E-Rank or SSS-Rank: I Awakened a Skill That Shouldn’t Exist

Shae stood above her fallen opponent, chest heaving, blood trickling from a cut on her cheek. For a brief moment, she wanted to pretend it was her superior combat skills, her sharp instincts, or even pure luck that led her to victory—but that would've been a lie. Her fingers curled tighter around the elegant blue blade in her hand, its surface humming with latent energy. She smiled faintly.

"I guess it's because I have a better forge master," she murmured, brushing a strand of blood-streaked hair from her face.

The battle was over—for now. She swept her eyes across the torn battlefield, hoping, praying, for a moment of rest. But her hopes were crushed almost immediately. In the distance, a group of heroes was being overwhelmed by another wave of the beast horde. The ground shook with each stampede of clawed limbs and furious roars. Shae sighed wistfully.

"So much for resting," she muttered before dashing off, her blade gleaming as she moved like a streak of blue lightning toward the chaos.

---

Meanwhile, elsewhere on the blood-soaked field, Bron stood tall—or at least tried to. His body was covered in bruises, gashes, and armor torn apart like wet paper. His breathing was heavy, ragged, but his eyes—those burning red eyes—were still sharp, manic, and locked onto the twin nightmares responsible for his state: the Red Vanguards.

Facing one of them was already a death sentence. Two? That was a descent into a living nightmare.

"Why don't you two just… stand down," Bron growled through gritted teeth, his massive energy-forged fists slamming into the ground with explosive force.

But just like the last dozen times, they were already gone—gone before his strike landed, moving with terrifying speed. In the blink of an eye, they were behind him again. Twin daggers flashed like crimson fangs, stabbing into the exposed gaps in his battered armor. His wide back screamed in agony, torn open by the precision of their blows.

Bron roared, staggering but not falling. Through the storm of pain clouding his senses, he lashed out again with his white gauntlet. The strike connected. The sheer force sent both Vanguards flying backward, crashing into the dirt like meteors. His summoned energy fists followed instantly, slamming down with brutal finality—but once again, they vanished.

Their speed was unnatural.

They were dancing around him, zig-zagging, weaving chaos in every step, but something had changed.

They didn't notice it at first. They were too focused on their rhythm, their flow, their perfect deadly pattern. But Bron… he was smiling. Not the wild, rage-fueled grin of a brute—but a slow, deliberate, almost cunning grin.

The Red Vanguards didn't realize they'd already made their final mistake.

Bron clenched one of his gauntleted fists. Instantly, both assassins halted mid-dash—not because something held them back, but because their skill suddenly deactivated.

They stared at each other in confusion… then in horror.

Both of their hands were now encased in white cubic energy—identical, crystalline, and pulsing ominously.

"What… what is this?" one muttered.

Bron took a slow step forward, his bloodied figure looming like a ghost risen from hell itself.

"Did you really think I wouldn't figure out the flaw in your precious ability?" he asked, his voice calm and mocking, his hand raised.

The twins flinched.

They didn't need proof. The proof was already gripping their hands—an energy trap constructed by the very gauntlet they'd been dodging. Bron had predicted their movements, understood the pattern of their skill, and corrupted it.

The Red Vanguards were infamous—nearly unstoppable in their unity. Their skill demanded that they stay close to one another at all times. But the condition? They must never touch. Contact between them would force a system reset, deactivating their combined abilities entirely.

It had taken them months—years even—to master the art of fighting side-by-side, staying within inches of one another without ever colliding. Their precision was legendary. Together, they had ruined countless lives, torn through teams, and left only corpses in their wake.

But now?

They were caught in their own web. Their greatest weapon had been turned into their downfall.

Bron laughed lowly.

"I didn't need to match your speed… I just needed you close enough. You beat yourself the moment you got confident."

But the red vanguard twins didn't immediately panic. Despite their hands being trapped in the glowing white cube Bron had conjured, they didn't feel an overwhelming sense of danger—at least, not at first.

After all, they had already destroyed one of Bron's massive white gauntlets earlier in the battle. The second one, they assumed, must have been the one that entrapped their hands. So by their logic, he had no more left.

That assumption died quickly.

Their confident expressions darkened when they looked up.

Hovering above Bron was a third massive white energy fist—completely intact, humming with power, and poised to strike.

Their eyes widened in disbelief. Where did that third white energy formed hand come from?!

They had no time to think.

Bron didn't offer explanations. He didn't smirk or taunt.

With a grim expression and the fury of battle still burning in his veins, he brought down the third white fist with meteoric force. The glowing white fist slammed down directly onto the trapped twins, crushing them beneath its colossal weight.

There was no time for them to scream. No time to dodge.

They died instantly—flattened in a heartbeat.

The battlefield trembled from the impact. Energy rippled across the land, and debris shot into the sky. As the dust settled, Bron stood still for a moment, shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath. Then, without ceremony, he dropped to one knee and slumped onto the ground, exhausted.

His entire body throbbed with pain. His armor was shredded. Bruises covered nearly every visible inch of skin, and the strain from using three simultaneous energy hands had taken its toll.

But he was alive.

And more importantly—he had won.

Bron scanned the battlefield. The chaos had slowed—beasts were retreating or dead, and the enemy forces seemed scattered.

