E-Rank or SSS-Rank: I Awakened a Skill That Shouldn't Exist
Chapter 172: Ron Vs The Dark Emissaries

Chapter 172: Ron Vs The Dark Emissaries

Chapter 172

A lone figure streaked through the streets of Velmora, leaping effortlessly from rooftop to rooftop like a blur of motion. His speed was nothing short of incredible—so much so that pedestrians below stopped to gawk, some even snapping photos. Cheers broke out from a few onlookers, mistaking the figure for a hero on a mission.

But the man they were cheering for had no time for celebration.

"Faster... I have to move faster," Ron muttered through clenched teeth, his face grim and filled with urgency. He didn’t spare a glance for the crowd. His eyes were locked on the horizon—toward Serenya, the neighboring city.

Minutes passed, though to Ron they felt like hours. As he approached Serenya’s massive entrance, he skidded to a stop, heart dropping.

The city’s metallic gates were gone—ripped clean off their hinges like paper—and the ground before them was littered with mangled corpses clad in guild uniforms.

Ron’s fists tightened. His eyes darkened.

He entered Serenya.

What greeted him inside was a vision of utter devastation. Buildings lay in ruins, entire blocks reduced to rubble. The streets were stained red, littered with the bodies of fallen heroes. And still, in the distance, explosions echoed—sharp, deafening booms that told him the battle wasn’t over.

He broke into a sprint, pushing his body to its very limits.

When he finally arrived at the scene, the sight made his blood boil.

Nathan and Bron were down—too injured to even crawl—while Laura knelt nearby, clutching her bleeding side. Two figures were closing in. One charged her head-on with a weapon raised high; the other perched atop a crumbling building, preparing to strike from above.

Ron had less than a second to react.

Without hesitation, he hurled his massive warhammer toward the attacker on the rooftop and shot forward like a cannon, his fist aimed squarely at the man charging Laura.

BAM! BAM!

The warhammer crashed into the rooftop figure, sending him flying, while Ron’s punch landed cleanly on the ash-haired man, knocking him off his feet with bone-cracking force. Both enemies were thrown backward, colliding with the ground in twin crashes.

In one fluid motion, Ron reached up and caught his returning warhammer with practiced ease, resting it across his shoulders.

Laura stared at him, tears brimming in her eyes.

"So... you really did come, Ron."

A part of her had hoped he would—but another part hadn’t. He deserved peace. Time with his wife. Time with his unborn child. He’d earned it.

Yet, here he was.

Ron’s gaze shifted to her pale, bloodied face. He growled softly, his voice calm but firm.

"Get Nathan and Bron out of here. I’ll handle the rest."

Laura hesitated. Two dark emissaries... and Ron planned to face them alone?

He was strong—there was no denying that—but this was suicide.

Seeing the doubt in her eyes, Ron smiled.

"Young miss... you can trust me. Thanks to the young master, I’m stronger than you think."

There was no arrogance in his tone. Only quiet confidence.

After a tense moment, Laura nodded. She moved to help Nathan and Bron, but didn’t go far. She couldn’t—not when her instincts screamed that this fight might go horribly wrong. If things turned dire, she’d return.

No matter the cost.

Creak. Creak. BOOM!

A deafening crash shook the earth as a figure rocketed into the sky before slamming down with explosive force. The ground shattered beneath him, forming a crater where his feet landed.

Metallo stood at the center, eyes blazing crimson with unfiltered rage.

"Why can’t you all just give up and die already?" he snarled. "I’ve tolerated your insolence long enough!"

With a growl, he surged forward, charging straight at Ron like a missile.

Ron didn’t flinch.

Instead, he hurled his massive warhammer straight at Metallo. The weapon spun through the air with violent momentum—but Metallo simply sneered.

"Attacking me with a metal weapon? Foolish."

He extended a hand, and the warhammer halted mid-flight, suspended in the air just inches from his face.

"Now suffer for your ignorance," he spat, preparing to redirect the weapon back at Ron.

But before he could strike—

CRACK!

A pressure unlike anything Metallo had felt before descended on him, pinning his body like an invisible mountain. His smirk faltered. His breathing hitched.

"W-What... What is this...?"

Too late.

Ron was already in front of him.

In one seamless move, Ron seized the floating warhammer, spun, and drove it into Metallo’s chest with devastating force. The sound of impact echoed like thunder. Metallo’s eyes widened in agony, and blood erupted from his mouth.

Only his reinforced chest—layered with metallic shields—saved him from having his ribcage turned to dust. Even so, the pain was overwhelming.

Ron didn’t let up.

He followed with a brutal upward swing, slamming the hammer directly into Metallo’s face. There was a sickening crack as the emissary’s head snapped back and his body was hurled across the battlefield like a broken doll. Ron was certain he saw at least two teeth fly through the air.

Still, he didn’t relax.

That blow only worked because of the element of surprise. He knew Metallo wouldn’t fall so easily.

Ron stepped forward, cautiously heading toward the half-destroyed building Metallo had crashed into—but suddenly stopped. His instincts screamed at him.

CLANG!

