SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS

The mountain path twisted like a dragon’s spine, its jagged stone steps bathed in the unrelenting glare of the midday sun. Wind howled like a restless beast, slamming against the backs of the disciples with invisible force. It was more than mere weather—it was the living will of the Immortal Living Pool itself, testing each soul who dared to climb its sacred path.

The once-vibrant crowd had thinned into scattered clusters of exhaustion. Many who had dashed forward proudly with flashing treasures and radiant spells now sat hunched on the edges of the trail, pale and gasping. Some clutched their knees, others lay sprawled with heaving chests and trembling limbs, their magic depleted and pride shattered.

Kent moved among them, step by step, his pace steady, legs like iron driven into the very bones of the earth. He had yet to use a single spell, not even a flicker of mana. Each movement was powered by muscle, breath, and will alone. The golden sunlight burned against his skin, his clothes damp with sweat, but his expression never faltered.

Up ahead, the young boy who had once traveled beside him with quiet arrogance now leaned against a large boulder. His treasure boat floated listlessly beside him, barely glowing. He tried to stand, only to stumble back onto his knees. His eyes met Kent’s briefly, filled with disbelief, but Kent said nothing, only walked past him without judgment or pity.

Farther still, the cold-faced woman who had insulted Kent earlier continued her climb with her seven white horses pulling her chariot. Her jaw was clenched, her arms folded as if resisting even the air itself. The chariot wheels sparked on the steps, and the horses groaned under the pressure of the path, but she remained upright, staring ahead like a spear pointed toward the heavens. Her pride and preparation had made her resilient, but her eyes flickered—perhaps surprised—that the boy she had dismissed was still climbing on foot, right behind her.

The mountain did not care for pride or heritage. It pushed against them all equally. A natural force hung heavy in the air, invisible yet relentless. Each step upwards felt like dragging a mountain behind one’s back. The very atmosphere pressed down with gravity-like weight, an ancient pressure that tried to shove every climber back to where they started.

Kent reached the halfway mark.

Here, the winds howled with new fury, like vengeful spirits angry at his persistence. Dust whipped against his face. His bones ached, muscles quivered—but there was no hesitation in his eyes. He planted one foot firmly on the next step, then the other. His breathing deepened, but it remained controlled. Rather than fight the wind, he leaned into it. He let the force test him, accepted it as a challenge, not an enemy. Every step forward was a quiet rebellion.

Below, Master Lei Zhen stood at the foot of the mountain path, arms crossed, eyes narrowed like sharpened swords. A soft, almost amused breath escaped him.

“He’s not using a single treasure,” he murmured. “Not even a grain of mana… Just sheer strength and control. He’s treating the mountain like a sparring partner.”

Around him, the disciples who had failed now sat in bitter silence, watching Kent with disbelief, resentment, or awe.

High above, near the castle gate atop the peak, a circle of robed elders observed the climb. They sat cross-legged on clouds of spiritual energy, their long beards flowing, eyes glowing like suns. Their gazes flickered across the crowd like hawks hunting prey.

“The girl on the chariot shows fine control,” said one elder, stroking his beard. “She’ll do well. Three years of nurturing has paid off.”

Another nodded. “And that boy from the Blue Orchid Clan. He’s barely breathing. His soul flame is pure. Could be refined further.”

But when the bald elder pointed to Kent, the others hesitated.

“That one?” one sneered. “He’s not using any techniques. Probably because he has none worth showing.”

“Maybe he’s hiding his cards,” another said.

“Or maybe he’s just weak,” a third added. “Without treasures or magic, what’s left? Just a fool climbing rocks.”

The bald elder’s gaze never left Kent. He didn’t argue. Instead, his lips curled slightly—not in pity, but in quiet respect.

“You don’t understand,” he finally said, voice calm. “Climbing this mountain with mana is difficult. Climbing it with body alone is torture. That boy is either an idiot… or someone terrifying in the making.”

No one responded.

On the steps, Kent continued. The halfway point was behind him. His body groaned, knees burning, but he didn’t slow. The wind roared louder, the pressure grew heavier, and still, he moved.

Step.

By step.

