SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS

The first light of morning spilled over the tournament arena, painting the marble tiles in gold and crimson. A faint mist still lingered in the air, curling around the towering stone pillars that bore the banners of the Five Peaks. The vast stands were already alive with voices, the crowd buzzing with speculation and excitement after the previous day’s fierce battles.

On the arena floor, the last echoes of the fourth round had faded with the rising sun. Broken fragments of spelllight and cracked stone bore witness to the duels fought through the night. Of the thousands who had stepped into the trials, only two hundred and fifty now stood upon the sacred ground. Their robes were torn, their breathing heavy, but their eyes burned with the determination of those who had survived the crucible.

High above, in the central judge’s pavilion, Elder Xu Shen—his long silver beard swaying like a waterfall of moonlight—stepped forward. The crowd fell silent as his deep voice rolled across the arena, carried by spiritual amplification.

“The fourth round has ended. You all have proven yourselves worthy to step further upon the path of glory. The names of the victors, along with your current standings, will now be displayed.”

At his gesture, the Aurora Glass—a colossal crystal screen suspended in the air—flared to life. Threads of light wove together into shimmering names, each glowing with their respective rank. Gasps and murmurs rippled through the stands.

At the very top, unshaken since the first day, blazed the name:

No. 1 — Kent King

His place remained unchallenged. Some disciples looked up at that name with admiration, others with envy sharp enough to cut stone. Rumors whispered among the crowd—of impossible victories, of hidden strength no one had yet seen unleashed.

The ranks shifted and reshaped beneath him, the second and third positions now claimed by fierce duelists from the Sword and Flame Peaks. A few new names had clawed their way into the top ten, their rise met with both cheers and bitter silence from those who had fallen.

Once the murmurs settled, Elder Xu Shen raised his hand again.

“The next trial—the Fifth Round—will not be fought as single duels. It will be a Group Elimination Battle. Twenty-five groups will be formed, each holding ten disciples. The rules are simple—fight until only two remain standing in your group. Those two will advance to the sixth round.”

The crowd erupted with noise—excitement, dread, and speculation swirling together like a storm.

“Remember,” the Elder’s voice grew heavier, “this is not a test of blind ferocity. You will need strategy, alliances, and awareness. In a battlefield where ten seek survival, the reckless perish first.”

He paused, letting the tension sink in. Then, with a slight smile, he added—

“And for those who not only survive, but emerge as the final victor of your group, there will be special rewards—rare spiritual treasures and cultivation resources chosen by the Council. Fifty winners will claim these benefits.”

The eyes of many disciples lit up with greed and ambition. Surviving was one thing—but to be the last one standing? That was a chance to seize both glory and power.

Elder Xu Shen closed his speech with the weight of finality.

“You have until midday to recover your strength. Once the sun reaches its zenith, the twenty-five battlefields will open, and the group eliminations will begin.”

The Aurora Glass dimmed, and the names dissolved into motes of light that drifted down like snow. Around the arena, disciples exchanged tense glances, already calculating who they might ally with—or betray—when the chaos began.

–

The morning haze had barely lifted from the city streets when the square before the Golden Rat Gambling House became a boiling sea of voices. The next round of the Trident Summit was to be a group elimination, and whispers had already spread like wildfire—Kent Hall’s reign would end today.

By the time the sun’s first rays struck the polished golden signboard of the gambling house, thousands of people had gathered in perfect lines, stretching down the street like disciplined ranks of soldiers. The uniformity wasn’t from respect—it was the iron rule of the Golden Rat: order first, chaos after.

Excitement throbbed in the air. People shouted wagers to one another, laughing and jeering as Kent’s name rolled off their tongues like a curse and a joke.

“A lone wolf in a pack of ten? Ha! He’ll be devoured before he even draws his first spell!”

“No way he makes it past the first clash! Watch him get swarmed!”

“Golden Rat, open the betting! Let us make our money off the fool!”

The noise rose into a roar, the air thick with the smell of sweat, greed, and hot street food drifting from nearby stalls. Even the upper balconies overlooking the square were crowded with noble sons and merchants, their eyes glittering at the chance to profit from the downfall of the man who had humiliated so many.

Inside, behind the polished jade counter, Fatty Ben sat comfortably in his crimson brocade robes, twirling a polished jade abacus between his fingers. His plump cheeks wobbled as he grinned at the swelling crowd outside.

He could have lowered the odds and guaranteed safe profits. He could have bowed to the pressure of thousands demanding an easy bet. But Fatty Ben was not called the “Golden Rat’s Poison Fang” for nothing.

With a voice amplified by spiritual formation, he declared—

“For the fifth round, odds for Kent Hall to emerge victorious are set at—one to seventy!”

The effect was immediate. The crowd erupted into a frenzy, as though a dam had burst and the river of greed was set loose. Mana crystals—blue, pure, and gleaming—began flying across the counters like a flood, the clerks of the Golden Rat barely keeping pace with the wagers being thrown down.

“Master Red Face, do something! that fat bag is taking all our wealth. We are losing millions every hour. We will face sever losses.” The gamblers complained in humble manner.

Red Face already held 20 million Mana-crystals!