Chapter 105: Slap Of Reality

Chapter 105: Slap Of RealityChapter 105:The Truth About "Almighty"

Three figures clashed fiercely against five opponents, and though they were outnumbered, their dominance was undeniable. The trio’s blows hit harder, their movement sharper. They weren’t entirely suppressing the five, but they were clearly in control—each strike inflicting more damage than they received.

Suddenly, one of the trio launched himself into the sky. Spiral ripples of energy surged around him like a vortex, crackling with power. The five combatants below stiffened in fear—this move had devastated them earlier.

"Deploy the barrier!" one of them yelled, panic thick in his voice.

Two defenders surged forward, raising a glowing shield of interwoven force. The skyborne fighter didn’t hesitate. With a thunderous roar, he rocketed downward. The very air scattered as his body tore through it, pressure rippling in all directions.

He slammed into the barrier.

At first, it held firm.

Then it shuddered violently.

Cracks webbed across its surface.

And with a final, deafening snap—it shattered.

The defenders were flung like ragdolls, crashing into the ground with bone-jarring force, their unconscious bodies carving craters into the earth. Just like that, the five had become three.



Three versus three.

Fair in number, perhaps. But in strength? Not even close.

Before, the five had barely held on. Now, hopelessness set in. Still, the remaining fighters gritted their teeth, determined to go down swinging.

They didn’t surrender.

They got thrashed.

Within minutes, it was over. The defeated group lay groaning on the battlefield, their gear cracked, pride bruised. Only the tournament’s strict no-kill rule had saved their lives.

The victors turned to leave, planning to rest and recover before seeking another fight.

Then—it happened.

The trio’s leader—the powerhouse who had shattered the barrier—collapsed.

No warning. No struggle. He simply dropped, unconscious.

The other two spun around in shock.

"What the—!?"

Before they could react, the second fighter dropped as well.

The last man standing immediately backed away, raising his guard. There was no way this was a coincidence. Someone—something—had done this.

A voice emerged, calm and chilling.

"You’re not exactly the sharpest bunch, are you?"

From thin air, a figure materialized.

A man with short black hair streaked with a subtle blue hue stepped forward as if peeling away from the void itself.

The lone fighter’s face went pale.

He recognized him instantly.

The Stealth King.

One of the legendary A6. An assassin skill type so deadly, his presence was rarely felt until it was far too late.

So he was the one who took them down... and we didn’t even sense him? Not once? the fighter thought, heart pounding.

Now he understood the title.

"Stepping out like this," the fighter said, trying to stay calm, "you’ve lost your advantage. Sneak attacks are your specialty, aren’t they?"

Balor—the infamous Stealth King—smiled faintly. He reached into the void and pulled out two beautifully crafted daggers, their edges glinting ominously.

"Let’s find out," he said coolly. "Show me what makes you so confident."

The fighter didn’t wait. His twin green gauntlets blazed with power as he exploded forward at breathtaking speed.

He struck.


But Balor moved like water.

Effortless. Fluid.

He sidestepped and countered in the same motion.

The dagger came fast.

The fighter blocked with his gauntlets just in time—but the impact sent him skidding backward, his boots carving lines into the arena floor.

His arms trembled.

That was just a casual thrust... how is it this strong?

It must be the power of those daggers, the fighter thought grimly. If he keeps using them, I don’t stand a chance...

Knowing he couldn’t win in a weapon-based fight, he decided to gamble.

"If you’re truly worthy of being called one of the A6," the man called out, forcing a cocky grin, "then face me without weapons. Just fists. Let’s see who comes out on top when it’s a fair fight!"

To make his point, he removed his green gauntlets and dropped them to the ground with a metallic clink. His knuckles cracked as he raised his fists.

It was a risky bluff—after all, Balor wasn’t known for brute strength. He was an assassin skill type, a ghost in the shadows. Surely he’d refuse.

But to his surprise—and slight dread—Balor simply smiled.

He slid his daggers back into the void without hesitation.

No words. No hesitation. Just pure, unnerving confidence.

He’s seriously going along with it? Perfect, the fighter thought. This is my chance to humiliate him! Just wait till I tell everyone I beat the Stealth King in hand-to-hand combat!

With a wild battle cry, he lunged forward, fist cocked and ready to strike—

BAM.

