"What terrifying strength..."
Ronan's expression was grim, his chest heaving. This raw, barbaric power was much stronger than he had anticipated. A random pirate captain possessed this much physical might? If he hadn't used Beng-Jin to deflect and neutralize the bulk of the impact, his arm would likely be broken right now.
But Ronan saw clearly. While the Captain was strong, his moves were crude to the point of being primitive. There was zero technique—it was pure physical bullying. In contrast, Ronan's control of force, his ability to shed impact, and his counter-attacks were at the pinnacle of mastery.
Having gauged his opponent's depth, Ronan grew calm. Lacking in raw strength? It didn't matter. Technique, speed, and footwork—those were his true lethal weapons. His breathing stabilized, and his mind entered a state of meditative focus. He would no longer trade blows directly; he would use his agility and internal force to tear this mindless beast apart.
At that moment— DING!
[System Notification: Host has entered a Deathmatch state.][Training Multiplier x5]
Instantly, Ronan felt as if his body had been set ablaze. Strength, speed, reaction time, and perception—everything soared, pushed to the peak by an invisible storm! His blood surged through his veins like molten lava.
Everything in his surroundings became preternaturally clear. Ronan looked up, a sharp, piercing light flashing deep within his pupils. The wind howled, and killing intent surged like a tide.
Ronan leaned forward slightly, his entire body coiled like a lethal arrow ready to be loosed. The five-fold training multiplier poured into his limbs and bones like a torrential flood. His blood raced through his veins, and his joints crackled incessantly. Waves of heat rolled through his meridians, causing him to exhale a long, incredibly satisfying breath.
At that moment, his attribute panel flickered into view:
[Strength: 10 → 11][Physique: 10 → 11]
Ronan's eyes twitched slightly. For the first time, he felt the tangible reality of "becoming stronger" directly through combat. However, he had no time to ponder further. The massive silhouette was already lunging at him once again!
"Kid! If this is all you've got, then die!!" the Split-Sail Captain roared. His arms bulged as his massive cleaver tore through the air, descending with the sound of howling wind and thunder.
This time, the strike was faster, more vicious, and more desperate than before. But Ronan stepped lightly, twisted his hips, and drifted like a wisp of smoke. The cleaver whistled past his shoulder, striking the ground and sending sparks and stone fragments flying.
He had evaded it—with an ease that was almost despair-inducing for his opponent. Ronan's mind remained unruffled, calmly analyzing the situation: Strength and Physique increased, but Speed and Spirit remained unchanged. In other words, the system reinforces whatever I use or exercise during the fight.
A martial artist's intuition lit up in his heart. Combat was the cultivation itself.
"I see," Ronan thought, a sharp edge glinting in his eyes.
He began to deliberately dictate the rhythm of the battle. The Captain roared and swung his blade, charging like a berserk, heavy-armored beast. Ronan, however, moved erratically, dancing through the gusts of the blade with an elegant lightness, as if waltzing through a storm.
Every dodge was clean; every sidestep was perfectly timed. It was exactly like... walking a dog.
The Pirate Captain finally realized something was wrong, and fury surged to his head. "Damned brat! Is running all you know how to do?!"
Ronan didn't answer. He didn't even spare him a glance. He was focused on the sensation—the rhythm of his breath, the vibration of his muscles, the explosive tension in his joints, and the shifting center of gravity in his steps. Those martial instincts that usually lay hidden were now being catalyzed into vivid clarity by the five-fold multiplier.
Suddenly, the system flickered again:
[Speed: 10 → 11]
A light flashed in Ronan's eyes. "...As I thought." In just a short moment, his Strength, Physique, and Speed had each increased by a point. And this was only the beginning of the Deathmatch multiplier.
The wind whistled as the Pirate Captain grew near-delirious with rage. Meanwhile, Ronan's movements among the blade-light became lighter and faster. He once again nimbly dodged a heavy downward cleave. The blade screeched past his ear, the wind it generated cutting so sharply it made his hair flutter.
Behind him, the Captain's chest heaved violently as he screamed, "Brat! Stand—STILL!!"
Ronan gave him a fleeting, almost... appreciative look. He suddenly felt that this fool, who knew nothing but how to swing a blade, was much more pleasant to look at now. As the first sparring partner to cross his path after his transmigration—and a reasonably strong one at that—it was a rare find.
Ronan even felt a hint of gratitude: You'd better hold on a bit longer. Give me more time to practice.
With that thought, he stopped retreating and launched his counterattack. The Captain had just landed a strike, his center of gravity leaning forward—that split-second opening appeared massive and clear in Ronan's eyes.
Ronan tapped his toe and slid out diagonally like a wisp of smoke, avoiding the furious cleaver. In the next instant, his wooden stick vibrated; internal force poured in, and his spear-intent rose like a dragon.
Tap, thrust, strike! The wooden stick was like a sea dragon breaking the surface, instantly stabbing into the Captain's chest!
"Ugh—!!" the Captain grunted. His skin was pierced and blood sprayed, but the stick did not penetrate the bone and flesh as Ronan had expected. The tip stopped against pectoral muscles as thick as iron plates, as if he had poked a wall of solid meat.
The defense was absurdly high. Ronan frowned. Is this the physique of people in this world? If a martial artist from his previous life had been hit by this strike, they would have died on the spot. Yet this man only roared in pain from what was essentially a superficial wound.
The Captain roared and counterattacked, a horizontal slash tearing through the air with a bone-chilling whistle. Ronan dropped low and slid like a fox through a forest, dodging with ease. On the backswing, he swung the stick with explosive force, smashing it hard against the Captain's head!
CRACK!!
In the dull thud of the impact, the Captain's head snapped to the side, and a bloody gash opened on his forehead. Ronan's wooden stick, however... grew shorter once again. The tip shattered, sending splinters flying everywhere.
Ronan's heart sank slightly. The physical bodies of people in this world are simply monstrous.
At the same time, the battle between Ronan and the Pirate Captain shook the entire town. The sounds of slaughter and the collision of the two fighters resonated like two wild beasts clashing.
Just then, several figures rushed out from the shadows at the edge of the town. Leading them was the old man who had escaped earlier, followed by his grandson. With them were two men and a woman—one of whom was a black-haired youth wearing a straw hat.
"Don't worry, old man," the youth said. "We're going to kick all those pirates out!"
Walking beside him was a young man with short, moss-green hair. Beneath his white T-shirt, his muscle lines were well-defined, and the three swords at his waist, held by a green haramaki, were particularly eye-catching. He cast a sideways glance at the battlefield in the center of town, his voice calm but sharp:
"It's the Split-Sail Pirates. The Captain has a bounty of 3.2 million Berries."
The orange-haired girl followed closely behind, her slender waist as agile as a cat's, though her brow was furrowed with gravity.
"Three million Berries is considered quite dangerous in the East Blue," she noted. "I heard the Split-Sail Pirates once slaughtered a branch Marine outpost. That's why their bounty was hiked up."