Why is Background Character the Strongest Now?-Chapter 39: Ezra vs Ryun

When Ezra opened his eyes, dizziness hit him like a wave—teleportation always took its toll. Vision blurred, then sharpened. The air was heavy, thick with ash and the bite of rusted steel. Around him lay the bones of a ruined settlement—twisted girders, shattered stone, charred earth. A place abandoned by time, maybe erased by monsters.

A lone man stood amidst the wreckage. 𝒇𝒓𝙚𝒆𝔀𝓮𝓫𝒏𝓸𝙫𝓮𝓵.𝓬𝙤𝙢

Armored head to toe. Saber at his hip. His stance loose, almost casual—but the air bent around him. Oppressive. Lethal.

Ezra stepped back, instincts flaring.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice steady but cold.

The man looked up, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

"Ryun Jae-suk. Vice Leader of the Crimson Guild," he said. "I’m here to kill you."

Ezra’s eyes narrowed. "You really think you’ll walk away from that?"

"The Academy might try to kill me. Whatever. Doesn’t matter," Ryun said, rolling his neck. "The people above me said they’ll handle it."

"Who?"

Ryun didn’t answer.

Instead, he drew his saber.

Red mana surged to life, crackling like wildfire.

"You ask too many questions," Ryun said, eyes glowing faintly. "Let’s get this over with."

Then he vanished.

A sonic boom shattered the silence as Ryun blurred forward. Ezra barely tracked the movement—but his Insight flared. He reacted.

He raised his blade, wrapping it in violet mana—and stepped in instead of back.

Spiral Redirection.

Steel met steel in a shriek of sparks as Ezra turned the incoming blow aside. Ryun’s saber missed by inches.

Ezra spun, bringing his heel around in a reinforced roundhouse kick. His boot slammed into Ryun’s chest, hurling him backward across the rubble.

Ezra landed in a crouch, re-centering his stance.

"Rank 6," he muttered. The pressure Ryun radiated confirmed it.

Ryun stood up slowly, brushing dust from his chestplate.

"Rank 4, huh? But you can still deflect an attack from a Rank 6... Not bad, I guess."

He smirked. "Then let me show you what a Rank 6 can do."

He lifted his hand.

The ground trembled. A massive boulder tore from the earth and flew toward Ezra—followed by a swarm of crimson blades, conjured from raw mana.

"Let’s see how long you last."

Ezra’s grip tightened.

"Steel Curtain Formation!"

His blade blurred, tracing tight arcs, forming a wall of violet energy—layer upon layer of defense.

The boulder hit first, slamming into the formation. Ezra grunted, boots skidding—but he held.

Then came the blades.

One. Two. A dozen.

Each one hammered into his guard, throwing sparks, pushing him to the brink. His arms trembled, blood and sweat mixing on his skin.

Still, Ryun conjured more.

Ezra gritted his teeth.

"This won’t end."

He dropped the formation.

The next wave tore through.

Blades sliced across his arms and legs—drawing blood, searing pain—but Ezra didn’t stop.

He charged.

Straight through the storm.

Ryun’s eyes flicked in surprise. "Reckless."

Ezra deflected what he could, dodged what he couldn’t. Pure instinct drove him forward raw, brutal, unrelenting.

Ryun rose into the air, summoning another barrage.

Ezra didn’t slow. He kept going—and going.

And then...

He let go.

He launched himself toward Ryun.

His sword pulsed. Then glowed.

Violet-white light.

Sword Aura.

He launched skyward, blade blazing as it cut through air and fate alike.

Their swords met midair.

A shockwave exploded across the ruins.

Ryun’s eyes widened. "Aura....?"

He snarled, slashing harder. "How can a kid like you have an aura?"

They clashed again. In a blur of motion, Ezra and Ryun’s swords met multiple times, each strike sharper and faster than the last.

Ryun’s saber slipped past caught Ezra in the ribs.

Ezra fell.

He crashed into the ground, dust and stone rising like a funeral shroud.

Above, Ryun hovered staring at his own blade.

He looked down at Ezra.

Eighteen years old.

And he had it something He haven’t.

Jealousy slithered in, venomous and cold.

"This was supposed to be simple," Ryun muttered. "Killing a single Kid"

But now?

Now there was a crack in his pride.

He was a killer. A weapon honed through war. A master of technique and blood.

And yet... he hadn’t even awakened his aura yet.

He descended slowly, mana humming like thunder.

Ezra crawled from the crater, blood soaking his shirt. Bones screamed. Vision swam.

But he stood.

He reached into his ring, drank a healing potion. The bleeding slowed—but the damage remained.

Still... he stood.

The violet-white aura flared—brighter now. Heavier. Sharper.

It was evolving.

With every breath.

Every heartbeat.

Every moment spent defying fate.

Ezra wiped blood from his mouth. He smiled—broken, bloody, unbowed.

"Come on, then."

Ryun answered without a word.

He disappeared.

BOOM.

The ground split. Ryun was there—a blur of destruction.

His saber fell like divine judgment.

Ezra didn’t flinch.

He met the strike.

Violet met crimson.

A blinding flash lit the ruins. Wind howled. Debris lifted skyward as if the world itself held its breath.

Their eyes locked.

Ezra swung from the side Ryun blocked.

He twisted and struck again Ryun parried.

Another blow. Another clash. Sparks ignited with every impact.

Then they vanished.

