Squad 4

Chapter 22

Ronan stepped into Squad 4's training hall, his bag slung over one shoulder. The atmosphere was different here—he could feel it immediately. The air was heavier, charged with the quiet hum of mana lingering from previous battles. The squad members, who had been engaged in drills and sparring, gradually turned their heads toward him. Their expressions ranged from mild curiosity to open skepticism.

"He's the one isn't it?" a voice drawled from the side. They had all heard about the squad 5 newbie who scored 900 in the mana test and was now being transferred to their squad.

A tall, broad-shouldered man with a sharp gaze approached, twirling a wooden training staff in his hand. He looked Ronan up and down, unimpressed.

"So, you're the newbie Jordan dumped on us."

Ronan met his gaze evenly. "Yeah. Name's Ronan."

The man snorted. "I don't care what your name is. Here, we don't just take in rookies because they scored high on some flashy mana meter. You want to be part of Squad 4? Then prove you're not dead weight."

Ronan had expected some resistance, but the sheer hostility in the man's tone put him on edge. "And how exactly do I prove that?" he asked, his voice steady. He already knew what they were going to say, but he still asked.

A smirk spread across the man's face. He turned to the rest of the squad. "What do you think, boys? Should we give him a proper welcome?"

A murmur of approval rippled through the room. Another fighter, a lean man with short-cropped hair, stepped forward. "Let's not waste time. Just throw him in."

The first man's smirk widened. "Alright, newbie. You're up against me. First to land a clean hit wins."

Ronan exhaled slowly, stepping forward. He had just fought Jordan earlier, and his body was still stiff from that bout, but he couldn't back down now. Not when every pair of eyes in the room was drilling into him, waiting to see him fail.

The squad formed a loose circle around them as Ronan and his opponent stepped onto the training mat. Ronan assumed a ready stance, shifting his weight to the balls of his feet. His opponent did the same, still twirling his staff lazily.

"Let's see if you're really A-rank material," the man said before suddenly lunging forward.

Ronan barely had time to react. The wooden staff whistled through the air, aiming for his ribs. He twisted his body just in time, the strike grazing past him. Fast. Faster than he'd expected.

He countered immediately, stepping in to close the gap and throwing a punch toward the man's face. But it was a feint. At the last second, he redirected his fist toward the man's exposed ribs.

For a split second, Ronan thought he had him. But then—

CRACK.

A sharp, stinging pain exploded across his forearm as the staff struck him mid-swing. His attack faltered, and before he could regain balance, his opponent drove a knee into his stomach.

Ronan gasped, staggering backward. He barely had a second to recover before the staff came down again, forcing him to dodge wildly. The attacks were relentless, precise, calculated. He wasn't just stronger—he was leagues ahead in skill. It might be a different story though if he decided to use his system. But he wasn't going to, this was just sparring.

Ronan gritted his teeth, forcing himself to think. If he couldn't overpower this guy with skills alone, he had to be smart.

He waited for the next strike and dodged low, then swept his leg out to knock his opponent off balance.

For the first time, the man looked surprised as his footing wavered.

Now! Ronan shot forward, aiming a hard elbow strike for his ribs, but he was too slow.

His opponent adjusted mid-fall, twisting his body to avoid the blow, then brought the staff down hard onto Ronan's shoulder.

A sharp jolt of pain shot through him. His body hit the mat with a dull thud.

For a moment, there was only silence. Ronan stared at the ceiling, his breath coming in ragged pants. The match hadn't even lasted two minutes.

Then laughter erupted around him.

"Damn, that was pathetic."

"This guy really thought he could take Hugo?"

"Yeah, welcome to Squad 4, rookie. You've got a long way to go."

Hugo—his opponent—offered a hand. Ronan hesitated before taking it, pulling himself up with a wince.

"You're not bad," Hugo admitted, clapping him on the shoulder. "But you're not good either."

Ronan clenched his jaw, swallowing down his frustration. He hated losing. But more than that, he hated how outclassed he felt. If this was just a welcome test, what the hell were the real fights like?

Ronan clenched his fists at his sides, his mind still reeling from the loss. The laughter still rang in his ears, but he forced himself to tune it out. This wasn't the time to dwell on failure—he needed to observe, to understand what he was truly up against.

As if sensing his thoughts, Hugo stepped closer, his smirk still lingering.

"Don't take it too hard, rookie. We've all been there. But if you want to last in Squad 4, you better start learning fast."

Ronan met his gaze, his jaw tightening. "Thanks for going easy on me."

Hugo chuckled, giving him a solid pat on the back before stepping away. The rest of the squad had already lost interest, dispersing back to their own training. But as Ronan moved to grab his bag, a shadow loomed over him.

"You held back didn't you?," a calm, yet authoritative voice cut through the chatter.

Ronan looked up to see a woman standing at the edge of the mat. Unlike the others, she didn't wear amusement on her face. Instead, she studied him with quiet intensity, her piercing gray eyes unreadable.

"Sienna," Hugo greeted her with a lazy wave. "Didn't think you'd care about the newbie."

Sienna ignored him. She took a step forward, her arms crossed. "You lasted longer than I expected. But I noticed you held back. Why?"

Ronan straightened, meeting her gaze. "I didn't." The only thing Ronan held back from doing was activating his system just to win. If he did, he would have definitely won, but he didn't want to draw unnecessary attention so he just focused on using his skills alone, afterall, his opponent did activate his system either.

A flicker of approval crossed her face. "You need more skill training, If you survive the week, maybe I'll consider training you myself."

Before he could respond, she turned on her heel and walked away, disappearing into the deeper parts of the training hall. Ronan exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

Survive the week? That wasn't exactly encouraging.

He picked up his bag and turned toward the exit, but just as he stepped out into the hallway, he caught sight of a figure lingering near the entrance. Jordan.

His former squad leader leaned casually against the wall, arms folded, watching him with an expression that was neither smug nor sympathetic—just expectant.

"So?" Jordan said, arching an eyebrow. "How does reality taste?"

Ronan huffed, shaking his head. "Bitter."

Jordan nodded. "Good. Means you're still hungry."

He pushed off the wall, walking past Ronan without another word. But as he passed, he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Ronan to hear:

"Don't let them break you."

Ronan stood frozen for a moment, his fingers tightening around the strap of his bag. Then, without another word, he headed for the dorms, his mind already racing with a single thought.

I won't.

If he intended to face that man, then these people were nothing more than stepping stones—tools to sharpen his strength. In the meantime, he was going to play along.