Chapter 62
Inside the Red Portal
"Fourteenth Jungle Art: Tiger Punch!" a voice roared.
BAM!
The sound of fists colliding echoed through the scorched terrain as one figure was sent flying. The creature crashed into a massive boulder, cracking it with the impact before slumping to the ground. Han exhaled sharply, thinking it was over—until the beast twitched.
Its limbs cracked and straightened as it stood again, completely unfazed.
Han's eye twitched. These things are nightmares, he thought. Reluctantly, he stepped forward again, gathering his energy.
"Fourteenth Jungle Art: Tiger Punch—Flame Style!"
Their fists met once more, but this time, a fiery eruption engulfed the beast in a blazing inferno. When the flames died out, only ashes remained.
+300 CP
+1000 EP
The rewards were generous, but the effort it took to bring down just one of these monsters was absurd. They were humanoid gorilla hybrids—taller than humans, built like tanks, and with an insane healing factor. The moment you injured them, they'd start regenerating. Terrifying creatures, but not unbeatable.
Han glanced across the battlefield.
Clara was holding her ground well. Her Omega Beam disintegrated monsters in an instant—but the cost was steep. Two B-rank cores per shot. It wasn't sustainable, no matter how effective.
Ron, on the other hand, had it easier. His gravity hammer warped the field around him, disorienting the monsters before he crushed them. One of the beasts stumbled under a sudden gravity shift, and Ron didn't hesitate—he brought the hammer down again and again until there was nothing left but gore and dust.
Is he enjoying that? Han thought, watching Ron's satisfied smile as he picked a new target.
But the one adapting fastest was someone else.
In the distance, a darker figure battled multiple monster at once. Though he looked similar to the monsters, a closer look revealed differences: a human smile twisted across his face, large black wings on his back, tusks sprouting from his shoulders, and darkened skin. He was using his Dark Essence Mode, canceling the creatures' healing. Efficient and deadly.
Han's attention shifted toward the horizon—more monsters, rushing toward them like a flood.
"This needs to end," he muttered.
Han's demeanor shifted in an instant. His glowing blue eyes blazed with intensity, his fingers morphed into sharp white claws, and his teeth elongated into gleaming fangs.
Then came the roar—a deafening, primal sound that seemed to shake the very air.
"Fifteenth Jungle Art: Lion's Roar!" he declared.
The moment it ended, Han flexed his arms, feeling the power surging through his body. The technique's effects were even more potent now—his clones, who would previously vanished after using the Flame Style twice, now radiated with newfound strength. They could wield the Flame Style Jungle Arts without restriction.
It wasn't just the clones. Aiden, Ron, and even Clara Tech bot felt their power rise dramatically.
Han smiled. Out of all the Jungle Arts, Lion's Roar is the best for empowerment.And now that I've evolved it to S-rank... it's on a whole new level.
His clones, once limited to ten percent of his energy, now carried nearly half of his strength—each fully capable of using Flame Style techniques in battle. The tide was turning.
But beyond tactics and power, something deeper gnawed at Han's mind—a growing urgency. A voice in his instincts screaming that he had to finish this portal… fast.
With steady resolve, he stepped forward again. And with every step, another clone emerged beside him—until over thirty marched at his side.
Han raised his hand.
"Let's end this."
_ _ _ _
Back to Serenya
Ronan stood face-to-face with a Red Vanguard soldier—he had encountered their kind before and knew better than to underestimate them.
"Commander Ronan!" a voice called out.
He turned to see Jim stumbling toward him, bloodied and barely conscious. Ronan caught him just as he collapsed.
"It's good you're here," Jim muttered with a faint smile before slipping into unconsciousness.
Ronan's eyes furrowed. Jim wouldn't survive without treatment. Without hesitation, he lifted him over his shoulder and sprinted through the battlefield.
"Get back here, coward!" a voice snarled.
Buner—the Red Vanguard member—mistook Ronan for the guild master. There was no way he'd let others claim the kill. In a rage, he hurled his black needles forward. But Ronan, as if he had eyes in the back of his head, dodged them all with terrifying precision.
He kept running until he spotted a guild member, wounded but still mobile.
"Take him to Mia. Now!" Ronan ordered, handing Jim over.
The man nodded and took off.
Ronan scanned the area. The ground was littered with bodies—friends, allies—all fallen. Most bore clean, precise wounds. No explosions, no burning—just surgical kills.
Another Red Vanguard is here, he thought grimly.
"You finally stopped running," Buner spat, landing a few meters away.
Ronan turned to face him, calm and unreadable. "How many of you are in this city?" he asked flatly.
Buner sneered. "Ask the heavens. You won't live long enough to find out."
With a shout, he lunged forward, slashing with his blade—trying the same tactic he used on Jim.
"Mistake," Ronan muttered.
In a flash, both of Ronan's swords were out. Steel clashed as the two exchanged rapid blows, but it quickly became clear—Ronan was on another level. Every strike Buner made was blocked, and every counter from Ronan drew blood.
Panicking, Buner tried to detonate a needle, but before it could go off, Ronan slashed his hand, forcing him to retreat.
I can't win, Buner realized, sweat pouring down his face. He's too fast. Too precise. My needles are useless, and my swordsmanship isn't even close…
He did the only thing he could—he ran, desperate to escape and call for reinforcements.
Ronan gave chase.
No way in hell was he letting his target escape.
Buner's heart pounded as Ronan gained on him, easily deflecting more black needles as they flew.
Then, just as Ronan closed in—he twisted, blocking a sudden strike from behind.
A third blade had nearly stab his skull.
Ronan leapt back, gaze narrowing.
From the void emerged a black-haired man, his expression bored, a glowing dagger in hand. His armor was unmistakable—another Red Vanguard.
So he called for backup, Ronan thought darkly.
The newcomer spoke calmly. "To block my sneak attack… impressive. No wonder that idiot called for help."
His ability—Stealth—let him vanish from sight, and with a silent dagger, his ambushes were near undetectable. Yet Ronan had still caught him.
One was already a problem, Ronan thought. Two would be dangerous—but if I gave it everything, maybe I'd stand a chance…
He stepped forward, ready to fight, but instincts screamed. He shifted his weight just in time—a blade grazed his cheek, drawing blood. It had aimed for his throat.
He spun to face the new threat.
A third Red Vanguard stood beside the rest.
He had blonde curly hair, a twisted grin, and held two blood-soaked rapiers. There was no doubt—this one had tortured and killed without mercy.
The man tilted his head, eyes gleaming with sadistic glee. "I think I'll start with the guild master," he whispered, "then move on to the rest."
Three of them now.
Ronan's grip tightened.
Against two, there was a slim chance. Against three? Almost none.
He should run. He always had when the odds were hopeless.
He could escape. He knew that.
So why… why was he still standing here?
Why did his legs refuse to move?
He looked at the fallen. At the blood-stained streets. At what was left of the people who had welcomed him like family.
Because that's what they are now.
"My family," he muttered under his breath.
His gaze hardened.
"I'm not running. Not this time."
He raised his swords, planting his feet.
"All of you—come at me."
To be continued.