Ronan froze in place, his eyes widening in disbelief. But then, his expression immediately shifted — alert, tense — as he took a single step back.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said flatly.
"Ahh, those generic words… you know what I mean," the man replied with a grin spreading across his face. "And I've seen someone like you before — more often than I'd like."
Ronan retreated another step, his movements careful, his face tightening with growing tension. In an instant, he shot backward using Swift Dash, his body blurring like a shadow swept by the wind, leaving the man dozens of meters behind.
A few people turned to glance, but only briefly. No one cared enough to interfere.
And the man? He remained standing in place, still wearing that faint, signature smile.
---
"Pant! Pant!"
Ronan gasped for air, sweat streaming down his face as he stood far from the House of Wisdom, maybe hundreds of meters away. His heart pounded wildly, his thoughts a chaotic mess. But one thing echoed relentlessly in his mind:
"Bone Breaking. Starflame. How the hell does he know that?!"
He clenched his teeth, his brow furrowing deep in frustration.
That man… he wasn't the one who bumped into him earlier. Ronan remembered — that guy didn't have those sharp, violet eyes. This was someone else.
Someone who knew — about him.
Maybe even his deepest secret.
"Who the hell is he?" he whispered under his breath, lost in his thoughts.
If the man had truly been after him, he would've attacked by now. But instead — he called out the two most secret techniques Ronan possessed.
As if testing his reaction.
His brows drew tight, his jaw clenched, his fists balled so hard the knuckles turned white. Anger boiled in his chest, like his body was a vessel on the verge of bursting.
"Is this just a game to him? Fuck!"
His fist slammed into the wall beside him. The sound echoed, a small crack marking the impact — but the deeper wound was the one unseen, raging inside him.
The feeling of being looked down upon, treated like a puppet — he couldn't stand it!
His gaze remained locked on the grand building in the distance — the House of Wisdom. But a second later, he tore his eyes away.
One deep breath.
One step back.
Days passed. Problems came and went, creeping in like cold, unwelcome mist.
Not that he complained — this was just how the world worked.
But one thing was now carved into his mind: if he wanted to survive, he had to start playing the game differently.
More aggressively. More cleverly.
---
Back to the fourth floor of the House of Wisdom…
THUMP!
A fist smashed into the face of a burly, dark-skinned man. In a flash, his body lifted off the floor, spun midair, then crashed down onto the mat with a heavy thud. His body bounced off the ropes and slammed onto the polished marble surrounding the ring.
The crowd erupted.
"Hey, did you see that?!"
"Shit! He just floored Uzi?!"
"He looks so young… is he from one of the big families?"
Speculation rippled through the air.
Standing at the center of the ring was a young man in his early twenties, with undercut black hair, athletic build, about 190cm.
His eyes burned with wild excitement. On his face was a wide grin — not just cocky, but the expression of someone genuinely savoring every second of the fight.
Lucien Emery.
"Who's next?!" he shouted loudly, his voice echoing off the glass walls, cutting through the noise, drawing gasps and sneers alike.
Some spectators grumbled, some let out awkward laughs.
"Cocky brat, beats one guy and acts all high and mighty!"
"Can someone please knock him down?!"
"He's not gonna last long."
Comments flew through the crowd, but Lucien didn't flinch. His craving for battle only burned hotter.
It had been months since he'd punched anything — and now, he was free to go all out.
The first thing he wanted? A punching bag — human, legal.
In one corner of the chaotic crowd, a young man about Lucien's age stood watching, his dark hair in a warrior cut, a small, mysterious smile playing on his lips. What stood out most — a pair of sharp, violet eyes.
Arms folded, his gaze calm, fixed on the overly confident Lucien challenging anyone who dared.
At that moment, another awakener stepped into the ring — a man in his thirties, dressed in oriental attire, long hair neatly tied back, a thin mustache tracing his upper lip. The moment his foot hit the ring, he dropped into a stance, body fluid like a coiled spring ready to snap — a martial art rooted in the East.
Lucien simply flashed a wide grin. Without waiting for a signal, he shot forward.
A storm of fast, fierce punches battered the man, wild yet precise — like a hail of spears slamming into a shield. The martial artist dodged and parried, but each impact sent tremors through his arms, his face tightening with strain.
But he wasn't the type to fold. His movements shifted, fighting back, and in an instant, the air between them crackled, the tension skyrocketing.
