SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS

Of the 1800 disciples who had climbed the Immortal Living Pool Mountain, only 1300 remained—wounded, exhausted, and wary, but alive and prepared for the final test.

The Grand Arena beneath the mountain was vast, circular, and haunting. Its stone walls bore claw marks and dried bloodstains, scars of previous trials that still lingered in the air like whispers of defeat. Iron cages lined the outer periphery, covered with thick curtains and sealing runes, each holding within them beasts waiting to be unleashed.

An elder wearing grey robes embroidered with silver vines appeared at the center of the arena. His presence silenced the murmurs among the gathered disciples. He walked slowly, his cane tapping against the stone, his eyes solemn.

“You are the final ones chosen by fate,” he began, his voice echoing with a strange, commanding resonance. “But survival and worth are not guaranteed by fate alone. Your strength must be tested by battle. One-on-one.”

A ripple of unease passed through the crowd.

“You will face a beast of equal strength and elemental affinity. The Mind Stone has already judged you. You will be given no more than one incense stick’s time—roughly three minutes—to either subdue or kill the beast. If you survive without doing either, it is considered a failure. If you fall, you are eliminated—or worse. Prepare yourselves.”

He raised a hand. The center of the arena lit up with a dull blue glow as glowing lines formed a circle. A disciple stepped forward, hesitant, and stood upon the glowing sigil. The circle assessed his strength and elemental aura—lightning type, mid-Sky level. The seal flickered, and from one of the cages, gears whirred and chains clanked.

The curtain on one of the cages pulled back, and a large, winged leopard with lightning sparks running across its back stepped forward. Its eyes were cold, wild. With a screech that sliced through the air like a blade, it leapt forward.

The disciple tried to put up a defense, raising a staff and casting a shield of lightning around himself, but the leopard twisted mid-air and sent a spinning magical wind spiral that shattered the shield in an instant. The attack sent the boy flying against the arena wall, blood trailing in the air. The match ended in seconds.

Gasps rose from the disciples. The elder simply waved a hand. The cage retracted. A few healers dragged the unconscious body away.

A hush fell again before the next name was called. A tall woman stepped forward with a calm expression. She held a silver wand etched with moonlight runes and bowed before stepping into the ring. The sigil lit up—Fire element, early Sky level. The gears ground again. This time, from a different cage, came an ear-splitting growl.

A three-headed hound, each head snarling and baring teeth soaked in an eerie crimson mist, stepped out. Its tails flicked with anticipation, and its paws pulsed with magical beams.

The battle began the moment the hound charged. The lady raised her wand and cast a barrage of fire spears. One head of the hound absorbed the blows directly, its thick skin deflecting most of the damage, while the other two snapped at her from the sides.

She rolled away, barely dodging a claw strike that tore a deep gash in her robe. With gritted teeth, she created a flaming barrier around her, but the hound didn’t relent. It pawed forward, the ground beneath it cracking as magical shockwaves burst from its claws. The air shimmered.

Blood leaked from the lady’s shoulder, and one of her legs trembled. Still, she refused to yield. She cast a rapid-fire incantation, launching two wide flame arcs, and followed with a focused lance of molten fire. This time, it struck between the eyes of one head, piercing deep. The hound yelped and faltered.

She didn’t stop. She summoned a fiery whip and lashed it around the beast’s neck, dragging it sideways. With a final effort, she slammed a combustion orb into the beast’s chest. The explosion knocked them both off their feet.

When the dust settled, she was barely conscious, crawling, but the beast lay unmoving.

The elder gave a faint nod. “Accepted. Barely.”

Healers rushed forward to stabilize her as murmurs of admiration spread among the disciples. Each match was brutal. Each moment passed with clenched fists and silent prayers. And in the distance, Kent stood with arms folded, his eyes calm but alert.

He was still waiting for his turn.

One after another, disciples stepped into the ring, only to limp or be carried out broken. Some clutched torn arms, others bled from deep gashes, and some never stood up again.

Over a hundred had survived, barely. But twenty-three had not. Their bodies lay covered in white cloth on the side, their names quietly struck from the stone records by trembling elder hands.

The disciples huddled in hushed groups now, watching the next match with pale faces.

“This is madness,” one whispered, clutching a charm tightly.

“How can we fight those beasts… some of them have ancient bloodlines!” another muttered.

“I saw the snake-blade wolf crush that boy’s bones like twigs. That could’ve been me…”

“I’d rather lose and be thrown out than die here,” someone admitted, voice shaking.

