"Hmm?" Ronan noticed the pugilist leaping up and fleeing. With a single glance, he knew the man had been faking it.
For a brief mont, ti seed to slow. The battered pugilist, his face sared with dirt and dried blood, pushed himself up from the ground in a sudden, desperate motion. His breath was ragged, each inhale a labored gasp, but there was fire in his eyes—one last chance, a gambler's final bet. Muscles rippled beneath his bruised skin as he sprang toward the nearest alley, hoping shadows would cloak his escape.
The guard, who had remained silent and vigilant in the background, snapped to attention. His eyes widened in surprise but quickly sharpened with resolve. His polished armor clinked softly as he moved, the sunlight catching the worn edges of his chestplate, dulled by countless skirmishes.
Seeing this, he sprang into action, signaling to Ronan with a sharp nod and a pointed gesture. No words were exchanged, but the aning was clear—he would handle it. There was protocol to follow, appearances to uphold. And more importantly, soone had to ensure the pugilist's "safety." With so many corpses littering the quiet side street, accountability would soon beco a pressing matter.
Swish!
The guard unsheathed his sword in one smooth motion, the tal gleaming for a mont before catching the light no longer. He sprinted after the fleeing figure, his boots slamming against the cobblestones, echoing through the otherwise hushed scene. The weight of his armor did not seem to hinder him; it clung close to his fra, enchanted perhaps, or custom-forged for agility. Within seconds, he closed the distance.
They clashed.
Sparks flew as steel t flesh and fist. The sound of heavy impacts rang out like drumbeats, jarring and chaotic. Each movent was laced with lethal intent.
Ronan watched, arms crossed, his posture relaxed but his gaze unwavering. His eyes followed the chaotic exchange with analytical calm, noting every shift in stance, every falter in timing. He had expected a close fight—at the very least, a demonstration of the guard's skill. This was, after all, a captain of Lord Marco's personal security detail.
But it was one-sided.
The pugilist, though wounded and previously feigning unconsciousness, was a storm of fists and montum. Every punch he threw dented the guard's armor, leaving impressions like craters in a once-pristine surface. His form was fluid, honed through years of brutal combat and sheer physical mastery. He moved like a predator unleashed—fast, vicious, and unrelenting.
The guard's sword, elegant and deadly though it was, beca a liability. Ti and again, he swung with precision, only for the blade to be redirected by a hook, deflected by a twist, or outright dodged. The pugilist's fists moved faster, carving through space with practiced rhythm. He read the guard's movents like a book, countering every strike with bone-breaking force.
"The difference between a warrior and a pugilist?" Ronan frowned, shaking his head. His voice was quiet, almost to himself, yet audible in the relative silence. "Close-quarters combat favors shorter weapons."
He had seen this before. The elegance of swordsmanship was often undone by the raw, brutal efficiency of hand-to-hand combatants. Warriors were trained to control distance, to parry and strike from asured stances. Pugilists, on the other hand, thrived in the chaos of proximity. Their bodies were their weapons—unpredictable, versatile, and deadly at such close range.
Within monts, the tide was clear.
The guard's footing faltered. His knees buckled under the weight of another punishing blow to the chest. His breastplate cracked, the enchantnt flickering under the strain. With one final punch, the pugilist shattered the guard's sword, the blade snapping in two with a loud clang, scattering fragnts onto the dusty ground.
The captain dropped to one knee, panting, his eyes wide with pain and disbelief. His pride, much like his weapon, had been broken.
Ronan's expression didn't change. He had already assessed the outco and accepted it. With a tilt of his head, he turned to Frieren, who had been watching in silence, her expression unreadable.
"I'll be right back," Ronan said, his tone casual, as if stepping away for a walk rather than intervening in a life-or-death encounter.
Then, everything shifted.
A powerful aura surged around him. The very air grew heavy, crackling faintly with suppressed energy. Even the light seed to bend slightly, refracting around him as if space itself resisted his presence. Frieren's cloak rustled in the sudden, unnatural breeze.
It was an overwhelming pressure—one that made even the most hardened warrior's instincts scream in alarm. It pressed against the senses, warning that sothing imnse, sothing far beyond ordinary comprehension, had just awakened.
Ronan activated his twenty-tis speed boost. The spell took hold instantly, and the world seed to pause.
A violent gust of wind burst outward from where he stood, scattering debris and lifting a cloud of fine dust into the air. The sound was deafening—a sudden explosion of force and velocity.
Boom!
In the blink of an eye, he vanished from his spot. His figure blurred, then disappeared entirely.
He reappeared a hundred ters away in a blink.
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You can read advance Chapters in my: /Veora
Check out my other story in webnovel,
Its about a guy reincarnating in Kumu Desu Ga, Nani Ka?
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This is the synopsis:
Ryu who died found himself inside of the Great Elroe Labyrinth in an unusual body.
After a few days in the labyrinth, he ran into a certain white spider
being chased by human adventurers.
"SAVE EE!" the spider shouted.
Ryu looked at her and...
...ran in the opposite direction.
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Drop so spirit stones if you like the story ^^
And Reviews ^^
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