But he knew this was just a momentary calm.

The true elites of the enemy army had yet to appear. The real storm hadn't begun.

"I need healing," he muttered, forcing himself to his feet. "Can't afford to rest… not yet."

He limped toward the medical tents, but his mind drifted—I wonder how Shae and Shin are holding up…

---

Meanwhile…

Shin was in hell.

He had been dodging relentless waves of red-hot flame for what felt like hours. Hundreds upon hundreds of fireballs rained down on him like meteor showers, each blast capable of melting steel and tearing through solid earth.

Were it not for his incredible nimbleness and the defensive barriers formed by his spirit-forged arrows, he would've been ash by now.

But even Shin knew he couldn't keep this up for long.

His breath was heavy, his legs aching. His fingers trembled each time he notched an arrow. And worst of all, his energy reserves were rapidly draining. Each shot took more out of him than the last, and his supply was dangerously close to running dry.

If something didn't change soon, he was going to die.

Desperate, Shin made a move.

He retreated to the rear of the battlefield, using the fallen bodies of giant beast creatures to form a crude barricade. Then, taking a deep breath, he stepped out from cover—directly into the firestorm.

Hundreds of fireballs bore down on him.

With teeth clenched and heart pounding, Shin drew his obsidian bow once more.

This time, he formed a single arrow—just one.

It shimmered pink at first, but then something strange happened. The color began to shift.

From pink to deep pink…

From deep pink to light violet…

Then dark purple…

Then a swirling, ominous obsidian hue that shimmered like molten void.

It was no ordinary arrow—it was something born of desperation, of resolve, of raw precision.

His hand trembled as he took aim.

Then—he fired.

The arrow screamed through the air like a divine judgment, tearing a path through the flaming barrage. Shin rolled and leaped, dodging as many fireballs as he could, but a few still clipped him—burning into his side and shoulder. He grunted in pain but forced himself onward, refusing to collapse.

Then came the explosion.

His arrow hit.

It pierced straight through the flames guarding the red vanguard warrior and detonated with an ethereal blast.

When the smoke cleared… she was dead.

A gaping hole had been blasted clean through her abdomen. Her eyes remained wide in disbelief, even in death.

Shin collapsed to one knee, panting hard.

"That one… was tough," he muttered, glancing around in case more enemies approached.

But for the moment, all was still.

What Shin wanted now more than anything was to rest—to heal, to recover some of his drained energy. The battle was far from over, but this brief silence was a blessing he wouldn't waste.

Still clutching his bow, Shin dragged himself behind the beast barricade, allowing his body to fall against it as his vision blurred.

Just a moment… just a little moment… to breathe.

Meanwhile, at the far end of the battlefield—far from where Shin was still locked in combat—the ground was already soaked in blood.

Kneeling amidst the carnage was the once-proud leader of the Red Vanguard, his armor cracked and leaking crimson from countless wounds. His breath came in ragged gasps, his body trembling, barely able to stay upright.

Standing over him was Ronan—calm, composed, and unyielding.

His Eye of Precision still glowed with an icy brilliance, locked onto the man's every movement. The battle hadn't lasted long. Not because the Red Vanguard leader was weak—no, he was a warrior of fearsome repute—but because he had faced someone born to cut through deception.

The Red Vanguard had relied on turning invisible, weaving in and out of sight to strike from shadows. But that skill was utterly useless against Ronan's Eye of Precision, which could see through illusions, pinpoint weaknesses, and expose even the smallest flaw.

And Ronan? He needed no second chance.

With flawless mastery of swordsmanship and calculated grace, Ronan had dismantled his opponent's defense, each strike purposeful, every slash targeting a vital point. It had been surgical. Brutal. Unstoppable.

Now, the Red Vanguard leader could barely lift his gaze.

"You damn bastard…" he spat blood, glaring through bloodshot eyes. "You really think this means anything? Killing me? Killing us?"

He coughed violently, blood splattering the ground in front of him. Still, his voice rose in a fevered crescendo, madness dancing in his eyes.

"You don't understand a damn thing! It won't matter! You can't win! The moment the Dark Emissaries join this war… you'll all wish you had died earlier! You won't even live long enough to regret this mistake!"

Then he threw his head back and let out a shrill, maniacal laugh—broken, unhinged, defiant even in death's shadow.

"Do you hear me?!" he roared toward the skies. "All of you will die here! Every. Last. One!"

But the next moment, his head rolled from his shoulders—cleanly severed.

His body crumpled to the ground in a heavy thud.

Ronan stood silently, expression untouched by the madman's final curse. His sword glinted in the fading light, red droplets sliding off the blade. His glowing eyes narrowed.

"You think we came here just to kill foot soldiers?" Ronan muttered coldly, voice like tempered steel. "We're not here for mercy. We're not here to negotiate."

He turned slightly, casting his gaze toward the smoke-wreathed horizon.

"We're here to wipe you out—every cursed soul, every elite standing behind them."

His grip tightened on the bloodied hilt.

"At the end of this war… it won't be the cursed who remain."

A gust of wind blew past him, carrying the scent of blood and fire.

"They'll fall."

He began walking forward, unwavering.

"I, along with the rest… will make sure of that."

TO BE CONTINUED.....

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