Skill-Up: I Level from Everything!-Chapter 26: The Smell of Vengeance

"Don't think you can just walk away, you lowly unawakened bastard," Denny growled. His voice was quiet, yet sharp—like a freshly sharpened knife. "Lucci's waiting for you. But before that... consider this a little keepsake from me."

Ronan didn't respond. No expression. No hesitation. Only cold eyes staring straight ahead.

Without warning, his body lunged forward. He wasn't running from trouble—he was charging straight into it.

Denny and his two friends grinned like hungry hyenas, thinking their prey had just walked into their trap.

What they didn't realize was: they weren't the hunters tonight—they were the prey.

Ronan's first punch landed on Zii's face. A crisp crack echoed through the air, followed by a shocked gasp. Zii's head twisted at an unnatural angle before his body was flung backward, collapsing hard onto the ground. Blood began to pour from his nose and the corners of his mouth.

Denny and the other guy froze. Wide-eyed. Pale. Shock slamming into them like cold water.

"You—how the fu—"

The sentence never finished. Ronan's second punch slammed directly between the friend's eyes. Another sharp crack rang out, and a burst of blood erupted from his nostrils. His body dropped next to Zii's, limp.

One punch. One down.

Fracture Drive. A skill built for bone. And humans are nothing but bone and meat.

No one knew the skill. But Ronan didn't need recognition.

He made it lethal.

Denny stumbled back. His brain scrambled to process what his eyes were seeing. This wasn't the pathetic unawakened he thought he knew. Not a pushover. Not powerless.

All the trash talk—the rumors, the mocking whispers—lies.

All of it.

Fury flared in Denny's chest. He let out a guttural snarl and activated his special ability. A series of snapping sounds accompanied his fingernails elongating and curving into claws—sharp as steel blades.

He pounced toward Ronan, claws slashing through the air with savage speed.

But Ronan merely shifted aside. Effortlessly. Calmly. As if he'd seen the entire move play out before it even happened. His body moved with crisp, deliberate grace.

He had.

Hunter's Sense.

Denny slashed again—and again. His movements grew increasingly wild and erratic. But Ronan remained untouched. He stepped left, then right, sometimes ducking slightly—never wasting a move.

Then, in a single motion, he caught both of Denny's wrists mid-swipe—and locked them in place. Unshakable.

"You! This isn't possible!" Denny spat, eyes wild with disbelief.

Ronan didn't answer. He leaned in.

And drove his forehead into Denny's face like a sledgehammer.

THUD.

Denny reeled. Vision spinning. Balance gone.

But Ronan wasn't done. He stepped in—and the real beating began.

First punch—across the cheek. Second—into the jaw. Third—just below the eye.

Each strike landed with brutal precision, the sound of flesh being pounded filling the air. Blood sprayed. Denny barely had time to raise his arms in defense.

The once-quiet parking lot now rang with the brutal rhythm of fists on flesh. The sickening crack of bone. Ragged breaths. Pained groans.

His two friends, still conscious on the ground, didn't move. They pretended to be out cold. Neither had the courage to step in. Neither wanted to feel what Denny was feeling now.

Thump!

The final blow sent a tooth flying from Denny's mouth, landing somewhere nearby with a faint, pitiful clink. His body slumped to the ground—eyes glazed, breath rasping. Barely conscious.

Ronan stood over him, breathing steady. The fury was gone—replaced by something colder, quieter.

Satisfaction.

Then, like a whisper from the night before, the memory of the mysterious man popped up in his mind, "Yeah, sometimes life really is a cliché. And you just have to live through it," he said.

He crouched, slipped a hand into Denny's pocket, and pulled out his wallet.

Two hundred dollars.

"Compensation," he said. Voice flat. Detached. As if explaining a math equation.

Denny didn't reply. Couldn't.

He lay there—beaten, broken, humiliated. All that swagger crushed beneath the weight of his own shattered pride.

