Chapter 123: Mental Attacks

Chapter 123

The battle had only lasted a few minutes, but it was already clear who was on the back foot.

Balor stared at the Null with a complicated expression.

To be fair, he had always known there was a high chance he’d lose this fight. But based on everything he had studied and prepared for, he expected to fall after a long, hard battle filled with near-death exchanges—not like this. Not within seconds.

He gritted his teeth.

"No... I can’t go down like this," he thought, his eyes locking onto the Null—who hadn’t even moved since the fight began.

Balor instinctively reached out, trying to summon his dual daggers from the void—then paused.

Nothing.

He’d almost forgotten... the Void was sealed. He couldn’t access it anymore. With no weapons and no ranged tricks left, he did the only thing he could think of.

He charged.

From the crowd’s perspective, it looked like an act of desperation—irrational, even suicidal. Funny enough, Balor agreed. He had already exchanged a few blows with the Null and learned the bitter truth: this was an opponent he couldn’t beat.



But surrender?

No. That wasn’t who he was.

With a sudden sidestep, Balor lunged and launched a spinning kick toward the Null.

The Null calmly raised one hand and caught it mid-air.

Balor didn’t relent. He immediately followed up with a punch from the opposite side—caught again by the Null’s other hand. Without hesitation, Balor twisted his body, using his free leg to break the grip and deliver a savage kick straight to the Null’s face—

But it was like kicking solid steel. His leg trembled from the impact, and the Null’s head didn’t even budge an inch.

"It’s futile," the Null finally spoke, its voice distorted and unnatural.

Then, BAM—a single, swift kick from the Null connected with Balor’s face, launching him across the arena. Blood sprayed from his mouth as he struggled to remain conscious. His body skidded across the ground before he barely managed to stop himself from flying out of the ring. He dropped to one knee, gasping for breath.

The Null still hadn’t moved a single step.

Minutes passed. Balor remained still, catching his breath, pain etched across every line of his face. And yet... behind that pain was something else: respect.

Everyone watching knew—if the Null had followed up with even one more attack while Balor was down, he could’ve ended the fight completely. But he didn’t.

Finally, Balor rose to his feet. The arena held its breath, expecting one final, reckless charge.

Instead, Balor began walking—step by step—toward the Null. Every movement was slow, deliberate, but steady.

And then... he passed him.

"I concede," Balor said quietly, exiting the stage.

The crowd was stunned.

The Stealth King had given up. But the more they thought about it, the more it made sense. He had made the right call—not driven by ego, but clarity. Even the proudest warrior could see there was no way forward. The most shocking part?

The Null hadn’t moved from his starting position the entire match.

Awe.

That was the only word for it.

Moments later, the announcer finally regained his composure and raised his voice.

"And the winner of Match Four... The Null!"

The stadium erupted into thunderous applause. The crowd cheered, buzzed with disbelief and excitement as they recounted what they had just witnessed.

One of the elite A6 had been defeated within minutes—and had even admitted defeat himself.

But perhaps it wasn’t so strange.

After all, he had faced the most enigmatic and terrifying member of the A6...

The Null.

As the arena finally settled from the roaring cheers of the previous match, the announcer’s voice echoed across the stadium once more.

"Now, for Match Five of the Tournament of Power!"

A figure stepped into the stage—and instantly, the crowd erupted into a chorus of boos.

His mere appearance was enough to make even the ugliest person feel beautiful by comparison. His bald head was sparsely decorated with a few stray hairs, oddly clinging to his scalp like they hadn’t realized the war was lost. His face might have passed for average—if not for the grotesquely long tongue that dangled from his mouth, paired with a twisted expression that made onlookers recoil in disgust. A slight hunch in his posture only added to the overall discomfort he radiated.

His sinister grin stretched ear to ear as he waved mockingly at the audience.

It was none other than Ranz the Cruel.

Then, the second participant emerged—and the crowd’s mood did a complete 180.

Cheers exploded from every corner of the stadium, especially from the female spectators. With short, perfectly split white-and-black hair and a calm, composed expression, he walked forward with effortless grace. Every step was smooth, almost rehearsed, as he waved politely to the audience.

This was Han—the Fire God.

While most cheered, a noticeable number of males in the crowd remained quiet, arms folded and faces twisted with barely concealed jealousy. Han had it all—looks, power, charm—and he knew how to carry it.

The announcer’s voice rang out again, louder than before:

"On the right, we have the infamous, merciless ex-assassin—

Ranz the Cruel!"

The crowd booed louder, many throwing insults his way.

"And on the left, the fan-favorite flame wielder—the Fire God himself, Han!"

Applause thundered as spotlights flared on both contestants. The arena filled with murmurs, paparazzi snapping images and commentators hyping the match:

> "They say Ranz once melted a man’s face just for being handsome."

"And Han? His flames are so hot they turned a mountain into glass."

"This is going to be a clash of cruelty and elegance!"

"Let the FIFTH MATCH... BEGIN!"