But amidst the growing tide of murmurs and fear, one figure stood still—unmoved, silent.

Kent.

His expression was calm. Stoic. His gaze remained fixed on the arena, not flinching when screams echoed or blood splashed the stones. There was no pride in his eyes, no fear either—only a strange patience, like a storm waiting behind the clouds. Even the disciples near him slowly stopped talking, sensing the stillness around him like standing near the eye of a hurricane.

He was the last.

“All participants tested,” the elder finally announced, his voice echoing off the arena walls. “Only one remains.”

Everyone turned.

“Kent King. Step forward.”

Kent walked into the center of the glowing ring. Every elder present had now gathered around the arena, some floating mid-air, others standing atop stone balconies. Even the record keepers had stopped writing, their scrolls forgotten.

The sigil under Kent’s feet began to hum. At first, nothing happened.

Then the glow spread. The arena itself shifted.

Multiple cages creaked and wheeled backward, making space—an unnatural silence following their retreat. Then came the sound of chains being dragged. A single massive cage rolled forward from a hidden chamber.

Gasps spread like wildfire.

Inside, curled in sleep, was a monstrous beast the size of a house. A humanoid creature with skin like black stone, four spiral horns on its head, and muscular limbs laced with silver patterns. Its eyes were shut, but even in slumber, it exuded terrifying pressure.

“A… Domu Beast?” an elder gasped.

“No… that’s not just a Domu. That’s a Four-Horned Warbreed… It shouldn’t even be here!”

“It has intelligence. That’s a beast commander…”

“Stop this test! He’s the Heaven’s Fate! If he dies—”

But the Grand Elder raised his hand.

“No.” His voice cut through the clamor like a blade. “He has evoked it through the mind stone, the fate test, and the ring of strength. We cannot interfere. Begin.”

The cage vanished.

The Domu beast slowly opened its molten golden eyes.

It stretched its shoulders and cracked its neck, a thunderous sound echoing across the arena. Then, to everyone’s surprise—it smiled.

A deep, booming voice echoed from the beast.

“Heh. You didn’t pick magical weapons. Good.”

“Let’s dance, little warrior.”

Kent didn’t reply.

He simply reached into his spirit ring and pulled out the Abyssal Mace, the war weapon gifted by the War God’s Inheritance. It was black as midnight, runes carved across its shaft, the head forged like a jagged mountain star.

He held it with both hands, tilted his head once to crack his neck, and took a step forward.

The Domu beast charged—earth shattering beneath its feet.

Its fist, larger than Kent’s chest, swung like a boulder. Kent dodged low, slid across the dust, and with a grunt, slammed the mace into the beast’s ankle. A loud clang echoed, and the beast staggered for a second.

The Domu laughed.

“Not bad! But try harder!”

It slammed its foot down. Kent leapt to the side, rolled mid-air, and brought the mace down from above. The impact on the Domu’s shoulder sent a shockwave of golden sparks flying. Dust exploded outward.

The two became a blur of strikes and counters—no magic, only raw might.

Each of Kent’s swings was heavy, precise. He didn’t waste energy. He didn’t show off. He moved like a warrior forged by war, not trial.

The Domu roared, twisting and landing a punch on Kent’s ribs. He flew back, slid against the stone, and spat a mouthful of blood.

But he stood.

He wiped the blood from his lip and raised the mace again.

The Domu paused. Its grin faded slightly.

Kent dashed forward—one step, two steps, three—and spun. The mace flew in a full circle, glowing with faint warlight. The Domu raised both arms to block—but Kent didn’t strike the arms.

He ducked under them, slid beneath the Domu’s knees, and with both hands slammed the mace upward—right into the beast’s chin.

BOOM!

The beast’s head jerked back, and for the first time—it groaned in pain.

Kent didn’t stop. He gripped the handle tighter, leapt, and with a roar of his own, slammed the mace down on the center of the Domu’s skull.

A crack split the silence. The horns broke. The beast staggered backward.

Kent landed, breathing hard, and whispered coldly—

“Fall.”

The Domu took one more step… then dropped to its knees… and collapsed.

Silence.

Then—an uproar.

The disciples shouted in disbelief. Elders muttered, some clutching their chests in excitement, others frozen with awe.

“Heavenly Ruler of Eternity,” the Grand Elder whispered again. “Indeed…”

Kent looked around once, nodded to the elders, and walked off the stage—his mace dripping with the blood of legend.