SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS

Sky Fire Arena…

The arena still in chaos with the lingering echoes of the duel. The floating cloud platforms swayed slightly in the breeze, and the cheers, gasps, and curses of the crowd hung in the air like static before a storm.

Ling Long’s body stood outside the arena boundary, her Lava Hound dissolving into a plume of molten smoke. Her face was pale, eyes wide with disbelief.

She had been the Long Family’s treasured daughter, trained in the Earthflame Magus Arts since childhood, praised as a future pillar of the clan… and yet, she had been pushed out of the arena by what everyone thought was the weakest participant. Worse, it wasn’t even a head-on clash — Kent had simply used her momentum against her, as if she were some overeager rookie.

The moment she realized the crowd’s shocked murmurs were turning into laughter, something inside her snapped.

“You dare humiliate me, Kent King?!” she screamed, surging back into the air. Her aura roared to life, molten streams of earthen magma spilling from her hands as her Lava Hound’s form re-manifested. The beast bellowed, its molten eyes glaring at Kent, who was still floating lazily atop Sparky, his golden-eyed storm beast.

But before her attack could land, a streak of light sliced through the air.

BOOM!

The Sixth Elder of the Syndicate appeared between them, his silver robe fluttering like a flag in a storm. He didn’t speak — he merely waved his palm, and Ling Long’s entire body was caught in an invisible force.

WHOOOSH!

She was hurled backwards, tumbling through the air before crashing into the outer barriers with a resounding thud.

“Defeat is defeat,” the Elder’s voice boomed, layered with mana that echoed in every spectator’s ears. “Disciples who challenge the results of the Arena bring shame to themselves, their family, and their realm. This is your first warning, Ling Long of the Long Family.”

The Elder’s gaze was like a blade — sharp and unyielding — and Ling Long, for all her fury, could only grit her teeth and lower her head.

The crowd erupted — but not in praise.

“Shameless win!”

“He didn’t even fight her properly!”

“Running around like a scared rabbit, and then… that!”

“He’s just blessed by luck and that ridiculous pet!”

Booing, mocking whistles, and even a few tossed talismans rained down from the platforms. Yet Kent’s expression never changed. He sat on Sparky’s back, stroking the beast’s mane as if nothing in the world concerned him.

Without a word, he guided Sparky down from the sky, passed through the gate under the arena, and vanished into the corridors leading to the Pleasure Palace chambers reserved for high-ranked winners.

He didn’t even look back.

—

In the crowd…

The whispers quickly turned to angry mutters, then to full-blown rumour-spinning.

“That coward’s only alive because of that lightning pet!”

“Next round he’s dead. No way he survives another opponent.”

“I’ll bet my entire vault against him!”

It wasn’t just personal grudges — it was wounded pride. Many had bet against Kent today, and watching him win by such elusive tactics had burned their wallets as much as their dignity. The sting of loss festered, and in the way of gamblers, they turned that bitterness into a promise of revenge.

By the time the crowd began dispersing, word had spread: the next fight will be Kent’s last.

—

In the top spectator rooms…

Fatty Ben sat like a king with a goblet of wine. His face was the picture of smug satisfaction as his attendants piled glistening mana crystal pouches onto the counting table.

“Nine million,” one attendant announced, voice trembling slightly at the sheer figure.

Fatty’s chubby cheeks shook with laughter. “Nine million… all because they underestimated my Kent. Ohhh, the heavens truly favour the bold!”

Even the massive golden rat statue in the corner seemed to grin wider in the flickering light. Fatty reached over and gave it a playful pat on the belly. “Eat well tonight, old friend. The fools will feed us again soon enough.”

—

Elsewhere — inside the Gambling Association’s private chamber…

A very different atmosphere reigned.

The Red Face, the fearsome head of the association, sat slouched in his high-backed obsidian chair, a wine bottle dangling from his hand. His crimson-painted face was expressionless — until the fight replay ended on the scrying mirror, showing Kent’s sly sidestep and Ling Long’s humiliating ejection.

SMASH!

The bottle shattered on the floor, splattering dark wine across the fine woven rugs.

“That… rat,” Red Face growled, his deep voice making the attendants freeze in place. “They think this is a game? They think luck will save him again?”

Without warning, he stood and reached the servants at door. “Prepare twenty million mana crystals,” he said coldly.

The attendants exchanged uneasy glances. “Sir… twenty million from the association’s vault?”

“Not from the vault.” Red Face’s eyes gleamed with lethal intent. “From my family’s personal reserves. I’ll burn it all before I watch this farce continue. The next match… we crush him. And we’ll take back everything he’s stolen from us — with interest.”

—

The arena still roared like a storm-tossed ocean. Clouds swirled low, charged with the remnants of magic from Kent’s victory. On the floating spectator platforms, thousands of cultivators stood leaning over the railings, eager to see the next fight.

“Next match—Shui Lan versus Zoro Fang!” the voice of the announcing elder boomed, carried by sound-transmitting talismans to every corner of the Sky Phoenix Range.

A ripple of excitement passed through the crowd. Shui Lan, a graceful water-element magus from the Moon Stream Sect, floated down like a crystal-blue feather, her robes embroidered with flowing rivers that seemed to shimmer with actual water essence.

Zoro Fang, on the other hand, descended with the weight of a mountain, his aura like molten rock and fire, each step he took causing faint cracks in the stone-like clouds beneath his feet.

The 6th Elder raised his wand once more. “Begin!”

A thunderous boom erupted instantly as Zoro Fang conjured a massive flaming boulder from thin air and hurled it toward Shui Lan. The air shimmered with heat waves, making even the audience feel as if their skin was drying out.

Shui Lan’s jade fingers twirled in the air, forming a spiraling river current that burst from the ground, coiling like a dragon. The water slammed into the flaming boulder with an explosive hiss—steam flooded the arena, blinding the audience for a moment.

From the mist, a sharp cry rang out—Zoro Fang had closed the distance, his fist wrapped in magma-like armor. Shui Lan raised her palm, and dozens of needle-thin streams of high-pressure water shot out, slicing through his molten armor with surgical precision.

The audience gasped.

“She cut through magma armor?!”

“No wonder she’s ranked twenty-fifth!”

“But Zoro Fang’s not giving up!”

Indeed, Zoro Fang roared and stomped down, summoning a fissure of molten lava beneath Shui Lan’s feet. The magma geysered upward like a volcano erupting in miniature. Shui Lan’s body blurred—she dissolved into pure water essence, reforming a hundred meters away, entirely unharmed.

In a dazzling counterattack, she lifted both hands toward the sky, summoning a rainstorm that condensed into hundreds of shimmering water blades. They rained down in an instant, forcing Zoro Fang to shield himself. When the rain cleared, he was kneeling, one hand pressing to the arena floor, chest heaving.

“Winner—Shui Lan!”

The crowd cheered wildly, but whispers of Kent’s earlier fight still lingered.

“Tch, that’s how a proper fight looks! None of that running away nonsense.”

“True! That Kent brat… luck carried him. Let’s see him in the next round.”

“I’m betting against him no matter the losses.”