CHAPTER 120: SWITCH SKILL UNLEASHED

Chapter 119

The Switch Skill was one of the many abilities Han had created during a surge of creativity—right after clearing a series of portals back to back, earning an overwhelming amount of CP.

At the time, Han hadn’t thought much of it. To him, it was a decent skill, maybe worthy of a high B-rank or low A-rank at best. He’d used it a few times, then shelved it—forgetting its true potential.

But now, seeing Ronan wield it on the battlefield, that perspective shattered completely.

Ronan wasn’t just using the Switch Skill—he was mastering it.

With seamless precision, he vanished and reappeared across the stage, constantly swapping places with the countless floating silver needles scattered throughout the arena. These needles, unaffected by gravity, hovered freely in midair—giving Ronan total control over the battlefield. He could strike from any angle, any position, and at any time.

Each time Ronan switched, he appeared behind or beside Argon—always from a blind spot—unleashing devastating combos before vanishing again.

Argon was powerful, no doubt. But even the strongest warrior crumbles under endless, unpredictable assault.

"Thirty Splitting Strike," Ronan declared coldly.

Silver flashed. Blood followed. Cuts danced across Argon’s body like falling petals—sharp, precise, unrelenting.

Argon growled and swung wildly, only to hit empty air—or worse, one of the needles.

"Forty Splitting Strike."

Again, Ronan reappeared, attacking from another impossible angle. Argon howled as another flurry of stinging gashes tore across his flesh. The crowd could no longer cheer or speak. They simply watched, stunned into silence. It was like watching a hurricane toy with a broken tree.

Argon, once an immovable wall, now looked like a lost child in a storm.

If this continued, there was no doubt—Argon would break.

He had been suppressing it—the pain. The pride. The urge to scream. But it was all in vain.

Ronan had kept his Eye of Precision active the entire time, targeting every weak point, every nerve cluster, every location that would inflict the maximum pain.

And that was exactly what he’d been doing.

Argon could no longer hold it in.

He screamed.

An agonized, broken, human scream.

But Ronan didn’t stop.

"Fifty Splitting Strike."

The next cuts were deeper—brutal. Argon’s body jerked violently as blood sprayed across the stage. His cry shook the very arena. It was a sound no one expected to ever hear from someone like him—cold, emotionless, feared. But now?

He was crying in pain, drenched in blood, shivering with rage and humiliation.

The crowd looked on in horror. If there was one thing they knew for certain now, it was this: Argon was experiencing a pain no one ever wanted to feel.

From the viewing seats, Jon wiped sweat from his brow.

It wasn’t Argon’s suffering that unsettled him—it was Ronan’s complete lack of emotion. He fought like a ghost. Cold. Detached. Efficient. Like this wasn’t even worth his attention.

Jon glanced at Ronan’s group—Han, Aiden, Clara, Laura... he’d spoken to many of them. They were cheerful, kind, bright.

And yet this was the kind of person they considered a friend? Ronan looked more like a grim reaper than a warrior.

"I shouldn’t overthink it," Jon told himself, forcing a calming breath as he resumed watching. "My entire analysis of this match was wrong. There’s no doubt about it now... Ronan will win."

After several more minutes of unrelenting torment, it could no longer be called a battle.

Argon collapsed with a heavy thud, unmoving. His body was battered beyond recognition—more blood than flesh.

Ronan silently recalled all of his floating needles, letting them hover back into his orbit with a metallic hum. His gaze swept over Argon’s limp form, then turned coldly to the match referee.

"What are you waiting for?" Ronan asked bluntly. "Announce the result."

The referee blinked, stunned—his brain clearly trying to reboot from the brutality he had just witnessed. After a few seconds, he snapped out of it and raised his hand.

"W-We have our winner!" he shouted, voice cracking slightly. "The Blade Master has shown us overwhelming dominance—this match goes to him!"

But unlike the first match—where victory was met with thunderous applause and cheers—the arena remained eerily silent. The crowd just stared.

They didn’t know what to feel. Respect? Awe? Fear?

Yes, fear. That was the dominant emotion.

Ronan, a teenager barely nineteen, had just dismantled a powerful opponent with the cruelty of a war-hardened veteran. There was no hesitation in his strikes. No mercy. No emotion.

Han noticed the stunned expressions all around and, with a calm smile, began to clap. The sound echoed in the silence. Then Aiden joined, followed by Clara, Laura, and the rest of their group.

