Chapter 154: True Power Of The Steele

Chapter 154

"What the?!"

Ronan stared blankly at the glowing message in front of him, barely processing the words.

> The power of the Steele has been unlocked.

Skill: Usurper

Rank: ?????

Usurper has been used on your opponent.

Buster’s power has been added to yours.

For a moment, Ronan didn’t move. His face was void of emotion. Just silence—then stillness.

Buster, watching him from a few feet away, smirked. To him, Ronan’s silence was expected. Familiar. Predictable.

Over the centuries, he’d seen this same reaction countless times. Survivors of the lives he’d ruined... all of them burning with vengeance... all of them ending the same way.



Crushed.

He’d break their hope, make them realize the futility of their resistance—then he’d kill them. That despair in their eyes, that delicious surrender—it had become his favorite sight.

He stepped forward, ready to deliver the final blow.

But something was wrong.

Ronan didn’t look hopeless.

He didn’t look afraid.

In fact... he didn’t even look hurt.

Still coated in blood, eyes void of emotion, Ronan began to walk toward Buster—one slow, steady step at a time. There was no staggering this time. No trembling. Just quiet resolve.

Buster frowned.

He launched a heavy punch directly at Ronan’s head. It connected with a sickening bam!—but Ronan didn’t flinch.

He just stood there, unfazed.

Expressionless.

It was as if the punch hadn’t even registered.

Buster’s eyes widened in disbelief.

"What...?"

Ronan calmly reached up and gripped Buster’s still-extended fist.

Then, effortlessly... pulled it away.

Buster tried to yank his arm back—but it didn’t budge. Panic flickered in his eyes. He twisted. Pulled harder. Still nothing.

Ronan glanced down at the trapped fist in his grasp—then, with a sudden SNAP, bent it backward like dry wood.

Crack!

Buster let out a scream of pure agony.

His left arm dangled, broken.

He stared at Ronan now with something unfamiliar in his eyes: fear.

Not fear of pain. Not even fear of death.

But fear of the unknown.

The man standing before him... wasn’t Ronan anymore.

Something else had awakened.

Something terrifying.

Ronan tilted his head slightly, observing Buster like a curious experiment. His HP still hovered at 5—but somehow, he felt unstoppable.

Overwhelming power surged through his veins. And the man who once towered over him like a god... now felt like an insect.

Was he always this weak?

Ronan blinked, the thought drifting through his mind.

Buster, enraged and desperate, threw a right hook—twisting with all the force he could muster.

Ronan caught it. Effortlessly.

Then, in a blur, his own fist shot forward—

—and connected cleanly with Buster’s face.

BAM! FWOOM!

Buster’s body was launched through the air like a ragdoll. He crashed violently into the ground, skidding across the dirt, creating another deep crater with his body.

Before he could even catch his breath—

THUD!

Ronan appeared in front of him in a blur, his palms clapping together as he smashed them directly into Buster’s chest. The impact drove him even deeper into the crater, dust and rubble exploding outward from the force.

Ronan landed softly, his expression cold and unreadable, as he watched Buster struggle to rise.

The battlefield had completely shifted.

Just moments ago, Ronan was on the brink of death, utterly overwhelmed and powerless against Buster’s might. But now...

Now, the hunter had become the hunted.

"How...?" Buster thought, his body trembling. "How did this turn around so completely... in under a minute?!"

No matter how much he racked his brain, no explanation made sense. It was as if the weak had suddenly ascended into godhood—like watching a beggar transform into a deity.

It was absurd. Unreal. Terrifying.

Ronan approached again. Without a word, he grabbed Buster by the throat and lifted him effortlessly off the ground.

Buster clawed at his arm, kicking, gasping for air—but Ronan didn’t even blink. He stood firm, unshakable.

Unmoving.

Unhuman.

Just when it seemed like he’d choke to death—

Ronan dropped him to the ground with a dull thud.

Then he spoke, his voice low, calm, and deadly.

"Killing you like this... would be far too merciful for the suffering you’ve caused."

