CHAPTER 119: HEAVEN DEFYING SKILL

Chapter 118

Most of the audience had assumed the fight was over the moment Ronan was sent crashing into the stage. The sheer impact left a crater even larger than the one Blazer made. It seemed impossible for anyone to rise after that kind of blow.

But they were wrong.

They had watched Ronan fight with nothing but his fists, holding his ground impressively—so much so, they’d forgotten the most important detail: he was a Blade Master.

Now, standing amidst the dust and ruin, Ronan raised his dual blades in front of him. His once calm, violet eyes now glowed with an intense, almost otherworldly light. The atmosphere shifted.

"Let’s roll," he said calmly—and vanished.

Argon didn’t flinch. Instead, he punched forward, releasing a wave of compressed gravity. The force surged toward Ronan like a collapsing star, threatening to crush anything in its path.

But with sharp, fluid precision, Ronan slashed through the gravitational blast. Though it slowed him for only a heartbeat, he pressed on and closed the gap. His blades sang through the air.

Argon raised his arm to block, but the blade cut clean through his defense, carving a deep wound along his forearm.

Blood sprayed.

The arena went dead silent.

Argon staggered back, pain flashing in his eyes. He looked at Ronan—not with anger, but something else. Shock? Caution? Perhaps even fear.

In one of the VIP booths, a large man leaned forward, eyes narrowing. It was Buster.

Who is he...? the thought lingered in his mind like a fog. There was something oddly familiar about the boy, something he couldn’t quite place. But that wasn’t what bothered him most—it was the fact that Argon, the third toughest body among all the Smashers, had just been wounded.

That was supposed to be impossible.

"Whoa... looks like the Blade Master’s finally showing his fangs," Jay muttered from the sidelines, his voice filled with awe. Having recovered a bit of Qi, he’d witnessed Ronan’s counterattack. That was supposed to be me, he thought bitterly—but even so, a small part of him felt satisfied. Argon was finally getting what he deserved.

"You... You... YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!" Argon roared, veins bulging across his body as his fury exploded. The usually expressionless warrior now looked like a storm ready to tear the sky apart.

Then he vanished.

The crowd gasped. In a blink, Argon’s fist was already at Ronan’s head.

BAM!

But something was wrong. There was no blood. No crunch of bone. No scream.

Argon blinked—he hadn’t punched a face.

He had hit a sword.

A decoy.

Then he felt it—movement behind him.

He turned sharply.

There was Ronan.

One blade in his right hand, a strange metallic sphere in the other. In a swift motion, the metallic object vanished—switched with the blade Argon had just struck.

Now dual-wielding once more, Ronan’s body blurred as he exploded forward with terrifying speed.

Before Argon could react, Ronan was in front of him—blades flashing in a whirlwind of deadly arcs. Cuts appeared across Argon’s body faster than he could process. Deep, brutal gashes opened as red streaks splattered the stage.

By the time Argon could move, his body was already drenched in crimson.

Ronan backed away, blades humming, eyes calm and unreadable.

Argon stood, dazed, swaying slightly.

No one had ever pushed him like this. Not since sparring with Buster—where they were trained to the brink of death. But this? This was humiliation. And worse—this hurt.

He gritted his teeth, eyes turning red with rage.

Argon stood motionless for several seconds, his massive frame trembling slightly—not from fear, but from barely contained rage. Slowly, he raised his head, locking eyes with Ronan. His pupils burned a deep crimson, a fiery testament to his fury.

Since becoming a Smasher, Argon had known few equals. He had rarely been hurt—only Buster, in brutal sparring sessions, had ever pushed him close to the edge. He wasn’t just respected; he was feared. And now... this brat had dared to wound him. Deeply. Repeatedly.

The pain throbbed, pulsing with every heartbeat, and it enraged him.

"I’LL SMASH YOU INTO SMITHEREENS!" Argon roared, his voice shaking the very air.

Muscles bulged grotesquely as he activated a forbidden application of his gravity powers—drawing in atmospheric pressure and compressing it into his body. His physique swelled monstrously, veins erupting like vines across his skin. It was dangerous—reckless even—but the power boost made him feel like a god of destruction.

Jay frowned from his seat in the observation deck. Even from this distance, he could feel the gravity distortions radiating from Argon. The pressure alone was suffocating.

"He’s way tougher than Blazer," Jay muttered. "I would win, but... it would be quite troublesome."

His eyes shifted to Ronan—still calm, still unreadable. Can he handle this...? Jay wondered.

Then Argon moved.

No, exploded forward—faster than anyone expected. His fist blurred through space and collided with Ronan’s head.

Or so he thought.

Argon’s arm pierced clean through—but there was no blood. No resistance. Just... nothing.

A flicker.

Illusion?!

Before the realization could even settle, he felt a shift behind him.

Ronan.

He was already there.

In his right hand was his blade. In his left, a metallic glint. His weapon’s second active skill had triggered, a technique powered by the blood already spilled. Argon had bled far too much, and now he was vulnerable to the weapon’s illusory deception.

Ronan lunged forward, blades aimed straight for Argon’s back.

But something was off.

Shhhnk— the blade barely sank in.

It scraped... shallow.

What?! Ronan’s eyes widened. Argon’s body—once flesh—now felt like reinforced steel. The gravity compression had turned his muscles into armor.

A moment later—

BOOM!

A punch thundered into Ronan’s chest, launching him like a cannonball across the arena.

He crashed, gasping for breath on his knees. If not for the protective enchantments in his clothing, his chest would’ve been a pile of shattered ribs.

Blood trickled from his lip as he rose again.

Still calm.

Still determined.

Without a word, he slammed both blades together at his sides—clang—then reached into his tunic and drew out several thin silver needles.

The crowd murmured, confused.

What’s he doing with needles...?

Then—Fshhh!

He threw them—scattering them across the arena floor like stars across the sky.

He picked up his twin blades again.

And vanished.

In his place—one of the needles.

Argon’s eyes darted, trying to process it. Before he could even turn—

A voice behind him.

"Ten Splitting Strikes."

SHINK–SHINK–SHINK! Ten deep gashes erupted across Argon’s body.

He spun around to retaliate—but hit nothing.

Only another needle.

"Twenty Splitting Strikes."

The voice came from his left.

More cuts bloomed. His own blood sprayed in every direction.

Panic began to creep in.

What’s happening...?!

"Thirty Splitting Strikes."

"Forty—"

Ronan blurred from one point to the next, faster than any teleporter, faster than thought itself. Each strike precise. Each slash brutal. Every time Argon reacted, he was too late. His punches hit nothing but needles.

From the stands, the crowd stared in stunned silence.

Was this teleportation?

No—it was more. Better.

It was as if Ronan was toying with Argon.

Even Argon—the unbreakable, unstoppable wall—was starting to stagger.

His grunts of pain turned into yelps.

His eyes were wild, searching for an answer, for an escape.

It was nothing short of brutal—like watching a predator toy with its prey. Ronan wasn’t just fighting Argon; he was overwhelming him, tormenting him. And Argon, once revered as a monster among men, had begun to let out faint, involuntary cries of pain, completely helpless under the relentless barrage. He couldn’t land a single blow. He couldn’t even catch his breath.

Han watched in stunned silence, his lips curved into a smile that held no joy—only disbelief. He recognized the technique. Switch. A skill he himself had created. Back then, he had dismissed it as a low-tier A-rank ability, nothing extraordinary. But now... now, in Ronan’s hands, it had become something terrifying. Something divine. A weapon that mocked logic and tore through limitations.

"It was no longer just a skill—it had become a heaven-defying ability."

To be continued...

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