SSS Ranked Summoning: I'm An Extra With The Strongest Harem System
Chapter 64: The Pond(3)[Violence]

Chapter 64: The Pond(3)[Violence]

Son smiled—a smile that didn’t belong in a fight. It curled at the corners of his lips like he had already won, like this wasn’t a contest but a formality.

His eyes flicked to the crowd, then to Mikey. That same cocky grin deepened, drawing a quiet murmur from the bystanders.

Then, with theatrical laziness, his gaze shifted back to Mikey.

That was the moment Mikey moved. He dropped into a low stance, his foot sliding back and his fists rising to his face.

His knuckles clenched tightly, protecting his jaw. Then, he released a breath—not just any breath, but a sharp, pressurized puff that escaped through his nose. It was less of a sigh and more of a signal.

"Come at me, son." he muttered under his breath.

Son didn’t need a second invitation. With a thud that echoed through the pit, he launched himself forward. The movement was a blur—too fast, too clean. A single push from his back leg sent him careening forward, and in a flash, he was upon Mikey.

But Mikey was ready.

The first jab came screaming toward his face, a blisteringly fast right aimed for his cheekbone. Mikey’s eyes widened, but his instincts moved quicker. He tried to duck, head tearing downwards, but he could already feel the air pressure from the oncoming blow.

His forearm rose without hesitation, intercepting the punch with a sharp thud.

The crowd gasped.

It wasn’t just the sound of the punch—it was the silence that followed.

A hook came next. Fast. Sharp. Brutal.

Son wasn’t giving Mikey a moment to breathe.

It carved in from the side, clean as a blade, slamming into Mikey’s jaw with a force that turned his entire head. His eyes snapped wide just as his feet left the ground. A sickening crack filled the air—his jaw, unguarded, took the full brunt sending his soaring into the air.

Momentarily, he flew, not far, but far enough for shame to chase him midair.

Mikey hit the ground with a dull, bone-jarring thud, his limbs sprawling awkwardly as a cloud of dust billowed up around him like a shroud. The air held its breath. No one moved. Even the dust seemed reluctant to rise until he did.

Aurora gasped, her hands flying to her lips.

"K....O."

Son muttered the words like punctuation—as if ending a sentence that had always been his to write.

He raised his fist to his mouth, mimicking a smoking gun. A slow, satisfied exhale followed, the imaginary smoke curling around his knuckles. Then he turned.

The pond immediately erupted behind him—cheers exploding like firecrackers. Iron Vipers howled with delight, pounding fists to palms, shaking the barricades.

"That’s how you shut a clown up." A spectator barked.

Son strutted toward his crew, his head high, and his chin tilted.

"Told you it was gonna be easy." Son muttered smugly, already reaching for a cigarette offered by a fellow Iron Viper.

The man lit it with a click—once, twice—until the flame danced in the shadows, casting flickers against Son’s smug expression.

Then—

A groan.

Soft. Barely audible. A gurgle in the dirt.

Son froze.

The cigarette slipped from his lips, tumbling toward the ground, forgotten.

Again—

The groan. Louder. A sound that didn’t belong to the defeated, but to something rising.

Son turned slowly, flickering his eyes to his rear, and there he saw it.

Mikey’s fingers twitched first. Then his arms shifted beneath him, muscles trembling as they tried to lift the weight of his beaten frame.

Blood poured from his nose, dripping down his chin like ink from a cracked bottle. Dirt clung to his cheeks. His jaw hung loose. But his eyes—

His eyes were locked on Son. Fierce. Bright and unyielding.

He pushed up on one knee. Then the other, until finally, he stood.

Wobbling. Shaking. Broken.

But he stood.

A crooked smile pulled at the corner of his face, teeth red with blood, one missing entirely.

"Has anyone ever told you..." he rasped, voice raw, barely holding together,

"you hit like a fucking pussy?"

A stunned silence swallowed the crowd, as their gaze was almost immediately foreshadowed by utter disbelief.

Son stared.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

The cigarette now burned in the dirt.

Slowly, he turned fully, snatching the lighter from his crewmate and extinguishing it without a word.

His eyes never left Mikey’s battered form. Each step forward was quiet. Controlled. But the tension coiled around him like a spring.

"You think the best thing to do right now...." he said, tilting his head with icy amusement.

"....is to provoke me?"

Mikey coughed, spitting a blood drenched spit to the ground and smiled wider.

"There’s a difference between provocation and telling the truth."

In that instance, Son’s smile faded.

"Fine then...Next hit knocks you out." he said flatly.

"After that... you better hope you brought the fourteen grand."

Then he moved.

No warning. Just violence.

He lunged like a weapon set loose—faster than anyone could see. But Mikey had seen it before. Over and over. He’d been there. In the dirt. In the pain. Watching.

’There it is.’ he thought.

’That right jab. Every time, it starts with the right jab.’

Son’s eyes dipped—the same tell. Subtle. Predictable.

Mikey ducked.

The fist soared above his head, catching air.

’Now the hook.’

He raised his left arm, bracing himself for the attack.

