Skill-Up: I Level from Everything!-Chapter 28: Boxing Club

[Successfully eliminated Human Realm Awakener – Level 3]

[Skill Points Gained: +11]

The life of a human—an Awakener—was worth only eleven measly skill points. Was it fair? Definitely, for someone like Denny. The world might even be a better place without him.

Ronan stared at Denny's lifeless body sprawled across the floor. No wonder he was so easily dominated—turns out Denny was only a Level 3 in the Human Realm.

He was just Lucci's errand boy, and even Lucci probably wouldn't consider him important.

A slow-burning starflame ignited in Ronan's palm. In an instant, the fire consumed Denny's corpse, reducing it to nothing but the stench of scorched flesh and a pile of ash.

Without sparing another glance, Ronan turned and walked to the back door, his face hidden behind a plain black mask. His steps were light, calculated—careful not to draw the attention of any nearby neighbors.

His sneak was successful.

---

Two hours later. 8:30 PM.

Ronan lounged on his couch, munching on a sandwich he had thrown together himself. His eyes were fixed on the TV, where the local news was airing the latest report.

"A fire broke out at Clover Field 54A, completely consuming a house. The homeowner, Denny Taylor, was found dead in the rubble. The cause of the fire remains unknown..."

Ronan smirked faintly and took the final bite of his sandwich. He didn't expect the news to air this quickly. But in the end... who really cared?

The world was already too preoccupied with the threats from dimensional rifts, Awakener headlines, and chaos far bigger than a single house fire.

Just as he was about to get up, his phone buzzed. The name "Reiner Ziegler" flashed on the screen. Ronan picked up immediately.

"Yo, wasup? You on your way?" he asked.

"That's the thing, man," Reiner's voice was heavy. "I can't make it tonight. My nephew got into an accident. I have to be at the hospital."

Ronan gave a slight nod. "What about the ticket? I can return it tomorrow if it's refundable."

"Keep it. The ticket's yours now. Use it if you want."

"Alright, thanks. Hope your nephew recovers quickly."

"Appreciate it, man."

The call ended.

Ronan stood there for a moment, thinking. But in the end, he decided to go anyway. It wasn't far from his apartment, after all.

---

Outside his apartment.

Ronan walked at a casual pace, carrying only his wallet and dressed in casual clothes. It didn't take long for a taxi to pull up in front of him. This time, not the usual driver.

Without a word, Ronan got in. And the ride began.

---

Heart of Lincolnville — the city's nightlife hub.

Neon lights bathed the streets in a kaleidoscope of color. Loud music throbbed from bars and nightclubs packed tightly along the strip. Laughter, shouting, and roaring engines blended into the chaotic symphony of the city.

But on the fringes, the atmosphere was different.

Still loud. Still brimming with life—but in another way. Wilder. More primal.

A large concrete building stood between old warehouses. No sign. Just noise and the faint red glow leaking from within, marking the place as very much alive.

Inside, hundreds of people crowded around a circular boxing ring with no ropes. The concrete walls were covered in torn posters and bloodstains. Yellow-gold spotlights beamed down on the ring, casting sharp shadows that danced around the crowd.

A thunderous cheer erupted as a burly man was thrown from the ring, leaving behind a hulking, shirtless figure standing tall at the center. His dark brown skin was covered in scars and old wounds.

"Hahaha! Who else wants to try and take me down?! Bring out the next challenger!"

The man's booming voice echoed through the cavernous hall, brimming with pride and confidence.

No one questioned his dominance—he'd been in the ring for over 30 minutes and had taken down 17 fighters already.

And no one didn't know his name: Erik—with brute strength and raw power.

The crowd roared with excitement, cheers filling every corner of the space.

Meanwhile, over at the administration desk, Ronan had just arrived and handed in his ticket. The clerk gave him a quick glance before pulling something from a drawer—a black wristband with golden patterns.

"What's this for?" Ronan asked, puzzled.

Everyone else walked in freely, but he was being handed this?

"VIP pass. You've got special privileges—enter the ring without registration, up to five times. Priority medical access, free drinks, and—" the man gave a small smile, "—the right to jump into the ring straight from the VIP balcony, if you want to make a dramatic entrance."

Ronan raised a brow, surprised to learn the ticket Reiner gave him was a VIP one.

