"Bang~" With a muffled thud, the first man struck cried out and collapsed to the ground.
The other four immediately reacted, surrounding Ronan, fists raised, ready to pummel him.
But Ronan didn't flinch. Unbothered, he let their punches land, focusing his own strikes on their stomachs, faces, and lower bodies. Screams echoed through the warehouse.
The onlookers, who had only intended to watch the scuffle, swallowed nervously. Gratitude bloomed in their hearts—they hadn't rushed forward. If they had, they'd be the ones writhing on the floor right now.
Watching Ronan fend off four men and drop them all without a word, his face cold and expressionless, everyone felt a chill. He was ruthless.
Many quietly dismissed any petty thoughts they had about crossing him—this was someone not to provoke.
Ronan glanced around, then looked down at the five groaning figures beside him. His voice was cold:
"I still have work to do. You have three seconds to get more than ten meters away from me. After that, don't blame me for what happens."
"Yes, we'll leave right away!"
Scrambling to their feet, the group fled. Their speed and agility made Ronan briefly wonder if he had underestimated them.
Shaking his head, he let the thought go and returned to his task—sharpening knives.
By his count, he had completed over ninety blades. The task was nearly done.
"Add three more points to strength, coordination, and weapon mastery," he muttered. "There are three openings in the Shiganshina District. I should be able to secure one of them."
Ronan had full confidence in his abilities.
And he had more than just strength on his side. Whether it was the reserved spot promised to him, or Keith—head of the Survey Corps—who took care of him for his father's sake, Ronan had the connections to ensure a fair shot.
Soon, Harry and the others returned to the warehouse, having heard about the earlier fight.
"Well done," Harry said, flexing his sandbag-sized fists. "Those brats are bullies. The more you retreat, the more they press forward. Sometimes, you have to strike hard."
It wasn't just praise—it was a warning to everyone else.
Meanwhile, the blacksmiths nearby were busy instructing their apprentices. They paid no mind to the younger generation's scuffles—fighting was part of growing up.
Still, losing to one person despite having numbers was...embarrassing.
As the blacksmiths overheard the story, their faces stayed stern, but inside, they were stunned.
A thirteen-year-old who could drop a grown man with a single punch? That kind of strength was rare.
None of them had been that strong at his age.
"That kid's got something."
"No doubt. Harry wouldn't bother with him otherwise. And you've seen his progress over the past two months—he's a genius."
"Shame Harry got to him first."
"You could try stealing him away. I heard Harry never made him a formal disciple…"
"Get lost! I'm not getting beat up over that!"
"Haha…"
Laughter filled the warehouse, and the tension from the earlier fight faded. Everyone returned to their work.
Ronan was content with that. He had no interest in wasting energy on these kinds of distractions.
The year 845 was approaching. The day the wall would fall was near. The weight of that knowledge sat heavily in his chest.
His priority now was passing the conscription and joining the Training Corps. There, he would learn how to kill Titans. Combined with his growing strength, he wouldn't be the only human weapon inside the walls—Levi and Mikasa would have company.
Only then could he protect the "family" and companions who had become inseparable from his life.
As if responding to his thoughts, a familiar system notification chimed in his mind.
---
"Ding. Congratulations to the host for completing the achievement [Test Your Skills] by polishing and repairing 100 tools.
Rewards: Strength +3, Coordination +3, Weapon Mastery +3..."
---
Warmth surged through his body, like rain falling on a parched land. It felt like rebirth.
The sensation lasted a few seconds before fading.
Now stronger, Ronan gripped the black-gold bamboo sword. It felt like an extension of his body. He gave it a few test swings, the wind slicing cleanly from the blade.
A quiet smile tugged at his lips. In a low voice meant only for himself, he whispered:
"I'm ready..."