Slowly, the arena returned to life as the rest of the audience followed, erupting into loud, uncertain cheers.

But Ronan didn’t acknowledge any of it.

His eyes remained fixed on Argon’s body. He snorted, the only flicker of emotion breaking through his usual blank expression.

He had wanted to kill Argon from the very beginning—the moment he sensed that deep, bone-chilling killing intent radiating from him. But he held back.

He couldn’t kill him outright, not with the match officially over.

To do so would be the same as declaring war on Buster himself, and that would be a foolish move—one no responsible leader would make.

---

Up in the VIP section, Buster leaned forward, his brow deeply furrowed.

He didn’t care about Argon being defeated. No, what troubled him was the brutality with which it was done.

Putting Argon—a proud and deadly warrior—in that state? Making him scream like a child?

Only a handful of elite Smashers could have done that.

"I know him..." Buster muttered, eyes narrowing. "But where?"

---

On the stage, Ronan calmly sheathed his twin blades and turned to leave.

The fight was over. There was nothing left for him here.

But then—

A gasp swept through the crowd, followed by horrified murmurs.

Argon was moving.

His body, covered in deep, bleeding wounds, was somehow forcing itself upright. He looked nothing like the towering, intimidating force he had once been—his posture bent, his face twisted with pain.

But his eyes... were wild with hatred.

"I... will... KILL YOU!!" Argon roared, his voice hoarse but filled with fury.

He began drawing in gravity, pushing his body beyond its limits. His muscles bulged grotesquely, blood dripping from every open wound, almost like it was gushing rather than flowing.

He no longer looked human.

He looked like one of those twisted monsters that emerged from nightmare portals.

And then, with an inhuman scream, he lunged forward—his speed insane, body overflowing with raw, chaotic power.

The crowd screamed in terror.

Argon’s fist shot forward, aiming straight for the back of Ronan’s head.

But just then—a tiny silver flash passed Argon’s shoulder. He paid it no mind.

Only when his punch struck something solid—but not Ronan—did his brain catch up.

It was a needle.

One of Ronan’s needles.

In that instant, Argon’s mind raced.

"He Switched—!"

But it was too late.

Ronan was already behind him.

His eyes glowed a deep, dangerous purple, and his twin swords crossed into an X formation.

"Vibrant Slash."

Schwing!

The blades cut clean through Argon’s neck.

His head fell. His body crumpled.

Argon was dead.

Ronan stood still, eyes cold, watching the body fall like it meant nothing.

He showed no emotion, no satisfaction—just the calmness of someone who had survived too much to react to something so trivial.

Had Ronan hesitated even a second, it would’ve been his head on the floor.

Good thing he didn’t.

Just then, Ronan’s mind processed the gravity of what he’d done.

He had killed Argon.

And Argon wasn’t just a powerful opponent—he was the personal disciple of Buster, one of the most feared Class S Heroes in the world.

In this world, killing someone of Argon’s status wasn’t just a provocation...

It was a declaration of war.

Before Ronan could even think of what to do next—

BOOM!

A deafening explosion shattered the silence as a blinding force erupted from the VIP section. The air cracked, the arena trembled—and Buster moved.

A blur of raw power surged forward like a meteor crashing to earth.

Ronan barely had time to register the attack. His heart skipped a beat.

Buster’s fist was already in front of him.

If that connects... I’m dead.

---

BAMMMMMM!

A violent shockwave exploded outward, shaking the very bones of the audience. Even those seated high above felt the gust of wind whip through their hair.

The crowd squinted into the dust-choked air, eyes wide, breath held.

And then—

Gasps rippled through the arena.

Ronan was still standing.

Alive.

Unscathed.

In front of him stood a young man—his white and black hair flowing in the wind, one arm casually extended. His palm had caught Buster’s fist mid-strike.

His expression was calm.

His glowing blue eyes locked onto Buster’s with icy disdain.

"He’ll die for what he did," Buster said coldly, not even acknowledging the one who stopped him. His gaze pierced through the young man—right at Ronan, who stood behind him, blank-faced and silent.

His voice was calm. Too calm.

Like he was merely stating what he wanted for dinner.

But the young man didn’t flinch.

"You want to kill him?" the young man—Han—asked, voice low and deadly.

"Then you’ll have to go through me first."

---

To be continued...