The ringing in my ears was deafening. The world was a blur of noise, lights, and chaos. My body refused to respond, but my mind—my mind was still moving, struggling to grasp what had just happened.
What the hell was that?
I had been predicting every move, every shift in momentum. Ragnar was adapting, sure, but it was all within my calculations. And then, out of nowhere, he broke them. No, not just broke them—he defied them entirely.
EVENT QUEST TRIGGERED: Crime Lords' Coliseum
-Win the Mafia Tournament
-Defeat Ragnar "The Beast" Wulf
Reward: Boxer Job Promotion (A-Rank)
I barely acknowledged it. The reward didn't matter. Not right now.
I forced my thoughts into order. Something had changed in Ragnar. He wasn't just growing at a natural rate—he had jumped in skill, suddenly and violently. That wasn't instinct, that wasn't talent. That was something else.
Name: Ragnar "The Beast" Wulf
Job: Soldier (A-Rank)
Iron Body (Lv. 8 + 2): Reduces damage taken from physical attacks, making him extremely resilient.
Predator's Focus (Lv. 8 + 2): Heightens reaction speed when an opponent shows weakness.
Relentless Advance (Lv. 7 + 2): Grants the ability to keep attacking despite fatigue, making his offense nearly ceaseless.
Intimidation (Lv. 6 + 2): Weak-willed opponents struggle to maintain composure in his presence.
+2 to every one of his skills? What is happening?
My breath steadied. My vision cleared. And then I saw it—a glint of metal, barely visible beneath the fur-lined collar of his stolen coat.
A thin line running along the back of his neck.
That was it. That was how he suddenly jumped in skill. It was enhancing him, pushing his abilities beyond their natural limits. But I thought that Giovanni was the supplier? Why would Ragnar, someone representing a different family, have them?
A voice barely registered over the roaring crowd. Someone was counting down.
A jolt of deja vu struck me. That shadow—the one I fought when I unlocked my Boxer job. This was the same. An opponent beyond reason. A battle where my mind had to surpass its limits.
Not with my hands, not by pushing myself up. My feet alone lifted me from the ground, my head rising last, like a zombie arising from its grave.
The crowd erupted into hysteria.
Ragnar's grin widened. "Damn. You really don't know when to die, huh?"
I ignored him. My calculations had already begun.
His skill increase was now accounted for. His reactions, his movements, his techniques—back within my realm of predictions. But just knowing wasn't enough. I needed a win condition.
One chance. If he realized what I was doing, he would adapt again.
Acquired Skill: Precision Strikes (Lv. 1) - Attacks target nerve clusters and weak points with surgical accuracy.
And then, I used what I had been saving for months-my Skill Level-Up Reward.
Precision Strikes (Lv. 1 → 2)
It was time to end this.
I inhaled, deep and steady, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle into my bones. My muscles screamed, my body battered from the relentless onslaught of our exchange. But my mind—my mind was clear. Focused. Calculating.
Ragnar reacted instantly, his body a blur of motion. His fist barreled toward me, a hammer of raw force, the air itself bending around the strike. I twisted, my body moving with the barest of margins, feeling the wind whip against my face as his knuckles grazed the space where my skull had been a heartbeat before.
Another strike—a vicious uppercut designed to shatter my jaw. I stepped into it, my footwork flowing like water, dodging by the width of a hair. The scent of sweat, blood, and the metallic tang of adrenaline filled my lungs. The roar of the crowd faded into the background, nothing but white noise. All that mattered was him.
I wasn't aiming for his gut. His jaw. His ribs. Those were distractions.
His arm extended—just enough. A micro-shift in his weight, a fraction of imbalance.
My fingers lashed out with surgical precision, honed by all the training with Milan and the skill I had just copied. The first strike found the brachial plexus, the nerve cluster nestled between his shoulder and neck. A direct impact. The effect was immediate—his right arm seized, locking mid-motion, the flow of movement severed like a wire cut clean.
A flicker of confusion crossed his face, the first real break in his confidence.
My second strike was already moving, my knuckles crashing into his solar plexus. The precise point where breath became a privilege. A fraction of an inch off, and it would've just knocked the wind out of him.
His diaphragm spasmed. A choked sound left his lips, his exhale strangled. His body tried to inhale, but the muscles refused to obey.
And then—the final strike.
I moved past his failing guard, past his dwindling resistance, past the raw savagery he had wielded so fiercely. My hand shot up, fingers curling into a spear, striking at the base of his skull.
His golden eyes widened. The feral gleam flickered. His body tensed, his legs stiffening as if trying to resist the inevitable.
And then, like a puppet with its strings cut—
The moment stretched, impossibly long. Dust curled around his fallen form. The stadium held its breath, time frozen in the wake of the beast's fall.
The crowd erupted, the sheer force of their voices shaking the very air around me. The vibrations rumbled through the cracked earth beneath my feet, through my aching limbs, through the fractured pieces of my mask.
A voice boomed over the speakers, nearly drowned by the chaos.
"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN—YOUR CHAMPION! MR. BEETLE!"
The roar of the crowd was deafening.
Darkness swept over me, my body giving in at last. The last thing I saw before the world faded was Vincent Giovanni, high above in his private box, watching with a smile.