He extended his bloodstained hand forward. A faint shimmer of light flickered—then a broken blade, jagged and cracked, materialized in his palm. The dirt that once coated his fingers vanished completely.

Buster blinked.

A blade?

He almost laughed.

These blades had barely left a scratch on him earlier. He thought he’d survive again. But then—

FWOOOM. SLASH. SPURT.

Ronan swung the blade in one swift, fluid arc.

A flash of light.

A spray of blood.

THUD.

Buster’s right arm—the only one he had left—fell cleanly to the ground, severed at the shoulder.

There had been no resistance. No struggle. No delay.

Only silence.

Buster froze. His mind refused to accept what had just happened. It had to be an illusion—some kind of mental trick.

"Yes... That’s it. He’s messing with my head..."

But no matter how hard he tried to wake up, nothing changed.

The pain was real.

The blood was real.

Ronan was real.

And he was terrifying.

Buster didn’t move. He couldn’t. His body was paralyzed, not by injury—but by raw, suffocating fear.

Ronan looked at the broken blade in his hand, deep in thought. Then, as if coming to a decision, he raised his gaze to Buster once more.

"I’ve got it," Ronan muttered, barely loud enough—but to Buster, it was the roar of a god.

He stepped closer.

"We’ll play a game."

Buster’s eyes widened.

"A... game?"

Ronan nodded.

"If you win, you live. If you lose..."

He paused, his voice dropping.

"You die."

Buster gulped and nodded quickly. At this point, any chance of survival—even a slim one—was a miracle.

Ronan explained the rules in a calm, collected tone.

"You will run. If you can make it to the edge of this sector and reach the evacuation ship, I’ll let you go. But—"

He raised the blade slightly.

"I will be throwing spears at you the entire time. If even one pierces you..."

He trailed off, letting the silence finish the sentence.

Buster stared at Ronan with narrowed, skeptical eyes.

This didn’t make sense.



He could barely stand, let alone fight. Ronan—whatever he had become—was now leagues above him in power. Buster didn’t know how or why, but one thing was certain:

Ronan could kill him right here, right now.

So why offer him a chance at survival?

It had to be a trick. A sick, twisted game.

Ronan’s face remained blank—calm, expressionless. But beneath that cold stare was a storm of hatred and rage he didn’t let surface. Not yet.

"I won’t give you a third chance, Buster," Ronan said flatly, his voice like ice.

"Run. Run for your life."

That was all Buster needed.

He bolted.

Despite the pain, despite the blood dripping from every wound, he forced his broken body forward, sprinting toward the edge of the city, where the evacuation ships waited.

But his speed had plummeted.

The wounds Ronan had inflicted were deep, and there were so many of them. Every step felt like shards of glass stabbing into his muscles. He wasn’t running like a warrior—he was fleeing like a dying animal.

Ronan slowly reached into his system storage and pulled out a handful of spears—thin, long, and razor-sharp.

He activated Eye of Precision.

His vision shifted—everything slowed. The wind, the dust, Buster’s erratic movements. Ronan locked onto him with mechanical clarity, no motion too fast, no twitch unnoticed.

He hurled the first spear.

It sliced cleanly through the air, cutting deep into Buster’s upper arm.

Blood burst forth.

But Buster didn’t stop. He gritted his teeth and kept running, barely holding onto consciousness.

Ronan didn’t stop either.

One by one, he threw spear after spear—each one guided by terrifying accuracy. Some grazed Buster’s skin, others pierced flesh and muscle, a few buried deep, their ends protruding from the other side.

Buster became a trail of blood. A moving corpse.

Still, he ran.

His breathing was ragged, his vision blurred. Pain roared through his body with every movement, but a flicker of hope—however delusional—pushed him forward.

Ronan watched, eyes cold. A dark chuckle slipped past his lips.

He was always the one running.

From Buster’s flames, Buster’s wrath, Buster’s cruelty.

But not anymore.

Now Buster was running.