He swung his hammer just in time to intercept an incoming strike.

BAM!

The force sent his arm jolting back violently, nearly making him stumble. He gritted his teeth, glancing at the warhammer’s surface.

A dent.

Small, but unmistakable.

His warhammer—crafted with peak A-rank materials, nearly unbreakable—had actually dented from that block.

Which meant...

That strike could have crippled him if it landed.

His gaze snapped toward the attacker—and his expression darkened.

The second Dark Emissary had risen.

Aside from a bleeding lip and a trail of blood running from his forehead, he looked virtually unscathed.

Ron barely had a second to process before a massive tremor shook the earth.

BOOOOOOOM!!

He turned, eyes widening.

Metallo was back on his feet—head bowed, fists clenched so tightly veins bulged from his arms. His hands slowly rose to the sky, trembling with fury.

At first, Ron didn’t notice anything strange—until he looked up.

Then he froze.

Above Metallo floated ten massive, spinning metallic spheres. Each one radiated with concentrated destructive energy, enough to flatten city blocks.

"You damned Trysts... you’re like cockroaches. No wonder you drove Drake to his limits," Metallo hissed, finally lifting his head.

His eyes locked on Ron’s.

"You’ve provoked me long enough. Now... let’s see if you can withstand my wrath."

Ron’s jaw clenched. This had escalated far beyond what he expected.

He gripped his warhammer tightly with both hands and exhaled slowly.

"This... is going to be hell."

---

Meanwhile, back in ARC...

The corridor looked like a battlefield from a nightmare.

The walls, ceiling, and floor were torn as if locked in a vicious war. Deep claw marks—each several inches thick—scarred the metal walls, cutting through reinforced steel like it was paper. Anyone seeing the destruction would wonder what kind of beast could leave such a trail.

"Fourteenth Jungle Art: Tiger Punch!"

The shout echoed through the corridor, followed instantly by a thunderous BOOM that shook the entire structure. The ground trembled as a body crashed into it with terrifying force.

Farther down the corridor—several meters from the wreckage—stood the two combatants responsible for the chaos.

One was a young man with perfectly split white-and-black hair. His piercing blue eyes glowed with restrained power, and he exhaled sharply as he tried to steady his breathing.

The other was an older man, kneeling, coughing blood that dripped freely from his lips. His short, wild hair was damp with sweat, and his dark eyes were locked onto the youth in front of him. Crimson scales shimmered faintly across his arms and shoulders, rising with each ragged breath.

"You’re... ridiculously strong," the older man muttered, wiping blood from his chin.

Han didn’t respond.

He had always wondered how he’d fare against an S-rank hero. So far, he’d only fought two.

The first was that red lightning maniac from Cursed—a brutal fight where Han barely came out on top, and the bastard had managed to escape.

The second... was this man in front of him—Bloodreaper.

Crimson Scales, as he had been known before, wasn’t as publicly famous as the other Class S heroes. He rarely appeared in battles or media. Many, including Han, believed him to be lazy or overrated.

But that assumption was dead wrong.

Bloodreaper was the lead executive of ARC, the prison fortress built to hold the most dangerous criminals on the continent. He was the silent blade that ensured nothing ever left this place alive.

Even after landing a powerful blow using multiple Flame Style Jungle Arts, Han felt something off. The battle was tough, sure—but it felt like Bloodreaper wasn’t even going all out.

As if confirming Han’s suspicions, the man casually cracked his knuckles and stood.

"You’re a hell of a fighter," he said calmly, eyes gleaming. "But if you don’t start taking this seriously... you might die."

Han blinked, then gave a half-hearted shrug.

He could guess that Bloodreaper had seen the footage of his fight with the Null—the part where he’d summoned and merged with Ifrit.

Han gave a calm, mocking smirk.

"I’m not the one eating the floor right now, am I?"

Bloodreaper’s eye twitched.

This kid was underestimating him. Big mistake.

A devilish grin split his face.

"Alright then. Blame your luck—and your mouth—for what happens next."

He tore off his upper garment, revealing his scarred torso. Then, without hesitation, he dragged his clawed hands across his own chest, slicing deep into his flesh. Blood gushed from the wounds—but instead of spilling uselessly, the crimson liquid hardened in mid-air.

Han flinched.

"Is he insane—?"

Then his eyes widened in disbelief.

Bloodreaper’s black hair began to turn crimson, deep and dark as fresh blood. The bleeding slowed—but only because the blood itself was transforming. It solidified, creeping across his skin like living armor.

Layer upon layer of thick, blood-forged scales spread across his chest, arms, and neck, until his entire upper body was encased in crimson plating. Only his head remained bare—though his hair now burned like bloodfire. His claws, once white, now gleamed a dangerous red.

The power radiating from him was suffocating.

Han’s instincts screamed. This wasn’t the same man he had been fighting moments ago. This... was something else entirely.

Bloodreaper scoffed and raised one claw, pointing it directly at Han.

"Hold back now, and you won’t even realize how you died."

A sharp grin cut across his face.

"Let me show you why they call me—

Bloodreaper."

---

To Be Continued...

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