Novel Full Chapter 1076 - 1076: Golden Heir!
BOOOOMMMM!
The lightning released from the twin dragons cracked the sky open like a crimson wound. Arcs forked in a blazing helix, rushing down toward Shui Lan, who hung bound in Nirvanic spirit chains—eyes wide in shock.
Lightning shattered across his face in a storm of sparks.
Suddenly a figure moved from the sky clouds.
Tang Zi Chen stood at the centre of the platform in the next second, one palm raised, cloak snapping in the thunderwind. “Enough!” he commanded, his voice ringing clear through the smoke. “This is an arena, not a cremation ground!”
But he failed to completely block the lightning even with his saint rank weapon. The clothes and skin were scorched from the lightning strike.
The crimson storm vanished. Kent’s sword lowered. The Nirvanic chains remained, glowing like molten script on Shui Lan’s limbs. Kent’s gaze slid to Zi Chen—calm, cold, unafraid.
“You stop an execution,” Kent said quietly, “after he spent thirty-one chances trying to open my ribcage.”
Tang Zi Chen’s jaw hardened. The golden circle hovered, sealing off the last wounds on his burnt skin. “Victory is not license to kill. You seek blood when the bout demands restraint.”
Kent stepped once. “Restraint?” He tilted his head toward the barely conscious Shui Lan. “He gambled with slaughter for thirty exchanges and finally lost. Don’t insult the arena by calling fear a rule.”
A hundred murmurs rippled through the stands.
“He’s right—Shui Lan went for the kill.”
“But killing on stage—can they allow it?”
“Zi Chen is bending the code—look at Kent’s traps…”
Tang Zi Chen’s eyes narrowed. “I do not bend the code; I enforce it. If you must—finish with a cut that spares the heart. Not a thunder grave.”
Kent’s mouth curved, humorless. “You ask the sea to promise not to drown a man who ties stones to his own feet.” He flicked his sword and the twin dragons unraveled into drifting embers. The chains slackened a breath, enough for Shui Lan to slump, coughing smoke.
Zi Chen dropped his hand. “Stand down.”
Kent held his stare for three heartbeats, then slid the blade to rest at his side. “I stood long before you spoke.”
He turned away as if the matter were beneath him. Zi Chen’s lips thinned—but he said nothing more. He returned to his seat, the air around him still humming with restrained power. Kent didn’t watch him go.
The sixth elder rose at last, voice amplifying across the ring. “By technique, by dominance, and by the opponent’s incapacitation—Kent King is victor of this round!”
A wave of noise crashed through the arena—cheers laced with fear. Healers sprinted in, easing the chains from Shui Lan’s scorched body. Kent didn’t spare him a glance.
The elder lifted a hand for silence. “As per syndicate law: Does any contender challenge Kent King for the first position?”
Silence.
A heartbeat. Two.
Then a lean youth stepped out, twin swords crossed at his back, eyes bright with stubborn fire—the runner-up who had carved through the ranks earlier. He drew both blades in one hiss and saluted. “I challenge.”
Kent looked at him the way a tide regards a sandcastle. “Name.”
“Qiu Ren.”
“Step in, Qiu Ren,” Kent said, voice flat. “Step out on your own if you can.”
The youth bared his teeth and sprung. His aura folded into a spiraling drill of steel; his footwork left silver petals on the sand.
“Dvi-Khadga Megha Vartul Gati”
(Twin-Sword Cloud Spiral Step)
He came fast—clean, courageous, earnest.
Kent raised his sword just enough to cast a shadow.
“Chandra Lehar Eka Chheda”
(Moon-Wave Single Sundering)
One descending line.
The ring boomed. Qiu Ren’s spiral tore apart mid-air; both swords rang, cracked, and flew. The youth shot backward as though the world itself had exhaled him, slammed the wall, and crumpled to a knee with a thread of breath left in his lungs. Healers skidded toward him; he was alive—barely.
No one cheered this time.
Kent let the tip of his blade touch the sand. He looked over the ranks—the proud, the promising, the pale. “Does anybody else dare?”
His voice wasn’t loud, but the arena heard it like thunder rolling under the ribs. A dozen hopefuls felt their knees loosen. One man who had half-stepped forward flinched and stepped back. Another swallowed and looked at his boots.
No hands rose.
“Very good,” Kent said softly.
On the dais, Tang Zi Chen’s fingers flexed against the armrest, but he did not rise. His gaze said later.
The sixth elder spread both arms wide, the sleeves of his robe fluttering with residual static. “It is decided,” he proclaimed, each word a chisel on stone. “No challenger stands. By rule and spectacle, by fear and feat—the Golden Heir of this assembly is Kent King!”
The declaration cracked across the sky. Banners rippled. Some cheered; many did not trust their throats. The powerful families exchanged glances like thrown knives. Scribes scribbled with trembling hands. Even the ward-guards along the rails straightened as if gravity had changed.
Kent turned, letting the moment wheel around him. He glanced once at Shui Lan—now breathing, eyes glazed with shame—and then at Tang Zi Chen, who watched him steadily from that high chair of gold and judgment.
Zi Chen spoke at last, not to the crowd, but to Kent alone, voice carrying anyway. “You’ve chosen a road that ends either on a throne or an altar.”
Kent didn’t blink. “Then stand to the side of the road, Zi Chen. I don’t slow down for statues.”
A murmur of half-laughter, half-horror skittered through the stands.
The elder cleared his throat, eager to move the tide along. “By the Sixth Syndicate’s seal, the rankings stand absolute. Rewards will be conferred at dusk. Dismissed!”
The formations guarding the stands flickered away. People began to breathe again, in shallow, grateful sips. The sun, just peeking through torn clouds, looked like a coin someone had bitten and found real.
A young disciple near the rails whispered to his elder, “Master… if he had not stopped, would Shui Lan have—”
“Burned to a lesson,” the elder replied, not unkindly. “Some teachings are bright.”
Kent stepped off the ring. The crowd parted around him in a widening hush—the path of a blade no one wanted to touch.
At the edge of the arena, he paused and looked back once—at the dais, at the golden chair, at Tang Zi Chen, whose eyes still held that measured fire.
Kent’s mouth shaped something like a smile, but it never reached his eyes. He lifted two fingers in a spare salute—respect or warning, none could tell—and turned away.
Behind him, the proclamation still shined on the glass like a standard nailed to the sky:
The new Golden Heir — Kent King.
–
The next Path is to Immortal Wizard Academy! Where the top of the top stay who were connected to upper Immortal-World!
*Wait for the new type of Academy-drama!