SSS Ranked Summoning: I'm An Extra With The Strongest Harem System
Chapter 65: The Pond(4)[Violence][Bonus]

Chapter 65: The Pond(4)[Violence][Bonus]

The pond was silent.

Dust hovered in the air, catching the sunlight in thin golden rays. Blood stained the sandy floor, forming erratic trails where boots had dragged and fists had fallen. And at the center of it all—Mikey stood.

Or at least, what was left of him.

His legs trembled like a building about to collapse. His breath came in short, rapid pants. One eye swollen shut. His mouth bloodied and cracked. Red soaked into his shirt, his pants—his skin. His fists were still up, trembling, half-raised, as if his body couldn’t decide whether to fight or fall.

Son stood before him, tall and unscathed. His mouth parted slightly as if to speak, but his expression was frozen—caught between disbelief and admiration.

"You really don’t give up easy, do you?" he muttered, voice low, almost reverent.

Everyone was watching. The Iron Vipers. Aurora. Spectators who were all left agaped, stood frozen.

Any normal man would’ve stayed down. Any sane man would’ve tapped out.

But Mikey—

Still, he remained.

Blood dripped from his nose, dark and thick, splattering softly onto the sand. His shoulders sagged. His knees buckled with every breath, but he didn’t fall.

"W-W-what’s..." Mikey rasped, voice hoarse and cracking. He took a shallow breath, then looked up, defiant.

"...What’s the matter? Too scared to come at me?"

Son blinked.

Confusion flickered behind Son’s eyes.

"It’s not worth it, kid." Son said.

"All that money? I mean, fourteen grand is alot, but it’s not worth your life."

He stepped closer, more out of concern than threat.

"Tell you what. Let this go. Walk away now, and I’ll give you a pass. No shame in surviving. Just say ’I forfeit’ and I wont land another blow on you...."

A beat passed. Silence.

Everyone waited.

Even the Iron Vipers seemed to hope Mikey would give up.

But instead, Mikey smirked, bloody teeth glinting under cracked lips.

"Screw you." He staggered a step forward, his legs barely cooperating.

"If you’re not going to come at me—"

He paused to catch his breath.

"—then I’ll come at you."

A grunt escaped his throat as he stumbled closer, dragging himself forward like a man possessed. His body groaned with every motion. Each step a testament to willpower. To madness.

Son stood there. Watching. Waiting.

When Mikey got close enough, he raised his fist. It was sluggish. Barely a punch, in the sense that a child could’ve dodged it with little to no ease.

Son tilted his head, just slightly, a calm and effortless motion—almost lazy in its execution. And in that same instant—

CRACK!

His hand moved with the precision of a whip and the weight of a hammer, slamming into Mikey’s cheek with such force that the sound echoed like a gunshot across the training arena.

The impact twisted Mikey’s head sharply to the side. His legs buckled beneath him, and he dropped to the sand like a sack of broken bones. His knees hit first, then his chest, then his face—crashing down in stages, each fall a blow to his pride.

"Stay down." Son muttered, his voice cold and detached, his gaze narrowed into a razor-sharp line.

Mikey didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He lay still, the sting of the slap blooming like wildfire across his cheek, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. His hand, trembling and weak, slowly rose to touch his burning face. But the pain wasn’t what made him tremble—it was the shame. The sheer humiliation of it.

’All those stat boosts.’ Mikey thought bitterly,

’All that grinding. All that training. Just to be knocked to the ground like a brat who mouthed off in public?’

His hands clenched into fists, digging into the sand beneath him.

’I can’t let him win. Not like this.’

He forced his body to move, even as it screamed for him to stop. He rose—unsteady, defiant. His legs wobbled like a newborn colt’s, and his spine curved under the weight of exhaustion and defeat.

But he stood. That was all that mattered. He stood.

Their eyes locked.

Son’s expression hadn’t changed. He looked down at Mikey not with hatred, not even with anger, but something far worse—pity.

"If you say the words." Son said quietly,

"I’ll let you live. Just say it. Give up."

But Mikey only stared.

Then slowly, deliberately, he turned his head and gathered the blood pooling in his mouth. He spat it, hard, right into Son’s face. A dark wad of red and saliva splattered across Son’s cheek.

The moment froze.

Son didn’t react at first. He simply blinked and dragged a hand across his face, wiping the blood away. His fingers trembled slightly. And when his vision cleared—

Mikey was already moving.

He lunged forward with every ounce of strength he had left, a desperate, reckless charge. His feet kicked up sand. His fists were clenched, pulled back for a wild swing, but—

Son was faster.

With a blur of motion, his hand flashed upward, slicing through the air. The edge of his palm collided with Mikey’s throat in a brutal, snapping strike. Mikey’s breath caught. His eyes bulged. His entire body recoiled from the impact, frozen in place.