His fist never connected.

But his cheek stung like it had been kissed by a freight train.

He staggered back, confused. What just hit me? I didn’t even see him move!

Gritting his teeth, he charged again.

BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.

This time, he saw it—barely.

Balor’s hand moved in a blur, slapping him repeatedly across the face like a disciplinary parent dealing with a stubborn child.



His cheeks puffed. His head spun.

"H...h...how?" he stuttered, stumbling. How is he this fast?! And why does it hurt so much!?

BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM. BAM.

The final barrage came mercilessly. His knees gave out, and he dropped to the ground, face swollen and twitching. His lips were numb. His pride—shattered.

Balor tilted his head.

"Now, be a good boy and hand them over."

The beaten man couldn’t even form words. His soul had already surrendered. With trembling hands, he reached into his pouch and pulled out their group’s shards—then, with what little dignity he had left, crushed it himself.

Balor gave a small satisfied nod.

"Good choice."

BAM.

The final slap came like punctuation. The man flopped to the ground, out cold—face puffed and purple, mouth hanging open.

Most people underestimated Balor’s hand-to-hand combat. They thought he was weak without stealth or weapons. That illusion only lasted until they faced him with their fists—and regretted it deeply.

Only one person Balor would never dare fight barehanded:

His sister.

"That little freak’s terrifying," Balor muttered to himself with a sigh. "I’ve only taken out about two hundred people since the tournament started. She’s probably doubling that for fun."

With that, he disappeared once more—melting into the void like a shadow at dusk.

---

Meanwhile...

Elsewhere on the battlefield...

A massive, burly man stood frozen, unmoving.

His expression contorted with so many emotions—shock, awe, confusion—it was impossible to tell what he was feeling.

This was none other than Almighty, a top contender, feared by most.

And yet, he didn’t flinch because of the battle in front of him.

No—his heart pounded violently for a different reason entirely.

Two large teams—one of twenty, the other eighteen—were locked in an all-out war. Techniques, abilities, and elemental surges lit the sky like a storm. The ground shook from their impact. Screams echoed, clashes roared, and still neither side relented.

But it wasn’t the ferocity of their combat that made Almighty pause.

It was the destruction.

Entire chunks of terrain had vanished. Craters the size of houses littered the field. Trees were turned to ash. Energy ripples distorted the air, making it shimmer with heat and chaos.

What the hell kind of monsters are in this tournament...? he wondered.

They were probably B-rankers—maybe even A-rankers.

That kind of opponent wasn’t someone he’d ever consider facing. Not in a million years.

Sure, people hailed him as Almighty—some even whispered that he was strong enough to rival S-rankers.

But the truth?

He wasn’t even close.

He was just lucky. Always had been.

Whenever a monster horde was wiped out, he’d just stumble onto the aftermath. And standing there—usually walking away without a scratch—was that mysterious man with long black hair. He could never fully make out his face, but he knew who it was.

The Gold Walker.

A living legend.

He’d seen him take down hordes of monsters with ease, only to vanish immediately afterward. By the time people arrived, they’d find him—Almighty—sitting atop the monster corpses, exhausted and catching his breath from the shock he felt.

And just like that, a myth was born.

They praised him. Worshipped him. Called him a hero. A savior.

And what did he do?

He collapsed to his knees in terror every time—but they mistook it for divine humility.

At first, it was great. Who wouldn’t want to be adored by the masses? Called greater than even the top heroes?

But as time passed... and the dangers grew...

The cracks began to show.

And now?

Now, he was terrified.

He wasn’t a fighter. At best, he could take down a C-ranker—and even that would leave him half-dead. And yet here he was, in the middle of a battlefield where B-rankers clashed and A-rankers roared.

He had hoped—prayed—that both sides would wipe each other out.

And, to his bitter amusement, that nearly happened.

The group of eighteen was obliterated.

But the other side? They didn’t escape unscathed.

Sixteen of them had fallen too.



That left only four standing.

Four tired, battered, and extremely dangerous enemies.

Almighty’s heart sank.

He had only one option now: sneak away before they noticed him.

He slowly turned—

"Stop right there."

The voice was calm. Cold. And uncomfortably close.

His blood ran cold.

No... not now...

To be continued...

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