The supporting character's harem is very normal-Chapter 526: Just an ordinary man seeking revenge

The moon hung in the sky, faint and blurred, like a reflection on the water's surface. It exuded an aura that was both terrifying and mysteriously beautiful.

The yellow-white moonlight illuminated a radius of over a hundred meters. Beyond this range, the surrounding area was shrouded in darkness—or, more precisely, walls of black clouds encircled the space, sealing it off.

Rakka looked up. There were no black clouds above, but the sky was veiled by a shimmering layer of light that rippled like water.

"Are you ready to die?" Ikarys said with a cold smile, his voice filled with murderous intent.

Rakka glanced at Ikarys. His eyes were neither fearful nor emotional.

Calm… unnervingly calm.

Rakka's gaze was like the surface of a still lake in autumn—tranquil yet unfathomably deep.

Ikarys felt a twinge of unease under Rakka's gaze.

However, the sight of the sword in his hand, forged by a master craftsman, rekindled his confidence.

That blacksmith was renowned for taking ten years to create a single masterpiece. Anything he forged carried unimaginable magical effects.

Many had queued for the chance to commission him. Ikarys had spent vast resources and leveraged countless connections to secure a spot on that list.

With this sword, Ikarys was confident he could defeat opponents 20, even 30 levels above him.

It was why he refused to believe Rakka could defeat him.

Rakka glanced at Ikarys and then at the sword in his hand. Letting out a sigh, he said, "I was once like you."

"Hm?!" Ikarys frowned, confusion flashing across his face.

Rakka continued, his gaze drifting into the distance. "I, too, used to think that in battle, the more spectacular the moves, the more they demonstrated my genius and my appreciation for the art of combat."

"But… I was wrong. Combat is about wagering one's life, not performing some foolish spectacle."

"Ikarys, when I look at you, I see my former self and many other so-called geniuses I've defeated in the past." "What nonsense are you spouting?" Ikarys snapped impatiently, his brows furrowed.

He couldn't shake the feeling that Rakka was like a deep, bottomless lake. Beneath its surface lurked a terrifying beast on the verge of awakening.

Rakka shook his head, sighing. "In combat… the simpler the technique, the more effective it becomes."

"Allow me to teach you… what true combat is? Of course, the tuition fee will be your life."

Ikarys's anger flared to its peak, but he couldn't ignore the strange sense of displacement in his heart.

He felt as if his role as the protagonist of this world was being usurped.

It was a bizarre, inexplicable sensation as if fate itself was shifting.

Since arriving in this world, Ikarys has believed himself to be the protagonist.

With the System's assistance, he was even more convinced of it.

Beauty, fame, and power—he was destined to have it all.

Given time, he was certain he could attain everything.

But ever since encountering Lathel, his life had changed, leading to misfortunes and dangers.

And now, standing before Rakka, he felt an overwhelming sense of being overshadowed.

It was as if he was nothing but a speck of dust in this world, and Rakka was the true protagonist.

'No! I am the protagonist of this world, not him!'

Ikarys roared internally, his face contorting with madness.

In stark contrast, Rakka stood still, his expression unreadable.

"Die, you bastard!" Ikarys bellowed.

The sword in his hand glowed with divine light, radiating majesty and power as he swung it. The moon above seemed to descend toward Rakka with terrifying speed, like a bullet fired from the heavens.

The air trembled, rippling gently like waves across a fabric.

Rakka let out a soft sigh and slowly raised his sword.

The black wooden sword in his hand looked like a piece of charcoal, utterly unremarkable.

Yet, at that moment, the ordinary wooden blade exuded overwhelming pressure.

Waves of force rippled outward in concentric circles, spreading in all directions.

Rakka swung his sword, delivering a casual, almost lazy strike.

It was so lackluster that he barely exerted any strength, the wooden blade moving as if it were part of a child's game.

Ikarys witnessed the scene and sneered inwardly. 'Hahahaha… Trash will always be trash. There's no way someone like me, the protagonist, could ever be defeated.'

'Relax… This attack won't kill you. It will merely take half your life.'

'When this is over, you and that bastard Lathel will become my dogs.'

Ikarys grinned darkly to himself, already envisioning the aftermath of the battle. He would turn the High Priestess into his woman and his enemies into dogs, tortured to death by his hand.

Suddenly, his smile froze.

"What the hell?" Ikarys gasped.

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He saw Rakka swing his sword in a seemingly casual manner, but the strike unleashed a dazzling blade of light.

The blade energy carried an ancient and ferocious power, like a bloodthirsty beast unleashed from within the sword.

BAM!

A deafening explosion shook the air. In that brief moment, Ikarys felt his life teetering on the brink of death.

Every fiber of his being screamed in warning—he was about to die.

Ikarys instinctively dodged to the side, and moments later—

Whoosh!

A crescent-shaped beam of light swept past his waist, effortlessly slicing through the protective aura around him.

CLANG!

The sound of metal shattering echoed as the cloud wall surrounding them fractured like glass, splintering into countless pieces before disintegrating into dust.

Ikarys looked down and saw a massive gash across his abdomen. Fresh blood spurted out like a small fountain.

Only then did the pain register in his mind, sending a searing jolt through his nerves.

Gritting his teeth, Ikarys clutched at the wound, trying to stem the bleeding.

But what haunted him more was the question—how had Rakka done this?

His moonlight—his skill—had been effortlessly cut through. Even the magic array had been destroyed, crumbling to dust.

There were no flashy effects, no intricate displays like Ikarys's own techniques.

It was nothing more than raw, violent energy tearing through everything in its path.

Simple, yet far more effective than anything Ikarys could muster.

So powerful… that Ikarys couldn't even begin to resist.

Looking down at his bleeding abdomen and his trembling hand gripping the sword, Ikarys thought, 'Impossible! Am I… afraid?'

Yes, he was afraid. But how? How could it be? Even when facing the High Priestess, he had not felt fear—so why now?

Why was he terrified of someone his own age, someone nameless, someone with no status?

Rakka's expression remained indifferent, his calm gaze so unnerving that it sent shivers down Ikarys's spine.

"You should thank me," Rakka said softly. "If I had intended to kill you earlier… the part that got cut wouldn't have been your stomach. It would've been your head."

Ikarys swallowed hard, his body trembling in fear.

He knew Rakka was right. If that blade of energy had struck his neck instead of his stomach, the outcome would have been different.

Even if it didn't sever his head completely, it would have cut through his carotid artery.

He would have been left to slowly experience the arrival of death, feeling the cold scythe of the Reaper against his neck.

"Who… who are you?" Ikarys stammered.

Rakka glanced down at the sword in his hand, then looked back at Ikarys.

"Huk!" Ikarys gasped in terror. For a fleeting moment, when he looked at Rakka, he saw a massive battlefield.

On that battlefield lay the corpses of countless warriors. From the sky, more figures descended, their magic and energy detonating like a doomsday storm.

Amid the chaos, a lone man stood against them all.

Yes, a single man… facing the entire world.

His gaze was suffused with infinite killing intent, like a black mist that enveloped the entire realm.

"Ah!" Ikarys jolted back to reality, his clothes soaked in cold sweat.

Rakka regarded him calmly and spoke quietly, "Just an ordinary man seeking revenge."