Strongest Side-Character System: Please don't steal the spotlight

While still seated, Vonjo's hands gripped the steering wheel of the Van. 

The engine had cooled, but his blood had not. 

It wasn't the bullet comments flooding the interface that had roused his anger—not exactly. 

It wasn't the fact that they'd casually thrown his name into some wild fantasy of fighting a legendary teacher like Lorthran. 

It wasn't even their gall, their mocking undertone masked beneath jest and disbelief.

No. It was something deeper. Something stitched into the marrow of Vonjo's very existence even from his past life as an Earthling. 

This… personality of his. 

It was the core of all his misfortunes—this volatile, unreasoning compulsion to prove the unprovable, to do the undoable, especially when someone didn't mean to provoke him. 

There was a twisted, absurd logic to it. 

If someone mocked him intentionally, with pointed words or blatant spite, Vonjo could brush it off, his pride unruffled. But the moment someone inadvertently implied he couldn't do something—without even knowing he was listening—that's when the storm stirred.

Vonjo remembered the time in his last life when he had everything laid out. 

A career path smooth as glass. Midshipman. Maritime studies. Top of his class. A prestigious ship had even shown early interest. But then, over drinks, a classmate casually said, "You're good at this stuff, but you don't have the mind for IT. You're more of a sea guy." It wasn't meant to insult. It was practically a compliment. But it burrowed deep into Vonjo's soul like a splinter. Somehow, for some unknown reason, he couldn't get it off his head. 

So, Vonjo dropped out.

Abandoned a future that others would've killed for and jumped headfirst into the black ocean of IT. Coding. Mechanics. None of it made sense to him. He failed—spectacularly. He couldn't even recall basic syntax commands, let alone build something from scratch. He crumbled under the weight of his own defiance. But pride never apologized. He moved on.

Even though he failed, he felt nothing. Like fulfilled. 

Then there was her. The girl who made the sun feel dim. His girlfriend. His perfect girlfriend. Hair so silky it seemed conjured from moonlight, eyes full of warmth and curiosity, a laugh that made the walls lean in just to listen. She told him once, "You love me too much to ever leave me, even if I flirt around. That's how much you trust me, right?"

She didn't mean it. It was a joke.

But that was the point. She didn't mean it.

And so he left her.

Walked out of her life without a word, a trace, or a backward glance. She never knew why, and neither did anyone else. Not really. Because that's who Vonjo was. He wasn't shaped by intentional challenges. He was bent by the weight of accidental provocations.

And now, here he was again.

These bullet comments!

Chickened out? 

Against that Lorthran?

I will show you! 

They didn't know he could read them. They had no clue that their casual comparisons—"He's featless. How can he fight Lorthran?" or "Where's his aura? Has he even blown up an army yet?"—weren't just jabs. They were triggers.

They were the kind of words that drilled into Vonjo's brain and throbbed like a rising tumor.

Why? 

Because they were not intentional! And it's pissing Vonjo off! 

His forehead twitched.

A pulse beneath his skin began to swell.

Meanwhile, Eugene, wide-eyed and brimming with adrenaline, sat beside him like a grateful assistant. He was genuinely moved. 

"Sir Vonjo!" he beamed, bowing with exaggerated respect, "Thank you for even thinking of fighting Teacher Lorthran! May I have your contact number, sir? I'll arrange it! I'll tell him, and then—maybe then—I'll know the truth about what Teacher Lorthran's hiding."

Vonjo didn't answer. Not yet.

Instead, he took Eugene's phone with steady, silent hands and typed in his number without complaints or comments. 

Why? Because his mind, however, was somewhere else. It was boiling hot! He wanted to prove these cunts that he's the strongest! 

Eugene clutched the device to his chest as if it were a holy relic. "Thank you, thank you! This is going to be amazing!" he said, and then he crouched to lift his unconscious father George again.

Vonjo remained on the seat, face darkening, body still. The comments kept streaming past his vision.

"Vonjo needs to show some feats first."

"Lorthran blasted a demon general in Chapter 109. What does Vonjo have?"

"There's no feat from him yet. We haven't seen anything spectacular! We only saw him fighting two low-level Sutterfouse descendants."

"Yeah! Too low! He's not yet worthy to face the Lightning Emperor Lorthran!"

The blood vessels on Vonjo's forehead began to protrude visibly now, like angry veins carved into stone. His teeth clenched. His breath came slower, deeper, like a predator measuring its prey. His temple bulged. It throbbed. 

Each syllable from the comments made it worse, inflating the pressure like a balloon inside his skull.

"Maybe if he destroys an army or releases some red aura of combat, we'll believe him."

"Where's your Feat, strongest Vonjo?"

"Yeah, you're not the strongest, you don't have a worthy feat yet!" 

A shadow dropped across his eyes.

Then—he snapped.

"WAIT, KID!" Vonjo's voice cut through the quiet like a blade.

Eugene froze, already halfway to the hospital's sliding glass doors, George slumped over his back.

Vonjo stood up slowly, a dark figure emerging from a static frame, the final breath before a storm.

"Come here, kid," he said. "Leave your father."

Eugene turned, confused. "But... he's unconscious."

"I said, leave him."

"But—why would I—"

Vonjo didn't explain. He stepped off the Van, boots hitting the ground like war drums. The wind caught his coat as he strode forward, not towards Eugene, but towards someone else entirely—a figure hunched over a broom, wearing a neon vest and dragging a metal dustpan.

An unassuming street sweeper.

The man didn't even notice him at first.

"Hey. You," Vonjo called out.

The sweeper turned, annoyed, wiping sweat from his brow. "Huh?"

"Take that man inside the hospital."

The sweeper's brows furrowed. "What? Who are you to order me around? I ain't no dog—"

Vonjo raised his pinky.

That was all.

Just his pinky finger, lifted slowly, steady and confidently.

And then—it happened.

A faint hum crackled in the air, like a storm cloud forming from thin air. 

A sickly red glow gathered around Vonjo's pinky, coiling like a living flame, thickening with power until it became a writhing serpent of curse energy.

The street sweeper gasped.

"Wha—what? That glow—! That's—!"

His voice dropped to a whisper as the color drained from his face.

"Crimson Doom… Bloodline Ability… That's a main blood. A main blood?!"

The air grew dense. The curse aura seeped into the ground, crawling like red moss, staining even the shadows. The street sweeper's knees locked. His instincts screamed.

This man—Vonjo—wasn't just important.

He was dangerous.

He was someone who should not be disobeyed.

The sweeper saluted with comical speed, his fear drowning any trace of pride.

"Y-Yes sir!" he stammered, already moving. "Let me take care of him!"

He rushed to Eugene, who still stood in frozen awe, and carefully eased George from his arms.

Vonjo said nothing more.

But inside, the balloon in his skull stopped growing. The pressure released—just a little.

His lips curled, not into a smile, but something sharper.

There were more comments to answer.

And he would.

With action.

"Come kid! We have a lot of crashing to do!"