Well, good thing he didn't pass it up.

He walked in with the next group, blending in with the crowd.

---

Inside the arena, it felt like an underground bar—dim, soaked in the strong smell of alcohol, the air thick with cigarette smoke and sweat. The walls were plastered with warnings and graffiti. Most of the crowd were large, rugged men standing shoulder-to-shoulder. There was a betting table in the corner, a bartender pouring drinks nonstop, and a giant screen showing highlights from earlier fights.

Ronan slipped into the masses. His eyes locked on the ring, where Erik—the musclebound man—was facing a new challenger.

Their fists collided with thunderous impact, like hammers striking wood. No magic, no special abilities—just raw hand-to-hand combat, pure muscle and guts.

Ronan found himself impressed. This kind of close combat was exactly his style.

But he had a cheat.

All he had to do was step into the ring—and let everything flow.

Just then, as he was still enjoying the match, a soft pat on his shoulder snapped him back.

Turning, he saw a young man, probably in his late twenties, with medium-length black hair and a calm face. Ronan's gaze dropped to the man's wristband—it was the same as his.

"First time here?" the man asked.

"Yeah," Ronan answered shortly.

"Then come with me. I'll show you what your VIP status gets you."

Ronan hesitated a moment. The guy was direct. But he had successfully piqued his curiosity, so Ronan followed him.

They moved through the crowd, climbing a nearly invisible staircase tucked in the shadows. It led to a circular balcony overlooking the ring. The air was calmer here, with only a few people seated, watching the fight from above.

"From here, you can jump into the ring whenever you want," the man said. "You planning to get in?"

Ronan looked down. "I didn't come here just to watch."

The man smiled and extended a hand. "Name's Kyle. From House Ashbourne."

"Ronan Raylinde."

Kyle nodded, eyes narrowing with recognition. "I thought so. You're Reiner's friend, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Ronan replied with a slight nod. "He couldn't make it—family emergency."

"Yeah, he told me," Kyle said, folding his arms casually. "Said he was sending someone in his place. I figured it was you. But Raylinde, huh? Never heard of that name before."

"Maybe in a few years," Ronan replied casually.

Kyle chuckled. "You're unique, Ronan. You planning to go in next?"

Ronan stepped forward, eyes still fixed on the fight below. It was fierce—pure fists and raw power. The only rule: no special abilities. This was a pure boxing club.

"What about you?" he asked, turning the question on Kyle.

"No. That big guy—Erik—is going down this round," Kyle answered, eyes locked on the ring.

Ronan raised an eyebrow. freeweɓnovel.cøm

"Look there," Kyle said softly, not blinking. "His right arm's slightly higher every time he backs up. That's not a guard position—it's reflex. Old shoulder injury. He's hiding it."

Ronan squinted, analyzing.

"And his opponent," Kyle continued, voice flat but sharp, "he's starting to notice. Every punch now is aimed toward the right—he's forcing Erik to use that arm."

Ronan gave a slow nod. "So?"

Kyle sighed lightly, as if this were a chess game he'd already won five moves ago.

"Two more punches to the right, Erik's going to snap and try to counter. But his arm's too weak—the hit will miss. And when that happens—"

BAM.

Erik swung—air. His punch missed the mark by inches. And with one smooth motion, his opponent spun with the momentum and—

CRACK.

A perfect uppercut slammed into Erik's chin. The massive man lifted off the ground for a split second before crashing down hard, bringing a stunned silence—then a tidal wave of cheers.

Kyle grinned, sipping from a small glass that had appeared in his hand at some point.

"And... checkmate," he murmured. "People think it's about muscles. Half the fight happens in your head."

Ronan looked at him, a little impressed. "You read them like books."

"I don't read them," Kyle said, turning with a sly look. "I write their stories—before they even realize they're just background characters."

Ronan chuckled softly, then glanced back at the ring. Erik still lay there, being carried out by two crew members, while his opponent—a blond man in his mid-thirties—stood tall in victory.

"You want in? All you have to do is jump from here," Kyle said calmly.

"I promise I'll give you an honest evaluation of your performance," he added with a faint smile.

Ronan's gaze shifted from Kyle to the ring. No one else had stepped up yet, and truthfully, he was more than ready.

He leapt over the balcony railing—landing clean in the center of the ring.