NOVEL WEB Chapter 230: Destroy The Cursed (47)
Meanwhile, not far away—
The Dreadknight's crimson eyes flickered erratically inside its visor. It stood frozen, claws buried not into the frail human it thought it had slain, but into something far different. Another armored figure loomed before it, towering and terrible, its silhouette crowned with six jagged arms instead of four.
The Dreadlord himself.
For the first time, the Dreadknight hesitated. Its claws—so sharp they could rend steel—had failed to pierce the Dreadlord's black armor. Instead, it was its own body that suffered. The Dreadlord's gauntleted hands ripped through its chest with horrifying ease, bursting out the other side.
The Dreadknight jerked in disbelief. Just moments ago, it had lunged for Kael, victory certain. It had even felt the strike connect. Yet somehow… impossibly… its claws had been redirected.
Realization dawned like a nightmare
The Dreadlord's eyes flared with barely restrained fury, glowing hotter than molten fire. His grip tightened, tearing the Dreadknight apart with one brutal motion. Metal screeched. Flesh split. In moments, nothing remained but a crumpled husks.
The human. That cursed, cunning human. He had used some sort of strange technique—switching places with his prey using that silver needle.
The Dreadlord had not impaled Ronan. It had impaled one of its own underlings.
The Dreadlord turned slowly, his gaze burning like a scar across the battlefield. His presence warped the air itself, rippling and distorting reality as if the world itself could not bear his wrath.
His visor glowed like a crimson inferno, scouring the field for the one who dared make a fool of him.
But he didn't have to search for long.
Standing just a few meters away, his short black hair tousled by the wind, was a young man.
In each hand, he held a blade—one long , thin and elegant, its edge pulsing with a radiant violet light, the other broad and heavy, exuding the quiet hum of restrained destruction. Both were weapons of perfect precision and merciless death.
His eyes burned with the same deep violet glow as his swords. Calm. Unshaken. Dangerous.
Ronan.
He stood there as though the chaos around him didn't matter, his gaze steady, his aura suffocating in its own way. He tilted his head slightly, his voice cutting the silence with chilling composure.
"Well," Ronan said, his tone more observational than mocking, "you really are a terrible leader, if I say so myself. Letting your subordinates die is one thing… but killing them with your own hands? That's something else entirely."
He paused, his lips curving ever so slightly.
"I almost feel pity for that poor fool."
There was no mockery in his voice. No arrogance. Just cold, damning fact. And somehow, that stung more than mockery ever could.
The confidence in Ronan's words struck deeper than any blade. It wasn't loud, it wasn't arrogant—it was maddeningly calm. And that calmness was what enraged the Dreadlord most.
Why?
Because, for a fleeting, unbearable moment, it almost made sense.
The Dreadlord's mind recoiled at the thought. Nonsense. Utter nonsense. This human was nothing but a plague, a blight that had wormed its way into his plans, tearing down everything he had built.
A nuisance. A threat. A shadow that refused to be extinguished.
And yet… the way Ronan spoke forced the Dreadlord to acknowledge him.
The Dreadlord's voice rumbled like thunder as it growled, "I will tear you apart. From head to toe. Piece by piece, until nothing of you remains."
Its killing intent poured outward like a storm, black and suffocating. The ground cracked beneath the sheer weight of it, the air quivered, and even distant warriors who had survived this long found their knees buckling, unable to withstand the pressure.
But Ronan?
Ronan's gaze remained blank. Neutral. As if he stood in a summer breeze rather than inside the suffocating malice of an ancient terror. The Dreadlord's fury was not enough to make him flinch.
When the declaration ended, Ronan tilted his head slightly. Then, in the same low, calm voice, he spoke—his words deliberate, his tone steady.
"You know what I think?" He crossed his blades in front of him with unhurried precision. "I think I'm the one who's going to rip you apart from head to toe."
It wasn't arrogance. It wasn't boast.
It was certainty.
By now, the clash between Ronan and the Dreadlord had stretched into hours—two unstoppable forces locked in brutal stalemate.
Neither had yielded, neither had been overwhelmed. But now, the tides were shifting.
Ronan's eyes narrowed as his attention shifted—not to the battlefield, not to his opponent, but to the translucent blue system screen that blinked faintly before him.
Stats. Quests. Tabs. Familiar panels.
But it wasn't those that caught his attention.
His gaze locked on something new.
A tab that had, until now, remained grayed out and inaccessible. One that carried a name drenched in foreboding weight—
[Usurped Skills]
The tab opened with a sharp chime, revealing a single entry.
One skill.
Its name blazed across the screen like a scar.
[Onslaught]
And just beneath it… the counter.
Lives Taken: 1000/1000 — Skill Ready.
For the first time in their battle, Ronan's lips curved—not in mockery, not in pity, but in something far colder. A smile of inevitability.
The system's prompt flared:
> Do you wish to activate [Onslaught]?
Ronan's fingers tightened around his swords. His violet gaze burned brighter, reflecting the answer before he even gave it.
"…Accept."
The moment the word left his lips, the battlefield itself seemed to shudder. A surge of raw, violent energy rippled outward, warping the very air.
Power—unfathomable, suffocating, and merciless—erupted from Ronan's body, like the wrath of a thousand slain lives channeled into one vessel.
The Onslaught had begun.
To be continued.....
Here is the chap guys don't forget to vote and comments.
Here is the chap guys don't forget to vote and comments.
Here is the chap guys don't forget to vote and comments.
Author's Note –
Hey legends, Ultra here ✨
First off, I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who's been reading, supporting, commenting, and sticking with this novel.
Honestly, you guys are the reason I can sit down every day and pour these chapters out with so much joy—it feels like we're on this journey together.
Now, I rarely ask for things directly, but this one's important. We're so close to hitting my MGS (Minimum Guarantee Support) target for this month, and I need just a few thousand coins more to reach it.
That's why I'm humbly asking—if you enjoy the story, if you've been having fun with Ronan's journey, and if you have some spare coins lying around, please consider sending a gift.
Even a single gift of 1k coins or more makes a huge difference. It pushes the novel forward, keeps it visible, and most importantly, helps me keep writing at this pace.
But let me make this clear—this is totally up to you. Gifts are always out of free will, never obligation. Whether you gift or not, your presence here means the world to me.
The deadline is tomorrow, so if you'd like to help out, now's the perfect time. Every little bit counts, and together we can smash this goal.
Thank you in advance to everyone who supports—and to everyone who just reads, comments, and shares their thoughts. You're all part of this journey.
With gratitude,
Ultra