And then—

Son surged forward, driving his forehead into Mikey’s face with a savage headbutt that crunched bone and cartilage. The sound was wet and sickening. Mikey’s nose caved under the impact, and blood exploded from it in thick gouts.

He staggered back, dazed.

But Son didn’t let him fall.

He seized Mikey’s shirt, yanked him forward like a ragdoll, and delivered another headbutt—harder this time. Mikey’s skull snapped back. His knees bent. His mouth hung open in a gasp, red foam bubbling at the corners.

A third headbutt followed. Then a fourth.

Each one landed with the dull thud of a hammer slamming into a block of flesh. Mikey’s head bounced each time, jerking violently. His body grew looser with every blow. His arms dangled. His knees buckled.

But Son wasn’t done.

He dragged Mikey forward once more—and then drove his knee upward, right into Mikey’s face.

The crunch was deafening.

Mikey’s skull snapped back, blood flying from his lips like a spray of crimson mist. His body folded over Son’s knee, but before he could fall, another knee came—harder.

Blood exploded from Mikey’s mouth. A tooth spun through the air and hit the ground with a soft, pitiful plink.

Another knee—this one made Mikey’s entire face shudder.

And then another.

Son didn’t stop. He kept ramming his knee into Mikey’s face with terrifying precision, like he was trying to split rock with bone.

Each strike painted more blood across the sand, the metallic scent thick in the air, mingling with the gasps and horrified murmurs of the watching crowd.

"STOP!"

Aurora’s scream tore through the chaos. She shoved past the first few spectators, her face twisted in panic.

"He’s going to kill him! You have to stop him!"

But before she could reach the battle, two members of the Iron Vipers stepped out, grabbing her arms roughly.

"No! Let me go!" she shrieked, kicking and thrashing, tears running down her cheeks.

"Please! He’s dying!"

But they held her tight.

Because the fight wasn’t over.

Son pulled Mikey forward one last time, and then raised his foot high into the air.

And brought it down.

STOMP.

His heel landed directly on Mikey’s face, smashing it deeper into the blood-soaked ground.

STOMP. Again.

STOMP. The flesh split open.

STOMP. A cheekbone shattered.

Mikey’s face bounced grotesquely with every impact, blood splattering outward in wide arcs.

Son stomped again and again, until Mikey’s features were barely recognizable—his nose flattened, his eyes swollen shut, his skin ripped open in jagged lines that spilled red like opened veins.

It was savage.

Brutal.

Unrelenting.

And still—Son did not stop. His chest heaved with every breath, his eyes blank, consumed by something dark. The sand beneath Mikey had turned black with blood. The ground itself looked like it had opened a mouth and swallowed his face.

Finally... Son froze.

His foot hovered above Mikey’s ruined face. He was breathing heavily, shoulders trembling from the effort of his own rage.

He stood still.

Then, slowly, he dropped his foot back to the ground.

"Do you forfeit?" he asked.

No response.

Mikey lay there, lifeless. Broken.

"If you don’t," Son murmured, "I’ll keep going. Until there’s nothing left to recognize. I’ll make sure even your own reflection doesn’t know you."

Silence.

The crowd watched with bated breath.

Then—

A flicker of movement.

Mikey’s lips twitched. His jaw moved. His voice came, barely audible, a ragged rasp that could’ve been the wind or a ghost.

"I... for..."

Son crouched and grabbed Mikey by the collar, lifting his mangled face off the ground like a hunter inspecting a kill.

"Say it louder." he growled, his eyes burning.

Mikey’s mouth moved again.

"I... for..."

Then—something strange.

A twitch at the corner of his mouth stretched on and on until a grin was formed.

Twisted. Crooked. Bloodied.

But a grin.

"..For...First rule of street fighting..." Mikey whispered, each word coated in agony,

"never..."

Son’s brows drew together.

"Never let your guard down...No matter your opponent!"

Then it happened—

CHOMP.

With a wild surge of movement, Mikey lunged and sank his teeth into Son’s eye.

A scream tore from Son’s throat—raw and high-pitched. Blood spurted from the socket in a pulsing jet as Son reeled back, clawing at his face.

The entire arena exploded into chaos.

Screams. Gasps. Shock.

Mikey’s jaw clamped tighter, locked like a predator. He didn’t care that he was barely alive. He didn’t care that his body was breaking.

He didn’t give up.

He never gave up.

And in that one insane, unforgettable moment—when the blood sprayed, the crowd cried out, their voices filled with horror and cringe and Son’s pain-filled howl echoed through the horizon—

This content is taken from fr(e)ewebn(o)vel.𝓬𝓸𝓶