And Ronan walked away. No glance back. No last words.

Just the silence of an empty lot, and three broken teens who would never forget the name Ronan.

---

One hour later...

Ronan's apartment was small—modest, but immaculately clean. On the narrow dining table sat a simple lunch: crisped bacon, a soft-centered omelet, and warm baked beans. The smell was rich, savory, comforting. But Ronan barely touched it.

He ate slowly, distracted—his eyes fixed on the glowing screen of his phone.

Social media feeds. News articles. Trending threads.

He was looking for one name: Lucci Blackwell.

The golden boy of the Blackwell family. His face dominated every feed, every local headline. A prodigy. Class-S awakened. Young, charming, disarmingly handsome—and predictably, worshipped by the media.

Ronan's thumb scrolled deeper.

Posts about Lucci and the Savage Order. Finishing a D-rank dimensional rift in under a day. Speculation flooded the comments—whether he'd get into an elite academy or be snatched up by a top-ranking order. Probably both.

Then one line made Ronan's jaw tighten.

"Lucci is widely admired for his kindness and philanthropy. Recently, he donated $100,000 toward building homes for retired awakeners."

Ronan exhaled through his nose—dry and sharp.

"Kindness and generosity. What a bullshit," he muttered, voice laced with sarcasm.

He knew the type. Polished smiles. Polite words. And behind it? Entitlement. Arrogance. Power with no weight of consequence.

But not today. Lucci wasn't his concern—yet.

Next name: Denny.

Secara mengejutkan, profil nya mudah ditemukan hanya dengan mengikuti track teman yang terhubung.

To no one's surprise, Denny's online presence was a wrecking ball of ego. Party photos. Late-night rides with his gang. Bottles of whiskey. Fake-deep captions. And the kind of smug selfies that practically begged for attention.

But then, one post made Ronan pause.

A picture—Denny standing proud in front of a sharp-edged, modern home. The caption: "Bought my own house at 18."

Ronan's eyes sharpened, a subtle shift in his gaze—calm, unreadable, but carrying a weight that didn't need words. Something cold. Something final.

---

Elsewhere...

The sun was dipping low over Lincolnville. The school had mostly emptied. Just a few cars remained in the lot.

A black car rolled to a stop beneath a large tree. Inside, Denny sat in the back seat, his head resting against the window. His face was battered and dull. His lips cracked. One cheek was visibly swollen.

In the driver's seat, El—one of his gang mates—glanced at the rearview mirror.

"So, who the hell did this to you? You don't usually end up like this," El asked. His voice was flat, but tinged with curiosity.

"A fucking unawakened named Ronan. Shit! Just thinking about him makes me sick! Lucci's gonna deal with that prick tomorrow," Denny growled, voice hoarse and bitter.

"Never heard of him," El replied.

"Yeah, well, he's a nobody. No skills. No status. Just some pathetic freak." Denny tried to sound smug, but it didn't land. Not with blood crusting his mouth.

El raised an eyebrow. "A nobody did that to you?"

Denny exhaled hard, frustration thick in his breath. "That's what pisses me off."

Silence settled between them again. The engine hummed. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked.

Then El spoke, voice soft but edged with intent. "You know, holding onto hate ain't enough. Sometimes, you gotta let it out. And why wait for Lucci? Your pride's at stake. I doubt Lucci would even care if that Ronan guy just... disappeared."

Denny's head snapped up, eyes wide, realization dawning. "You mean..."

"Yeah. Your ability's perfect for that, right? You can do it tomorrow—or whenever," El said, voice low, deliberate.

Denny said nothing, but the thought was already blooming inside him. Ronan's face burned into his mind—cool, detached, and that last punch that knocked more than just his tooth loose. It cracked his pride. And that was unforgivable. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

Anger. Humiliation. Vengeance.

His breathing grew faster. Eyes sharpened. A storm was building behind those eyes.

'Just you wait, Ronan...'