Speed blurred their forms. They danced across the battlefield like shadows slashing through light. Steel met steel in rapid-fire bursts—an orchestra of war echoing through the air.

One strike. Two. Five. Ten.

Each blow faster than the last. The shockwaves carved trenches in the earth.

Ezra’s foot landed on a falling slab of debris mid-air—he launched from it like a bullet. Ryun flipped backward, kicking off broken rebar, deflecting a slash by a hair’s width.

Their movements weren’t just fast. They were beautiful.

Ezra slashed—

And suddenly there were three of him.

His sword shimmered, his aura pulsing with intensity. Violet clones split off his form, each mimicking his strikes with perfect precision.

Ryun’s eyes narrowed. "Illusions?"

He blocked the first—then the second. The third struck his shoulder, sparks flying as armor cracked.

They weren’t illusions.

They were Sword Echoes—clones formed from aura and memory, each swing syncing perfectly with his intent.

Ryun growled and unleashed a burst of red mana, vaporizing two clones—but Ezra was already there.

Their blades met again. This time, Ryun’s saber cracked.

Not broken. But weakened.

Ezra’s aura kept growing.

Ryun suddenly jumped back, boots skidding against broken stone.

He didn’t even try to hide the shock on his face. His crimson eyes narrowed, breath uneven.

"This kid... no, this monster—he’s getting stronger as we fight?"

Ezra’s aura flared wildly. Violet sparks danced across his sword, and though blood still trickled from his lips, his stance held firm. It wasn’t just resolve anymore—it was evolution. Something inside him was shifting.

Ryun clicked his tongue.

"I can’t drag this out anymore."

He slowly raised his sword skyward.

His mana surged—no, it howled.

The wind died.

The world stilled.

The battlefield trembled.

"You should feel honored, Ezra," Ryun said coldly. "This technique... I forged it from the souls of everyone I’ve ever slain."

His blade ignited in red light—but not fire. Memory. Wrath. Vengeance.

Ryun’s voice thundered as crimson runes formed a circle beneath his feet:

"Mana Lord Technique – Sword of Thousand Graves!" From the cracked earth, phantom blades rose—one by one. Some ancient, others jagged and modern. Each carried a distinct aura. Some burned, some chilled, some wept, some screamed. A hundred, then two hundred—floating around Ryun in a rotating spiral.

They shimmered silver and crimson, like a funeral march lit by dying suns.

Ezra instinctively stepped back.

"What... is this?"

Then the swords moved.

All at once.

The first wave descended on Ezra like a swarm. He barely blocked the first four—his sword clashing in a frantic blur—but the fifth blade curved unnaturally and grazed his rib, slicing flesh. Blood burst out.

He tried to retreat, but the next wave came.

A flaming katana. A curved dagger made of ice. A jagged greatsword etched with screaming faces.

Ezra fought like a cornered animal. His violet aura flared defensively, but the blades never struck in the same pattern twice. They were alive—imitating Ryun’s past battles—attacking in tandem, unpredictable, perfect.

"I can’t... match the rhythm," Ezra muttered, panting.

One sword pierced his shoulder. Another cut across his thigh. A third slammed into his ribs, sending him crashing backward.

He hit the ground hard, rolling across blood-soaked stone. His vision blurred.

Dust choked the air. Crimson ghost-blades lay shattered in the earth. The battlefield was cratered like a graveyard, and at its broken center, Ezra knelt—bloodied, still, his breath shallow, his sword a dead weight beside him.

Ryun stood tall, victorious. His armor gleamed with blood not his own. His breathing calmed. It was over—or so he believed.

Then—

Tick...

A faint sound pierced the silence. Not from the world—but from beyond it.

Tick... tick...

Ezra’s eye snapped open.

No longer violet.

Not even aura.

White. Blinding. Absolute.

Like time itself had chosen him.

Ryun’s brow furrowed. He took a step forward—

But the world didn’t move.

Everything froze.

The ash in the air.

The wind in the trees.

Ryun himself—locked in place, eyes wide in confusion.

Ezra rose—not like a wounded man, but like a god ascending.

His sword lifted into his palm without touch, glowing faintly, as though remembering a song written beyond reality.

He spoke softly.

A whisper beneath eternity.

"Your swords are born from the past."

"Mine... is from the future."

And with that, time fractured.

Reality folded inward—layer upon layer of infinite versions of what could be, had been, and never will.

In that suspended eternity, Ezra invoked it:

"Mana Lord Technique: Chronoblade—Requiem of the Last Second."

One step.

Not a dash. Not a teleport.

A single step that bypassed cause and consequence, as if walking through memory itself.

He appeared before Ryun—who remained frozen, locked in the final heartbeat of his life.

Ezra met his eyes, calm and resolute.

"Let me show you... the last second."

He swung.

A clean arc.

No sound.

No flash.

Just a sensation—like the world being rewritten.

The cut didn’t tear flesh.

It severed fate.

Ryun stood for a moment longer, suspended between seconds.

Then his body split—diagonally, elegantly.

Crimson scattered into the air like dying stars.

His lips moved.

"haha....Who have...cough ..cough....thought haha...."

And then he fell.

Silence.

Ezra dropped to one knee.

His blade cracked, then shattered into light. His aura flared—then flickered out. He coughed blood, every nerve aflame, every breath earned.

But he lived.

Time roared back into the world like a hurricane—wind howling, trees snapping, dust ripping through the air.

The storm passed.

Ezra stood alone.

Broken.

Victorious.