Chapter 152: The One He Must Kill

Chapter 150

All his life, Ronan had been haunted by the weight of his past—by the guilt of surviving when others hadn’t. Time and again, he had fled while those he loved were slaughtered by that monster in human form. Even as a child, when survival was the only thing he could manage, he had carried the shame like a curse.

Logic would say it wasn’t his fault. He was just a boy back then—helpless, scared, untrained. But guilt had no time for logic. It had rooted itself deep inside him, festering over the years, growing heavier with every breath.

So when the thought crossed his mind—to run again and let Han deal with Buster—disgust overwhelmed him. The very idea made his stomach churn.

He had spent years—his entire life—training for this one moment. He had endured pain, pushed past his limits, and built his strength for one goal: to kill Buster. Yet here he was, on the verge of turning away again.

No.

Not this time.

Even if it cost him his life... he would see this through.

---

Buster grinned maliciously as his eyes locked onto Ronan. The mask that had altered Ronan’s features was shattered in their last exchange, revealing his true face.

"Well, well," Buster sneered, voice low and taunting. "It’s been a long time, hasn’t it, Steele boy?"



He didn’t know Ronan’s personal name—but he recognized the family name instantly.

Steele.

It was strange. Buster had razed countless cities, butchered families, annihilated guilds. By now, he could barely remember 90% of them. But the Steele family... that name stuck.

Why?

Because they were the only ones he hadn’t attacked by choice. He had been ordered to destroy them—commanded from above. That alone made it... memorable. Special.

He had erased them all—every last member of the Steele bloodline—except for one.

The baby. The only survivor.

And now, that child stood before him as a man, sword drawn, fury in his eyes.

Buster had searched for him, once. When news of the boy’s survival had surfaced, he tried to track him down—but Ronan had vanished like a ghost. Eventually, Buster gave up. What could a ten-year-old possibly do to him?

But now... he regretted not finishing the job.

Because of Ronan, Buster had lost one of his Smashers—one of his top elites. He wouldn’t have cared if Ronan had simply submitted and taken the fallen Smasher’s place—he was clearly stronger than Argon. But Ronan refused. He fought back. Still fighting, even now.

Foolish.

Blinded by revenge.

"Hey, Steele boy," Buster called, leaping down from the broken platform. "What do you say? Join me. Become a Smasher. Maybe then... I’ll consider postponing your death."

Ronan didn’t answer.

He simply lowered his stance.

Ready to charge.

Buster shook his head in amusement. "Tsk. A lost cause," he muttered. "Doesn’t even value his life."

In a blink, Ronan shot forward. His speed had nearly doubled, catching Buster slightly off guard—but only for a moment. Just as Buster prepared to counter, Ronan vanished, leaving behind a streak of silver needles in his wake.

"Severing Strike!" Ronan’s voice rang out as he reappeared in the air behind Buster, his blade cleaving downward at the monster’s exposed neck.

The strike connected. A deep, clean cut tore across Buster’s nape. Blood trickled out—thick, dark red.

It wasn’t life-threatening. Not yet. But it was progress.

Far better than his first attempt.

Without pause, Ronan activated his Switch skill again, instantly warping out of Buster’s striking range, reappearing at a safer distance, blades raised and ready.

Buster touched the shallow wound on his neck, a smear of blood staining his fingers.

He chuckled, half in exasperation, half in amusement.

"You’re really something, aren’t you?" he said, eyes narrowing as he looked toward the distance where Ronan had retreated.

Playing it safe. Smart. But ultimately pointless.

"That won’t save you," Buster muttered—and with a thunderous boom, he launched forward.

In a heartbeat, he covered five kilometers, tearing through the space between them as if it didn’t exist.

He threw a punch—but Ronan had already vanished.

Ronan reappeared behind him, silver needles gleaming in the air. They scattered like stars, floating all around Buster, creating a deadly array. Then Ronan moved—fast. Blindingly fast.

He became a blur, constantly switching positions with the needles, attacking from every angle. Slashes flew like lightning, blades singing with every strike as he poured his fury into each blow.

But just like before... they barely scratched Buster.

Ronan’s brows tightened in frustration. His speed was near-instant. His attack patterns were unpredictable, erratic, relentless. His switching technique created afterimages, illusions—an overwhelming barrage that should have cracked even the toughest defense.

And yet... Buster didn’t even raise a hand.

He just stood there.