The hook came fast and hard—but Mikey met it with his guard. The blow still rattled his bones, his forearm screaming in pain—but he didn’t fall.

Not this time.

He shifted, keeping his chin covered, his stance tighter than before.

But Son adapted in an instant.

A twist of the hip. A step forward. Then—sweep.

Son’s leg lashed out like a whip, catching Mikey’s ankle and yanking the ground out from under him.

Mikey’s body tilted—airborne again, weightless for half a heartbeat.

Then Son’s fist came down like judgment.

A downward hammer blow crashed into Mikey’s face before he hit the floor. His skull smacked against the dirt with a crack so loud, even the crowd flinched.

Blood sprayed.

The arena went still.

Dust rose, slow and ominous, coiling in the air like smoke after an explosion.

Aurora’s hands clenched into fists, her face twisted in horror. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Son stood over Mikey’s motionless body, his chest heaving. His right fist—red. Wet. Dripping.

He waited.

And waited.

Then—

A cough.

Wretched. Wet. Refusing to die.

The body on the ground stirred again.

Mikey jolted, his back arching, his mouth opening in a raw scream muffled by blood. He rolled over, gripping his face, his teeth bared in agony.

Son’s pupils narrowed into pinpricks.

Their eyes met again, although Mikey’s were swollen. Nearly shut. Blood painted his face and his lips were torn.

But he smiled.

A crooked, impossible, defiant grin.

"Didn’t see that coming." he murmured, each word punctuated by a ragged breath.

"You’re good. I’ll give you that. But you’re not going to catch me like that again."

He rose.

Slower. Shakier. But he rose.

Every joint seemed to scream. Every step bled pain. But he stood tall.

"This time, I’m gonna be different," he said, shoulders squared.

"Next time, I—" Right before he could finish his mutter- Son struck again.

A devastating arc of a punch slammed Mikey to the ground like a falling tree. His head cracked against the dirt, eyes rolling.

And Son didn’t stop.

Fist after fist.

Knees. Elbows. Kicks. Stomps.

The viper became a storm of rage, and Mikey was its center.

It wasn’t a fight anymore.

It was punishment.

Son’s fists fell like hammers on flesh and bone. His boots stomped ribs. Blood sprayed the dirt. The crowd screamed. Some begged for more. Others looked away.

Aurora watched with tears in her eyes.

But still, Son didn’t stop.

His fists kept raining down like a savage storm—merciless, unrelenting, fueled by something dark and primal. It wasn’t just about winning anymore. Not about pride, or performance. It was punishment. A message. A brutal erasure of defiance.

Again. And again. Each strike reverberated through the pit like thunder, until even the wild cheers of the crowd began to waver, until silence crept in—unspoken, uneasy.

At last, Son stepped back. His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts, breath rasping through clenched teeth. His knuckles were slick and dripping, a mess of crimson and dust. Blood painted his arms, flecked his jaw, soaked into his shirt.

Before him, Mikey lay still.

Twisted in the dirt. Crumpled like a doll left out in the rain. His limbs sprawled in unnatural angles. His face unrecognizable beneath bruises and blood.

Son sneered.

The adrenaline still buzzed beneath his skin, but it had shifted—no longer sharp and electric, but dull and bitter. He glanced down at his ruined hands, then wiped them clean on his pants with a grimace of disgust, smearing a trail of red across dark fabric.

Without a word, he turned.

One step.

Two.

Three— and then-

Crunch.

The sound was small. Barely louder than a twig breaking.

But it stopped Son cold.

A groan followed—low, broken, but unmistakably human. It curled through the dust like smoke. Haunting. Hollow.

Son didn’t need to turn. He already knew.

But he turned anyway.

And froze.

There—rising from the bloodstained earth, bathed in haze and broken light—was Mikey.

Still alive and moving.

Still goddamn standing.

His body was a wreck. His ribs pushed in at unnatural angles. One eye was completely swollen shut, a pulsing, purple-black mess. Blood matted his hair, trailed down his cheek, soaked through every fiber of his clothes.

Each breath he took looked like it might be his last—shuddering, shallow, strangled.

But he stood.

Somehow.

And slowly... painfully... his fists came up again.

Trembling. Weak. Barely higher than his waist. But raised all the same.

Then, with a prideful smirk, he rose his middle finger to everything Son had just done...a weary smile drawing on his face.

’...I...I’m not finished.’

For the first time, Son didn’t look smug.

His brow twitched. His jaw flexed. And his eyes—those cold, calculating eyes—widened just slightly, ever so slightly, in something that looked a lot like disbelief.

Not fear. No....But confusion.

Almost... awe.

"Stay down...I won’t repeat myself." Son asked, voice lower now. Quieter. As if speaking too loudly might shatter the strange spell between them.

Mikey didn’t respond.

He didn’t need to.

That smile—crooked, cracked, soaked in blood—said everything.

And then, with the grace of a man who had no business standing at all, he raised his fists higher.

Not steady. Not sure. But proud.

Defiant.

’I’m not gonna lose...I can’t....I have to....no...I must...I must win!’

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