067 The Winner Has Already Been Decided

With this move, Sparka had pierced countless opponents. In the last Battle Olympia, he used this very technique to turn defeat into victory and claim the championship.

He was confident that the same move would annihilate all his opponents again!

Sparka believed in his Nen, just as Ronnel had unwavering confidence in his own strength and Nen abilities.

After honing his advanced style day and night for over half a year, absorbing astonishing quantities of Nen from the Hunter's Mausoleum, and taking down numerous opponents along the way, Ronnel feared no one!

Boom!

Their fists collided, a golden spear clashing with Ronnel's air-infused punch, which acted like an indestructible shield.

The impact caused a shockwave, and wherever it went, the stone floor cracked, creating fractures. Soon, half of the arena was left in ruins.

This was a battle of Nen against Nen, strength against strength—a test of the true power each had accumulated over time.

Crack!

A faint sound echoed, and to the shock of every Nen user watching, Sparka's spear, locked in a stalemate with Ronnel's fist, began to shatter—inch by inch!

The spear, representing Sparka's fierce offensive power, was crushed by Ronnel's overwhelming defense.

"Impossible!"

Sparka's face twisted in disbelief. But before he could even process what was happening, searing pain shot through his body.

"Ahhh!!"

The spear and his fist were one, and as the spear shattered, so too did his hand. His steel glove cracked, and his arm twisted into an unnatural shape under the immense force.

As pain clouded his mind, a moment of clarity struck Sparka.

"If Ronnel's fist has this much power, it means he's using 'Ryu,' concentrating most of his Nen in his fist! The rest of his body is unprotected!"

Decades of experience in life-or-death combat guided Sparka to make a desperate move. He channeled what little energy he had left into his other arm and struck at what seemed to be an opening in Ronnel's defenses.

"Even if I lose an arm, I'll be the one to win!!"

A grim smile crept across Sparka's face, anticipating the agony Ronnel would soon experience.

Boom!

His punch landed—only for Sparka's grin to freeze in place.

"Not bad, Champion. That punch had some force—it even made my hand tremble."

Ronnel stood calmly, his ancient copper saber having blocked Sparka's attack. With a slight push, Ronnel deflected Sparka's fist and, before anyone could react, swung the blade at Sparka's neck.

Caught off guard, Sparka barely had time to lift his arm in defense.

Sching...

The blade sliced through the air with ease, cleanly severing Sparka's arm.

But that wasn't all.

Ronnel's eyes glinted. With a flick of his wrist, he changed the angle of his strike and, using the flat of the blade, slammed it against Sparka's chest.

Pfft!

A mouthful of blood sprayed from Sparka's mouth as he was sent flying like a kite with its string cut.

With a loud thud, he crashed to the ground, motionless.

The battle was over.

Ronnel sheathed his blade, adjusted his windbreaker, and slowly walked toward Sparka, who now lay on the ground, barely breathing.

The audience was utterly silent.

From the moment Ronnel and Sparka exchanged their initial blows, the arena had held its breath. In the blink of an eye, the battle had reached its stunning conclusion.

Ronnel stood tall, barely touched, while Sparka lay on the ground, his arm mangled, the other severed, and his chest caved in.

The difference between the two was stark.

The winner had been decided.

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