Unmoving.

Unbothered.

Unscathed—save for a few shallow cuts.

No pain. No reaction. Nothing.

Then, without warning, Buster’s eyes snapped open—and his fist flew.

CRACK!

The punch landed squarely on Ronan’s right side.

A sickening crunch echoed across the battlefield as the force tore through his body. Blood sprayed in the air as nearly half of Ronan’s torso was obliterated in an instant, reduced to a mangled mess of bone and flesh.

BOOOOOM!



Ronan was sent hurtling backward, smashing through several buildings before slamming into the ground with explosive force, creating a deep crater on impact.

A notification echoed in his mind:

[Fatal Injury Sustained – HP: -180]

[Remaining HP: 120 / 300]

---

Ronan couldn’t process what had happened. His vision blurred. Pain—searing, unbearable pain—ripped through every nerve in his body.

Half of him... was simply gone.

Evaporated.

There was nothing left but blood and ruin. He could barely move. The right half of his chest and shoulder had been shredded to paste. Had that blow landed even slightly to the left—where his heart was—he would be dead.

He gritted his teeth, mind spiraling through agony.

If his body wasn’t at its current prime... he would’ve been killed instantly.

That single realization hit hard. A normal human body wouldn’t have stood a chance. The only reason he was alive was because of the years of pushing his limits, forging himself into something beyond human.

Without hesitation, Ronan reached into his pouch with his remaining arm and swallowed his final Restoration Pill.

Warmth flooded through his veins.

His body began to mend—torn tissue regenerating, muscle reforming, bone snapping back into place. The incinerated half of his torso restructured itself with rapid precision, as if invisible threads were weaving him back together. Blood vessels reconnected, nerves regenerated, skin stitched together at an unnatural pace.

[HP Restored – Full Recovery Initiated]

---

Several minutes passed before Ronan could fully stand again.

He rose slowly, pain dulled but still present, his breath ragged. His eyes locked onto Buster, who had been watching the entire time with a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He looked... entertained.

"Sincerely," Buster said with a laugh, "I thought you were done for. That punch? It was real. One of my better ones. But here you are..."

He tilted his head slightly, eyes gleaming with interest.

"To think a single pill could restore that kind of injury... Only an S-rank healer could pull off that level of regeneration. And you did it with a drug."

His grin widened.

"You’re becoming more and more interesting, Steele boy."

Ronan stared at Buster, a storm of thoughts brewing in his mind.

He’s not even taking this seriously...

The realization made his jaw clench tightly. Rage burned in his chest, but underneath it... was a cold, creeping doubt.

All his life, he had trained like tomorrow didn’t exist—pushing his body to the brink, breaking himself over and over, just to get stronger. He had honed his skills beyond the limits of normal humans, forged himself through pain and obsession, all for this moment. All to face the monster who destroyed everything.

He believed he was ready.

He believed he would win.

But now... those beliefs were unraveling.

If it weren’t for Han—if it weren’t for the skills he’d gained, the system rewards, the enhancements to his body—he would’ve been dead within seconds of facing Buster.

Dead. Instantly.

The thought was sobering, and for a brief moment, Ronan’s focus slipped.

"You shouldn’t zone out in the middle of a fight," came a voice—low, close, and terrifyingly calm.

Ronan’s eyes widened.

Too late.

He had lost track of Buster. His mind had wandered—just for a second—but that second was all it took.

Buster’s fist was already swinging, aimed directly for Ronan’s skull. If it connected, it would be over.

But in that instant, Ronan felt a sudden, powerful drain—his energy surged into his blade, reacting on instinct.

Skill Activated: Iron Instinct.

The blade moved on its own.

With a metallic clang that shook the air, the sword intercepted the punch just before it landed. Ronan was sent flying, crashing into the side of a building with explosive force, denting the stone wall—but he wasn’t broken.

Not this time.

The pain was bearable. He was alive.

Iron Instinct—one of the blade skills he had unlocked from the system as a rare reward—had just saved his life. But it wasn’t a permanent shield. It had a cooldown. A long one.



And once it was gone...

Ronan slowly stood, panting.

The battle had only lasted a few minutes—but in that short span, he had already come closer to death than in his entire life. Without the system... without everything he’d gained recently...

He would’ve died. Multiple times.

And the worst part?

This battle was only just beginning.

If things kept going the way they were...

Then this time, he really would die.

---

To be continued...

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