The crowd roared, some spectators rising from their seats. Amazement. Thrill. Gradually, they began to acknowledge: this kid wasn't just cocky — he was the real deal.
The sound of fists colliding filled the arena, like war drums summoning even more eyes to the spectacle. In the ring, the contrast was mesmerizing: the Eastern fighter's fast, disciplined strikes, dancing on nimble feet — Lucien's brutal, feral MMA style, like a beast off its leash.
In one corner, an old man in dark, immaculate attire leaned back in his seat, black sunglasses hiding sharp eyes. His silver hair gleamed under the grand chandelier. Beside him stood a young man, posture stiff, gaze razor-sharp.
As the fight raged on, a faint smile tugged at the old man's lips. He lowered his sunglasses slightly, eyes narrowing.
"Do you see it too? That fighting style… it's so much like theirs," he murmured softly.
The young man shot him a glance, brow furrowed. "Is that possible?"
"Possible, indeed. And if it's true… we can use him," the old man replied, his voice a conspiratorial whisper.
The young man didn't answer, but his eyes sharpened, now fully locked onto Lucien.
And then — both of them flinched. Eyes widening.
Inside the ring, Lucien gripped his opponent's wrist, hoisting him halfway off the ground, and with a feral grin, slammed an open palm against the man's chest.
BANG!
The sound cracked through the crowd, a ripple tearing through the air. For a split second behind the man's back, an illusion flickered — like a soul being torn from its body.
The man collapsed, hitting the floor hard, eyes wide and vacant before they fluttered shut. Out cold.
Silence.
Everyone froze.
Then —
An explosion of cheers, deafening, sweeping across the room.
"Yo! What the hell was that move?!"
"Was that an illusion, or did I just see his soul fly out?!"
"Who is this guy?! Where the hell did this kid come from?!"
Speculation and excitement swirled, but one thing was certain — no one was underestimating him anymore. They were curious. They were challenged.
The old man's faint smile deepened, barely concealing his growing excitement. The young man beside him leaned in, eyes gleaming, whispering, "No doubt about it. He's mastered it. We can use him!"
The old man only offered a thin smile, his gaze sharpening, fixed solely on Lucien.
The arena staff quickly dragged the limp fighter out of the ring, leaving Lucien standing alone at the center, breathing steady, his wide grin unfading.
"Who's next?!" he roared, his voice slicing through the wild cheers, stirring a surge of anticipation. His eyes burned — hungry, restless — clearly addicted to the fight.
Among the crowd, some people shifted uneasily. Lucien had already proven himself — now only those with real guts would dare step up.
A massive man, nearly seven feet tall, barrel-chested, finally climbed into the ring. The crowd erupted once again.
"You think you can toss me around like the last guy?" he sneered, eyes narrowing sharply.
Lucien gave a small, crooked grin. A second later — he launched forward.
The fight flared, the crowd howled. But it didn't last five minutes before the giant was hurled out of the ring, crashing onto the polished marble, unconscious.
The fourth floor was now packed wall to wall. People pressed around the arena, abandoning everything else to witness this wild young fighter knock down challenger after challenger.
In the corner, the old man in sunglasses looked more and more captivated, his thin smile deepening.
"We need to approach him," the young man beside him murmured.
The old man gave a slow nod. "Let's see… how this ends."
Scene after scene flashed by. Challenger after challenger climbed into the ring — only to be flung out by Lucien's raw, brutal strength. The cheers rolled like waves, some spectators now cheering for Lucien, while others grew annoyed at this unknown rookie upsetting the balance.
The veterans, even those in the top thirty, now watched with serious eyes.
Amid the crowd, a plainly dressed man — the same one who had spoken to Ronan earlier — stood calmly. The roaring cheers seemed not to touch him. His gaze was cold, composed, watching.
"HAHAHAHA! NEXT!!" Lucien bellowed, throwing his arm up, his grin never fading.
This time, silence.
No one stepped forward.
Most of the crowd opted to stay back, content to watch rather than become the next human punching bag. They'd seen enough of tonight's beatdown parade.
But then —
Someone stepped into the ring.
A young man, roughly Lucien's age, moving with calm, light strides, without a hint of hesitation. An odd air surrounded him — quiet, but unmistakably striking.
Most in the crowd barely glanced, dismissing him, assuming he'd end up just like the others.
But the man never looked around, never cared for the eyes on him.
He only looked straight ahead.
Here, he was a stranger — no one knew him, or his true self.
Rowan Varlaine, from House Varlaine.