All Chapters of Romanticism System: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

Seojun’s eyes narrowed, his body twisting with the fluid grace of someone who had drilled the move a thousand times. His roundhouse kick cut through the air with brutal speed—far faster than Joonwoo’s untrained reflexes could fully react to. (Taekwondo—!) Joonwoo tried to twist away, but the strike connected. “—Argh!” Pain shot through his ribs, forcing the breath from his lungs as he stumbled sideways, his hand clutching his side. The crowd gasped, a ripple of murmurs echoing against the alley walls. Seojun landed smoothly, posture unbroken, eyes sharp. His voice carried no sympathy—only cold judgment. “Is that it? You’re too weak.” The words stung more than the kick. Joonwoo’s breathing steadied as he straightened his posture. His sunny smile faltered for the first time, replaced by a quiet resolve flickering in his eyes. (If I need to beat him… I have to use those two cards.) The system’s faint glow shimmered before him, unseen by others. ⟢ Speed Enhance (One-Time Use) A

“This technique is made for those who have conviction. And conviction…” He clenched his fist, his knuckles whitening. “…Conviction comes from the heart.” The crowd erupted in murmurs half disbelieving, half awestruck. Kang Daejin scoffed, though his voice betrayed unease. “Tch—heart? What is he, a poet? Seojun doesn’t need ‘heart,’ he’s—” Hayoon cut him off with a sharp glare. “…Shut up and look closer, idiot. Seojun’s punch didn’t even scratch him.” Daejin’s mouth hung open. “…No way.” Meanwhile, Joo Minsung’s jaw clenched. His mind whirled. Jihoon, arms crossed, only whispered under his breath, eyes flickering with something like curiosity. “…Seojun….” Back in the ring, Seojun staggered back a single step, teeth grinding. His pride screamed at him to reject those words, to deny Joonwoo’s claim. But deep inside, something twisted. The memory of that man. The one who fought not with talent, not with raw strength, but with something Seojun had never understood. Convicti

The crowd was frozen, breaths caught in throats. Ma Dongpil’s mouth hung open, almost whispering:“…Did… did he beat Seojun?”Seungmin’s hands shook as he muttered, “No… no way… that’s impossible…”Even Park Jihoon, usually composed and authoritative, leaned forward, narrowing his eyes with a mixture of concern and begrudging respect. (He actually staggered Seojun… that boy… he’s not just lucky. There’s something else there…)Seojun finally groaned, sitting up slowly. His breathing was uneven, sweat and dust covering his uniform. He wiped the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, his sharp eyes now locking onto Joonwoo not with the rage that had filled them before, but with a mixture of pain, awe, and something dangerously close to respect.“You… you’re serious,” Seojun muttered, almost to himself. “This… this isn’t just strength… this is…” He shook his head, trying to push down the thoughts, trying to mask the unfamiliar emotions coiling inside him.Joonwoo tilted his head,

After 2 days…The rooftop was quiet except for the soft hiss of Han Minjae’s cigarette. Smoke curled lazily into the air, dancing over the pale evening light. His blond hair caught the sun as he leaned back against the ledge, eyes narrowing toward the school grounds below. Each exhale carried authority, an unspoken weight that made the second-year leaders kneel instinctively before him.Reo, the strongest among them, kept his gaze steady, fists resting on his knees. His black slicked-back hair glinted under the sun.“We are doing our investigation, sir,” he said, voice calm but firm.Han Minjae’s sharp gaze swept over the four leaders, stopping briefly on each face as if measuring their worth. His hand tapped lightly against the edge of the rooftop.“I heard… someone outside our faction has beaten one of the first-year leaders,” he said, exhaling smoke. His tone was soft, but every word carried the weight of a challenge.Park Hyunwoo, compact and wiry, shifted uncomfortably. His spiky

As Minsung’s chest heaved as he took a shallow breath, the taste of sweat sharp in his mouth. His muscles screamed in protest, but he ignored it. His father’s stern voice, echoing through years of training, mixed with his mother’s unyielding determination: “Never stop, no matter the odds. Every strike, every hold, every throw… you must make it count.”He remembered her words clearly the Russian master who had never been defeated by his own husband, relentless and precise. “Fight with your mind as much as your body, Minsung. Predict. Control. Conquer.”The remaining thugs lunged forward in unison, their confidence bolstered by numbers. Minsung’s eyes flicked across them, scanning posture, spacing, weight distribution—subtle tells, nothing wasted.“Alright… let’s dance,” he muttered, cracking his neck, letting the adrenaline sharpen his reflexes.The first thug swung a wild overhand. Minsung stepped inside, ducking the blow in a fluid motion, twisting his hips, and executed a textbook S