Supreme Spouse System.

Chapter 291: Rage Pill: When Men Become Rage Monsters [Part-2]

Rage Pill: When Men Become Rage Monsters [Part-2]

”RAAAHHHH!!”

That scream—if you could even call it that—didn’t sound human anymore. It ripped out of his throat like something primal, shaking the damn ground, rattling the broken bones of nearby ruins. His veins bulged, alive and throbbing across his neck, his forehead, his whole face like they might burst. The air around him twisted, warped from the raw, violent storm blazing off him. It wasn’t just power anymore.

It was hunger. Bloodlust. Like something had been torn loose inside him—something feral, something that didn’t care who lived or died.

A roar—monstrous, deafening—tore through the smoke-filled street, louder than the collapsing rubble, louder than the fires still burning. Something inside him had awakened. Something old. Something with no name.

”Come,” Captain Black muttered, voice low, blade rising slow and steady like it weighed more than steel. His eyes didn’t waver. ”I’ve fought worse than you.”

No more words.

The Rage-driven warrior charged—just a blur of chaos and heat and violence. Fists clenched. Blade flashing. Pure madness in motion.

Black met him head-on, no hesitation. Steel screamed the second it clashed with fury, metal straining against raw destruction. But this wasn’t a regular fight, and this wasn’t a regular enemy. Every hit from the berserker came down like a siege hammer—each blow cracking the stone beneath them, shattering the air with shockwaves that split nearby walls like glass.

Black staggered. Boots dragged across fractured stone. His sword groaned... then snapped.

The monster grinned—wide and unhinged. ”What now?!”

Black didn’t answer. Just dropped the broken blade. Let it fall like it didn’t matter anymore. His eyes sharpened. And he raised his fists.

”You’re not the only one who knows how to fight barehanded.”

And then they collided—skin to skin, bone to bone.

Black anchored himself, digging in with the weight of the earth behind him. Every muscle braced from heel to shoulder. The first strike came like lightning—he caught it, but his arm still dropped under the impact. Second blow sliced through the air, fast, cruel—it barely missed, carving a bloody line across his cheek. The third? He parried it, twisted in tight, and buried a punch into the bastard’s ribs—water and wind crackling off his knuckles like a storm coiled in his hand.

But the monster didn’t flinch.

Didn’t even blink.

Just kept moving. Stepping forward. Heavier with each step.

”You’re insane,” Black muttered, backing off just a hair as the ground splintered beneath them, mana and muscle crashing in a brutal symphony.

And then he struck back.

His fist slammed into the berserker’s ribs—hard, deep, water and earth detonating on contact. Ducking under the next wild swing, he hit the gut five times in rapid bursts, knuckles cracking against flesh, before twisting into a spinning kick that sent the monster stumbling.

Didn’t stop him though.

”Tck. Still got seven minutes!” the berserker howled, laughter peeling off his lips like madness made flesh.

The fight didn’t let up. Not even a second.

Flames erupted around them, their blows throwing molten chunks of stone into the air like fireworks born of hell. Every movement carved deep, ugly scars into the land. Walls collapsed. Smoke poured into the sky. And still they fought.

Soldiers nearby—trying to guide civilians out—dared to glance back.

And froze in place.

”Things are getting out of hand...”

Screams started echoing down the streets.

”Evacuate faster! That area’s about to collapse!”

Black didn’t blink as a fist full of flame exploded into his chest, silver armor bending, groaning, caving inward. He grunted—but didn’t fall. His own fist swung back, soaked in concentrated water mana, and smashed into the enemy’s face. Blood and teeth flew in a crimson arc.

Still... still, the berserker didn’t stop.

He roared—something raw and unhinged—and threw his hand to the sky. Behind Black, the earth split and belched fire, flames rising like a wall with a hiss like breathing hate.

Then, with a flick of the wrist, a spiral of wind howled to life in his palm.

It launched like a cannon. Slammed into Black’s back.

Lifted him off his feet. Threw him clear across the square.

CRASH!