Ronan raised another spear and hurled it with a sharp twist. It spun through the air like a drill, embedding itself deep into Buster’s left side with a sickening crunch.

Buster screamed but didn’t stop.

He kept moving.

A broken, bloodied shadow staggering toward salvation. Despair clung to his soul like chains. He knew this was hopeless. But still... he ran.

He had always been the monster. The tormentor. The victor.

Now?

He was prey.

Was this what his victims had felt—this choking dread, this crushing helplessness? Was this the despair they died with on their faces?

He didn’t want to know.

But it was too late.

Ronan stepped forward again, holding four more spears. His body bent low—then with a burst of strength, he leapt into the air, high above the city ruins.

Midair, his eyes locked onto the staggering target.

He hurled them. One. After. Another.

THWACK. THWACK. THWACK. THWACK.

Each spear hit with brutal precision—two into Buster’s shoulders, two into his legs—pinning him down to the cracked stone below like a butterfly on display.

Blood spread like a blooming flower beneath him.

Buster twitched, groaning in agony, and slowly—painfully—lifted his head.

Ronan stood above him.

No fury. No satisfaction.

Just a calm, quiet face.

And that’s what made him monstrous.

"This isn’t how it was supposed to go..." Buster thought.

He was meant to be the one causing pain. The one standing tall at the end.

He was supposed to win.

He was always the victor.

So why...

Why had the roles reversed?

Why was he the one drowning in despair?

Buster stared up at Ronan, barely able to move.

His body was drenched in blood. Pain pulsed through every inch of him. His breaths were shallow, broken, desperate.

But still—he had one question.

"Why...? How...?"

His voice trembled. Not just from pain—but from fear. From confusion. From something he couldn’t understand.

Ronan looked down at him.

He didn’t answer right away.

He just stood there in silence—his eyes fixed on Buster like a judge delivering final judgment. Then, slowly, he raised his half-broken blade and pointed it at Buster’s left chest—right above the heart.

"You shouldn’t have messed with the Steele."

His voice was low, cold.

"Your biggest mistake... was letting me live. Ignoring me. Forgetting I even existed."

Ronan’s grip tightened.

"This—" he said, his tone darkening, "is the true power of the Steele."

And with those final words, he drove the blade through Buster’s heart.

SHLUNK.

Buster’s body jerked.

An explosion of agony ripped through his chest as pure pain consumed him. His mind blurred. His vision dimmed.

He was dying.

And as his consciousness began to slip away, his life—everything he was, everything he did—flashed before him like a cruel dream unraveling.

Once... once he was just a young man.

Curious. Intelligent.

All he ever wanted was to study the awakening process.

He never meant to become a monster.

He never meant for it to end like this—killed by a vengeful child he thought was too weak to matter.

"When... did it all go wrong?" Buster wondered, as the world faded into darkness.

Then—

FLASHBACK – Several Years Ago

The clang of heavy chains echoed through the courtroom.

A much younger Buster—his long black hair tangled and dirty—stood silently at the center of a vast hall. His hands were shackled in thick, rune-bound cuffs that shimmered faintly with containment energy.

His head was lowered.

The atmosphere was suffocating. The crowd stared at him with pure hatred, whispers of disgust slithering through the chamber like venom.

The judge’s voice cut through the silence.

"Brandon Frontier," the name rang through the courtroom.

"You stand accused of orchestrating multiple illegal awakenings, unlicensed soul-binding experiments, and the reckless actions that led to the deaths of yyour so-called friends—as well as dozens of innocent civilians."

Buster didn’t lift his head.

The charges were read, one by one. Each a nail in his coffin.

"Do you refute these accusations?"

Brandon—young Buster—opened his mouth to speak...



...but no words came out.

There was no point. No one would believe him. No one cared what he had to say.

His silence sealed his fate.

The judge nodded grimly.

"Then the court finds you guilty."

A pause.

The final hammer.

"Brandon Frontier—your sentence is death."

And just like that, his fate was set.

His future... stolen.

---

To be continued...