NOVEL WEB Chapter 231: Destroy The Cursed (48)
When the Usurper skill first activated, it wasn't because Ronan willed it—he hadn't even known he possessed such a power.
No, the skill awakened on its own, and that single miracle was the only reason he managed to kill Buster… the only reason he even survived that battle at all.
The fight against Buster had been nothing but despair. Ronan had been completely outclassed. Strength, speed, durability—Buster had surpassed him in every way.
His body was tough as steel, his strikes lethal enough to split mountains, his movements so fast Ronan couldn't even follow them. Against him, Ronan was weak—pathetically so.
He was on the very brink of death when the system message appeared before his blurred vision. His mind was too hazy to understand what it said, yet his body overflowed with a terrifying new power.
For a brief moment, Ronan felt invincible. Fueled by that strength, he had thrown himself back into the fight— and against all odds, he killed Buster.
But the Usurper skill did not remain. The overwhelming force that had saved him sealed itself away as though it had never been there.
Still, something lingered. The battle had left behind fragments—two distinct abilities stolen from Buster.
The first was a passive skill. This strengthened Ronan's body beyond what he had ever believed possible. His physicality, once only at the peak of human limits, now rivaled Han's own superhuman physique.
Every muscle surged with power, every movement sharper and faster. With Buster's might coursing through him, Ronan had become the second-strongest fighter in the Tryst Guild.
But that wasn't what truly earned him that title. No—the real reason lay in the second ability he had stolen: an active skill.
Unlike the passive one, this skill came with strict conditions before it could be used. Its name was simple—Onslaught—yet its requirements were anything but. To activate it, Ronan had to slay one thousand opponents.
After the desperate battle, the counter had stood at 960 kills. But during the chaos stirred by the Dreadlord's arrival, he had carved down the remaining enemies until the system screen finally flashed:
[Onslaught Counter: 1000/1000]
Now, standing before the towering figure of the Dreadlord, Ronan's eyes glowed with a sharp violet light. Across from him, the Dreadlord's own eyes burned a deep, molten red, like rivers of lava.
The darkness around it writhed violently, surging like wildfire, threatening to consume everything in its path.
"I will tear you apart!" it roared, the voice shaking the battlefield.
Ronan did not flinch. Instead, he raised his blade and spoke calmly.
"Onslaught—activate."
The system screen lit up once more:
[Onslaught Skill Activated]
All attacks deal critical damage.
All critical damage is amplified tenfold.
Immediately after the system message declared the activation, Ronan felt a new kind of power take hold of him. Yet, strangely, it wasn't the same surging flood he had experienced when he first usurped Buster's strength.
This was different — subtler, sharper, and infinitely more lethal. It wasn't about brute force this time. No, this was precision, inevitability.
The feeling was alien, almost unnatural, as though every swing of his blade could now carve a fatal wound, every strike a death sentence.
It was unsettling. But also exhilarating.
And Ronan had no intention of wasting it.
With Onslaught fully awakened, he advanced. His twin blades crossed before him, their edges gleaming faint silver under the flickering dark.
Then, with a single blink, his body blurred — and vanished. In his place, only a floating silver needle remained, glinting coldly in the void.
The Dreadlord's crimson eyes narrowed, glowing ominously as it scanned the battlefield. By now, it had understood Ronan's switching technique.
This was not some trick of speed — it was a transposition, a calculated displacement that allowed him to trade places with the countless silver needles drifting around them.
But the Dreadlord was no mindless brute. Its true terror wasn't in its monstrous strength, its impossible speed, or even its unyielding defense.
What made it dreadful — what had earned it the name "Dreadlord" — was its unmatched battle intellect. It was not merely a warrior; it was a predator, a tactician of flawless instinct and ruthless precision.
It never relied on force alone. It dismantled opponents with method, strategy, and relentless calculation.
And among all the countless foes it had fought, none had been as slippery, as maddeningly elusive, as the human before it.
Ronan wasn't only skilled and disciplined — his accursed switching technique made him a phantom, an opponent who refused to be pinned down.
But now, the Dreadlord had finally devised a counter.
The instant Ronan vanished, exchanging himself with another floating needle, the Dreadlord reacted.
Darkness erupted from its body in a sudden, explosive wave, expanding outward like a devouring tide.
In seconds, the shadows engulfed a radius of more than a hundred meters around them, drowning everything in suffocating black.
For a moment, silence.
Then — its crimson visor burned like twin molten coals. With mechanical precision, the Dreadlord threw its fist to the left.
At its command, a tidal surge of condensed darkness erupted, crashing forward at impossible speed, obliterating everything in its path.
And there was Ronan — materializing just inches from the blast.
His body froze for half a heartbeat. The destructive wave bore down on him with annihilating force.
It should have ended him there, snuffed him out before he could move. That was the trap — the Dreadlord had predicted his reappearance.
But before the torrent could swallow him whole—
Ronan flickered.
Gone again.
In his place, a silver needle hung trembling in the wake of the impact. The darkness struck it, shredding it apart, pulverizing it into nothing before the surge roared past and vanished into the distance.
The Dreadlord's red glow flickered, ever so slightly.
That attack was supposed to stun him. Immobilize him. Leave him wide open for the kill.
Instead, the script had reversed — and for the first time, the Dreadlord itself was the one caught off guard.
"Hey."
A cold, steady voice rang from directly behind it.
The Dreadlord's instincts screamed danger. It twisted instantly, shadows coiling as it prepared to retaliate — only to find not a man, but another drifting silver needle. Its sensors screamed warning a second too late.
Behind it, Ronan stood.
His purple eyes glowed like burning suns in the dark, his twin blades raised high and descending with lethal finality — aimed directly for the Dreadlord's head.
To be continued.....
AUTHOR'S NOTE
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Author's Note
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