The wall behind him shattered as he smashed through it, the impact cracking bones and stone alike. The city groaned under the weight of it. The rubble collapsed in on itself in a roar of dust and ruin.

Smoke rolled in, thick and choking. Ash burned the eyes. Burned the lungs.

CRACK!

Another hit. SLAM!

Black’s body slammed into the next wall—harder this time. The stone cracked behind him. Wavered. Then gave way. Collapsing into a heap of dust and debris with a last pitiful creak.

And through it all, through the rising smoke and the flicker of flame—

A voice.

Sharp. Clear. Like steel cutting through the noise.

A caster’s voice.

”[Searing Gale: Tempest Vault!]”

A surge of green light slashed through the haze, mana whipping forward in a line of raw force. It caught Black just before the stones buried him, wrapping around him tight.

Then—whoosh!

He was yanked from the rubble, lifted out of death’s reach, sliding through the air in a shimmer of green light until his boots touched down again. Alive.

And then—

A voice.

A whisper. Low. Rough.

”You’re slipping, old friend.” Another gust of wind tore through the smoke, ripping it away like a veil. And there—framed in firelight, blood trickling down his brow, hair wild and clothes in shreds—stood a man.

Ronan.

Black blinked, wiped soot from his lashes. ”Ronan...?”

The man gave a crooked little grin, half blood, half mischief. Wiped the smear from his mouth like it didn’t matter. ”Miss me?”

Black exhaled, short and sharp. Shook his head, almost smiling. ”Just a little.”

There he was.

The shadow of the Lord. His left hand. His brother in arms.

”You look like shit,” Black muttered as he pushed himself up with a grunt.

”Likewise,” Ronan smirked, tilting his neck until it popped.

They stood there, side by side—scarred, burned, but standing. Breathing. The air still buzzed around them, thick with smoke and tension and something like memory.

The Rage-infused warrior snarled the moment he saw Ronan step in, eyes flaring with something close to hatred.

”Another mutt? Tch. I’ll kill both of you.”

Ronan cocked a brow like it was all just mildly annoying. ”A rage monster, huh? Sounds like fun.”

Then he turned, just slightly, eyes still locked on the frothing beast. ”Need a hand?” he asked, that same smirk pulling at his lips.

Black grinned, jaw bruised, teeth bloodied. ”A little.”

”Then let’s do this. For old times.”

And just like that—the weight of a hundred battles behind them—they moved.

The monster came first, charging like an animal, a wall of fury and muscle and madness. But it wasn’t a one-man fight anymore.

Black threw up a shield, the stone itself rising to meet his will, just in time. The berserker’s fist slammed into it with a thunderous boom, the shock rattling the ground.

And Ronan? He was already gone.

Just a blur—there one second, gone the next, flashing past the beast’s vision like dusk swallowing light.

”I’ll keep him busy,” Black barked, his voice rough with heat. ”You go for the kill.”

”Got it,” Ronan said, already circling, fast and low, like a predator cutting wide around prey.

And then the fight twisted into something else.

A dance.

Chaos and discipline.

Black charged first, screaming a war cry that rolled through the ruins like thunder. Wind curled around his arms, spinning into his strikes, making every blow sharper, faster, heavier. His fists landed again and again, pounding the monster backward, each impact breaking the rhythm—just long enough for Ronan to move in.

The monster turned, growling—just in time.

Another punch. Black, straight to the gut.

The beast stumbled.

And that was the opening.

From the smoke, from the ragged edges of the fight, Ronan stepped forward.

Blade already drawn. Already moving.

Steel hissed through the air.

A single clean slash ripped across the monster’s chest, blood spraying hot across the broken stone. The creature screamed—rage, pain, fury all twisted together.

It swung back, wild, savage—but Black ducked low, twisting away in time, and then—

CRACK!

A roundhouse to the jaw. The monster’s head snapped sideways as it staggered.

And that—right there—that was the end.

Black’s core burned with mana. He drew deep—earth, water—channeling it all into his legs. A shout ripped out of him, and he flew forward, fists glowing.

