The moment this thought surfaced, Farrokh could no longer suppress it. His mind raced, scavenging for conditions advantageous to him. His breathing became heavy and scorching.
His right hand rose as mana surged through his body.
To Ronan's eyes, Farrokh appeared no different from a clown performing on a stage...
Farrokh refrained from using powerful magic to strike Ronan. After all, Ronan was a mage; a massive mana fluctuation would immediately alert him. Instead, Farrokh evenly distributed mana throughout his body, choosing to strengthen his physical form.
"Reinforce! Reinforce! Reinforce!"
The earth-attributed mana gathered rapidly. Each of Farrokh's rough fingers glowed with a rocky, earthen hue. Though human, his fingers appeared harder than stone.
The ambient rustling vanished. Farrokh's followers behind him held their breaths, motionless. The Dawn Knights across from him stood like statues. A suffocating silence blanketed the scene.
Farrokh wanted Ronan dead. The followers of the Eternal Freedom Church, reliant on Farrokh, wanted Ronan dead. The Dawn Knights wanted Ronan dead...
Hermann, who had been staring at Ronan, widened his eyes to the extreme, veins bulging as he clenched his jaw. His bloodied mouth stretched unnaturally wide.
Everyone wanted Ronan dead. As if his death alone could grant them instant euphoria.
In mere seconds, Farrokh's mana reached its peak. His right hand began to shimmer with a metallic luster.
The next second, he stomped hard on the ground.
Boom!
The ground beneath his feet exploded like a bomb. Farrokh's body shot forward like a cannonball, his speed reaching its limit in a flash. He streaked across the ground like a shooting star, his tightly clenched fist aimed directly at Ronan's back.
In that moment, countless pairs of eyes locked onto Farrokh's fist, anticipating the outcome.
Hermann, in particular, was consumed by madness. His face twisted like a demon's as he muttered repeatedly under his breath:
"Die... Die... Die... Die..."
Hermann's abnormal behavior finally caught Aurelia's attention. The grieving nun instinctively lifted her head and followed his gaze. When she saw it, her face turned ashen, and she screamed instinctively:
"Look out!"
Aurelia was perhaps the only person present who didn't wish for Ronan's death.
But it was too late.
Farrokh's highly-reinforced iron fist closed in on Ronan's back, threatening to shatter his heart in an instant.
A mere mage with a frail body couldn't possibly withstand such a brutal strike.
He was doomed!
Or so everyone thought.
Just as Farrokh's iron fist was about to land, Ronan performed an incomprehensible maneuver. His upper body twisted to the left in an eerily fluid motion, narrowly avoiding the punch.
Farrokh's strike hit empty air, and the sheer frustration left him choking on the unfairness of it all.
He stared in disbelief, more shocked than anyone else. At such close range, he had a clear view of Ronan's unnatural dodge—a movement no ordinary human could execute.
Extreme Evasion.
A special effect granted by fully enhanced boots, usable once per day.
With this ability, Ronan had no fear of Farrokh's ambush.
Farrokh's body, propelled by inertia, continued forward. As he passed Ronan, their eyes met—Ronan's calm gaze clashing with Farrokh's panic.
Ronan turned his head slightly, a faint smile on his face, his dark pupils locking onto Farrokh's eyes.
Hiss.
A chill shot up Farrokh's spine.
In an instant, Ronan's long fingers appeared from an impossible angle, clutching Farrokh's skull as though he had handed it over willingly.
"Die."
Crack!
Farrokh's hard skull shattered instantly.
It was like smashing a watermelon with a sledgehammer. A mix of crimson blood and pale brain matter splattered across Ronan's robes.
Chunks, streaks, and globs slid down his clothing.
Ronan didn't give Farrokh the chance to utter a final word. Even as his life slipped away, Ronan remained calm, avoiding the intoxication of triumph.
Farrokh's death wasn't an act of impulse but a calculated decision to avoid a larger confrontation. If Farrokh had spoken even a word, he could have rallied the Eternal Freedom Church's followers. Coupled with Hermann's hatred, it would've led to the five hundred Dawn Knights joining the fray.
Against such overwhelming forces, Ronan's chances of survival were slim.
In mere seconds, Ronan analyzed his predicament and acted decisively. Only through swift and brutal action could he suppress the chaos.
The previously tense atmosphere dropped to a freezing point. Farrokh's lifeless, headless body twitched reflexively on the ground.
No one had expected such an outcome.
How strong was Ronan?
What level of power had he reached?
Panic Level?
Disaster Level?
Or even... Heroic Level?
As a mage, he hadn't used any magic at all.
And it was the unknown that terrified them the most.
Ronan glanced at his right hand. Sticky fluids dripped from his fingers. Crushing a human skull felt eerily similar to smashing a raw egg.
He exhaled, suppressing a wave of nausea, and reached into his pocket for a white, square handkerchief.
But what he first touched wasn't soft cotton.
Instead, it felt rough, almost like sandpaper.
Curious, Ronan pulled out the crumpled object.
It was a balled-up piece of paper.
He smoothed it out with one hand.
The blood-red, squirming words on the paper felt maddeningly chaotic, as though they were alive:
"You will kill everyone, including yourself!"
Hiss!
Ronan's pupils contracted. A nameless dread crawled over him, sending shivers across his skin and raising goosebumps.
With great effort, Ronan kept his composure, stuffing the paper back into his pocket. He retrieved the white handkerchief and meticulously cleaned his fingers.
The filth wiped away, he noticed a rough, unhealed wound on his right index finger, as though it had been bitten.
The words on the paper had been written in blood, by the original owner of this body.
But why use the character "you"?
Was it a message left by the original Ronan for him? Did the original Ronan somehow foresee that he would inhabit this body?
If not for him, then who was the message for?
Ronan exhaled slowly, suppressing his turbulent thoughts. He discarded the soiled handkerchief, letting it fall onto Farrokh's shattered head. The pure white fabric quickly soaked up the crimson, turning a vivid scarlet.
Under the moonlight, the sight was blindingly vivid.
Ronan's eyes flickered momentarily. The note had left him shaken, riddled with questions, but he knew this wasn't the time to dwell on it.
He lifted his gaze, now cold and indifferent. Scanning the crowd, he saw Eternal Freedom Church followers and Dawn Knights alike lower their heads, unable to meet his gaze.
Even Hermann, once so defiant, bowed his head. His fractured teeth clenched his lips, drawing blood that dripped steadily.
The hope that had burned so brightly in their hearts had turned to dread.
From paradise to despair—such was the journey of the defeated.
Only Aurelia, among the crowd, genuinely rejoiced in Ronan's survival. A faint blush returned to her once pale cheeks.
Unseen by all, delicate hands emerged from behind Ronan, crossing lightly over his chest. A sharp chin rested on his shoulder, and from the corner of his eye, he could see her flawless side profile.
Black and silver hair mingled, brushing against Ronan's ear.
The system whispered: Black and White: Light and Dark.
And no one noticed a fine, nearly invisible thread rising from the blood pool. It was drawn into the system without a sound.
Not even Ronan noticed the faint glow of darkness in her eyes.