, a relic from when the school had been an all-girls institution before becoming co-ed. It was filled with dust-covered books, some of which likely hadn't been touched in decades. Ethan had only ever been inside once during a class trip, but now it was his best bet.

Slipping inside during lunch, he navigated the dimly lit rows of old shelves, scanning the spines for anything promising. His fingers brushed against ancient bindings, their surfaces rough with age. Most were historical records or classical literature—until he stumbled upon a book discussing old spiritual practices.

It wasn't a tome of lost knowledge, but as he flipped through its pages, he found something that gave him pause. It spoke of energy—not in the way "modern magic" textbooks did, but in terms of spirit, will, and the connection between mind and power.

"To wield forces beyond oneself, one must first master the self. Power does not stem solely from the physical, but from belief, conviction, and the unwavering will to impose reality upon the unreal."

Ethan read the passage twice, then a third time. It wasn't a direct answer to his struggles, but it hinted at something crucial—Cursed Energy wasn't just about brute forcing his will into existence. It was about understanding it, guiding it, making it an extension of himself.

He didn't need the perfect training method.

He needed a better mindset.

Slipping the book back into place, he left the archive, his mind buzzing with possibilities.

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That night, Ethan returned to his training ground, the abandoned lot bathed in moonlight. He steadied his breath, recalling the words he had read earlier.

Cursed Energy flows from within.

He inhaled, reaching inward, beyond his muscles, beyond his heartbeat. The fear of the void still lingered, a shadow at the edge of his consciousness. He didn't fight it this time. He embraced it.

A slow exhale.

The energy flickered to life, no longer an erratic spark but a steady pulse. It wasn't perfect, wasn't refined, but for the first time, it felt natural.

He opened his eyes. The air around him felt heavier, charged with unseen force. A small grin tugged at the corner of his lips.

Now we're getting somewhere.

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