With a snap of his fingers, the announcer triggered a sharp bang through the arena’s speakers.

The stage was set. The tension rose.

But... neither fighter moved.

Han stood calmly, his eyes relaxed as if waiting for a breeze, not a battle.

Ranz, on the other hand, glared at him with undisguised hatred.

His lips curled back, tongue flicking.

"Pretty, pretty, pretty face..." he muttered, voice dripping with venom.

He loathed beautiful people. Always had. Something about them just enraged him, and in every fight, he made it a mission to disfigure his opponents—make them uglier than he was. And he’d succeeded. Many times.

Now his newest target stood right in front of him.

"I’m going to rip that pretty face right off," he sneered, a grotesque grin splitting his features.

Han, unfazed, raised an eyebrow slightly.

"Just get on with it. I don’t have all day," he said with the kind of calm that made the crowd lean in.

Ranz blinked. Did he hear that right? Was this smug bastard letting him go first?

Perfect.



With a wild shriek, Ranz burst forward, bones protruding from his arms like jagged needles, fingers sharpened into deadly spikes. If he could land even one strike—especially to the head—he could end this.

He lunged.

He struck.

And then—

BAM.

The crowd gasped.

Ranz went flying—launched high into the air like a broken puppet, spinning until he crashed into the metallic floor of the arena with a thunderous clang.

Silence.

Ranz blinked up at the light pouring through the stadium’s open dome, his vision blurred.

"What... just happened?" he thought, stunned.

Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth as he slowly pushed himself up, groaning. He wiped it away and looked across the stage.

There stood Han.

Expression unchanged.

Posture relaxed.

Almost as if he hadn’t moved at all.

Ranz’s fists clenched, his jaw grinding in frustration.

He already knew Han was strong.

What he didn’t know—what chilled him now—was just how strong.

Ranz clenched his fists, frustration boiling beneath his twisted grin.

"I can’t win in a head-on fight," he admitted to himself.

"Not against him. Not like this."

Han was too composed, too powerful. Every strike would be read, countered, dismissed like a child’s tantrum. No—if Ranz wanted to stand a chance, brute force wouldn’t help.

But deception?

That was his domain.

A plan formed in his mind—dirty, underhanded, but effective. And Ranz didn’t care about honor. He never had.

With a sigh, Ranz raised both hands into the air, stepping forward slowly.

"You win," he said with a defeated tone. "You’re too strong for me to handle. There’s no point in continuing."

His shoulders slumped, his face twisted into a bitter, self-deprecating smile.

"Why fight a battle I already know I’ll lose?"

Han observed him in silence for a moment. Then, with a slight nod, he turned his back and began to walk away—accepting what looked like a surrender.

That’s when Ranz struck.

"Hey... look at this," Ranz said.

Han turned slightly, confused.

"What?"

He never saw it coming.

With a sickening sound, jagged bone-spikes burst from Ranz’s fingertips—impaling Han’s head with brutal precision.

The crowd gasped in shock, horror rippling through the arena.

Han staggered, confusion in his eyes as blood trickled down his face.

"What...?" he muttered weakly.

And then—he screamed.

It wasn’t loud, but it was raw. Real. Painful. He dropped to his knees, clutching his head as if something unseen was tearing through his mind.

The crowd erupted in chaos.

"He tricked him!"

"Disqualify that psycho!"

"He said he gave up—this is foul play!"

Even some of the announcers hesitated, voices filled with outrage. But the head official only shook his head.

"He never technically surrendered," he said grimly.

"He chose his words carefully."

In the waiting area, Han’s allies stood up, eyes narrowed and ready. But they held back—because rushing in would mean Han automatically forfeited the match.

Still, their expressions made one thing clear:

If Han truly falls, Ranz won’t leave the arena alive.

Meanwhile, Ranz crouched beside Han, his face filled with twisted delight.

"See?" he whispered. "Power isn’t everything. Tactics... manipulation... that’s how you win."

Han remained motionless, trembling.

"You’re just a child," Ranz sneered. "All that strength, wasted behind a pretty face."

He chuckled darkly. "Let me finish what I started."

Raising his arm, he gathered strength for the final blow—aimed straight at Han’s head.

But it never landed.

Han’s hand shot up, catching Ranz’s strike with a crack that echoed through the air.

Ranz’s eyes widened in disbelief.

"W-What...?"



Han groaned slightly under the pressure, his fingers trembling—but his grip held firm.

And then... he smiled.

"Your mental attack..." Han said softly, rising to his feet. "...wasn’t bad."

Ranz stumbled back, the confidence draining from his face.

"But it was weak."

Han’s expression changed.

Gone was the calm, warm-eyed persona. His gaze sharpened. His blue eyes began to burn—before shifting, slowly and ominously, to a glowing red.

"Let me show you... how a real mental attack feels."

Ranz froze.

Han’s smile twisted—not friendly, not kind. A grin devoid of warmth.

"Eyes of Defiance—activate."

To be continued...