The uppercut came fast and brutal, smashing into the monster’s chin. Lifted him off his feet.

His eyes went wide—shock, disbelief.

Before he could plant himself again, before his body could catch up to the moment—

Ronan was there.

Behind him.

Blade raised.

One last strike.

A clean arc. A single moment.

SHHHHINK—!

The sword sliced clean through. The monster’s head flew, spinning through smoke and fire, then hit the ground with a dull, wet thud. Rolled once. Stopped.

The body twitched.

As if it still hadn’t caught up.

Then it fell—heavy and graceless.

Collapsed.

Done.

And the silence that followed...

That was the kind of silence only death could leave behind.

Nothing but the crackle of fire now, the hiss of burning stone. The air still thick with ash. Blood pooled and glistened in the flicker of flame.

Ronan and Black stood there. Breathing hard. Swords low. Shoulders heavy with the weight of it.

”...It’s over,” Ronan murmured, eyes locked on the twitching corpse.

”Yeah,” Black breathed. Voice quiet. Almost tired.

Then Ronan turned, sharp again. ”Where’s the Lord?”

”Somewhere in the city,” Black said, still catching up to himself. ”Split the force. Went off alone. Said he had to handle another group... and rescue civilians.”

Ronan’s jaw clenched. ”But my daughter...?”

”She’s safe,” Black said without hesitation. ”In the mansion’s basement. Protected by Lady Rias and Lady Kyra.”

Ronan blinked. ”Wait... Lady Rias and Lady Kyra?” The disbelief cracked through his voice. ”They’re the ones guarding her?”

”They’re Grandmasters now,” Black said, and for the first time, a small smile tugged at his lips. ”Just like that. Don’t underestimate them.”

”...What? How?” Ronan shook his head, blinking. ”Both?”

”Lady Rias... and almost every woman with her... they’re Grandmasters now too.” Black’s voice dropped, soft with something that sounded like awe. ”I was on night duty for part of the journey. Assigned to guard the Duke’s tent. You know, just in case...”

He paused, firelight flickering across his face.

”And during that time... I saw things. Lady Rias would slip into his tent late. More than once.”

He let the silence sit.

”And every time she came out... the next morning... she’d smile. Not fake—real. Like something had bloomed inside her. She looked stronger. Not just her. Every woman who went in... even the maids... they came out changed. Sharper. Brighter. Like their essence had grown.”

Ronan opened his mouth, but all that came out was a breath. ”Are you saying...” He couldn’t even finish it. The words just faded in the heat.

Black didn’t answer. Just shook his head, slow. Eyes distant, unfocused—like he was still trying to wrap his head around it.

Ronan stepped forward. Gripped his shoulder. ”Hey. Don’t drift.”

Black blinked—snapped back. That haze left his eyes.

Then, almost under his breath, he said, ”I don’t know what Lord Leon is anymore... but if he’s helping women break through to Grandmaster like that... through night activity...”

”...It’s dangerous,” Ronan whispered. It just slipped out.

”Very,” Black said, with a crooked little smile tugging at his bruised mouth. ”But that’s good for us.”

Ronan nodded. Slow. Firm. His gaze sharpened, focused again. ”Yeah.”

Black exhaled long, then shook his head. Like he was forcing all those strange thoughts out, back into the fire.

”Let’s move. We still have people to save.”

”Right. I need to find Lord Leon,” Ronan said, his voice shifting—serious now. Cold. ”There’s something I have to tell him.”

”Then let’s go.” Black’s tone left no room for questions.

They turned together—past blood and rubble and flame. Cloaks trailing in ash. Boots crunching over bones of stone and burnt-out steel.

They pushed deeper into the city.

Toward the chaos. Toward the heart of Silver City.

Behind them, the headless corpse of the rage monster smoked in silence, fire chewing through what little was left of it. Its ashes scattered on the wind.

But the war wasn’t over.

Leon still fought.

And the city still bled.