By step.

And the mountain, for all its fury, could not make him bow.

—-

The crimson hues of evening bled across the sky, casting a molten glow over the endless steps of the Immortal Living Pool Mountain. The sun, like a retreating monarch, dipped low behind the clouds, but the path still burned with its own invisible fire—a pressure so heavy that every breath felt like inhaling molten iron.

More disciples had managed to drag themselves near the summit. Their robes were torn, their magic reserves depleted, their eyes bloodshot and wild. Yet, despite the hours of struggle, not a single soul had placed their foot on the peak.

Kent paused on the ninety-first step, watching with quiet eyes.

The steps had changed. What once was a climb of stamina had become a trial of survival. Each of the last ten stone slabs radiated force like the heartbeat of the mountain itself. Gravity twisted unnaturally here. It wasn’t just the body—it was soul, will, identity. Each step rejected the climber, as if the mountain demanded to know who among them had the right to stand above.

Around him, he noticed something else—of the few still inching upward, most were women. Tall, slender, sharp-eyed. Their faces drenched in sweat, but still composed, like blades pushed to their limit but not yet breaking.

Kent narrowed his eyes. There was no mistake—female disciples were enduring more than the men.

“They’re not just climbing,” he murmured to himself, “They’re harmonizing with the mountain’s force. Not brute resistance… balance. Adaptation.”

He respected that.

Meanwhile, Vikram Das, standing on the ninety-third step, held his ground with clenched fists. His arms trembled as he looked down the steps. A trail of defeated disciples lay like scattered leaves behind him. His once-pristine robes were soaked in sweat, torn at the sleeves.

“This force is insane,” he muttered. “No one can walk normally here. Not even a peak Supreme Magus.”

His eyes darted around, looking for threats—rivals. He had climbed slowly, cautiously, watching for potential competition.

And now, in the dying light of day, he saw too many of them too close to the top.

Suddenly, the air shimmered.

A booming voice thundered through the wind, echoing across the mountain path and into the chests of every climber.

“Let it be known—whoever reaches the top first shall be granted the First Right of Choice in the coming Immortal Trials!”

All heads snapped upward.

The elder who had once made the announcements at the mountain base now stood in the air itself, hands behind his back, his robe fluttering like a banner. His declaration was not just a reward—it was war.

In that moment, desperation swallowed hesitation.

The mountain trembled with sudden energy.

Explosions of light erupted across the steps as every disciple burned the last of their mana reserves—flames, winds, shadows, blades—all roaring upward like a tide. A girl shot forward wrapped in phoenix fire. Another ascended cloaked in a storm of swords. Cries of pain and determination filled the air, as one by one, they all lunged for the summit.

But Kent remained unmoving.

He stood in silence, watching the frenzied scramble like an old man watching children fight over bread.

Then he exhaled.

“Enough with this drama,” he said calmly, shaking his head.

He lifted his right hand.

In an instant, a deep thunder groaned from the heavens, as if the sky itself were kneeling.

A divine chair forged of deep azure metal and swirling gold lightning appeared beneath his feet—the Storm God Throne. It did not roar. It did not blaze. It simply appeared, majestic and terrifying in its quiet presence.

The air around it bent.

He stepped onto it casually, as if boarding a boat on a quiet lake.

And then—he rose.

The throne floated forward slowly, unfazed by the mountain’s violent force. The last ten steps, which made even the strongest disciples collapse, were like mere ripples before him. He passed them without resistance, not by defying them… but by ignoring them entirely.

Below, the chaos stopped. The flames extinguished. The sword storms died down.

Dozens of eyes looked up in stunned silence.

“Is that…?”

“Him? The guy who didn’t use a single treasure till now?”

“He’s… riding a throne?”

“What in the name of the Celestial Beasts is that treasure?!”

The serious faced girl stared in disbelief, frozen on the ninety-third step, her own legs trembling. “He… he was holding back this whole time?”

Some disciples fell to their knees, not from the mountain’s pressure, but from the weight of realization.

Kent didn’t look at them. His gaze was fixed on the summit ahead, his hands resting on the armrests of the throne. His black hair fluttered lightly in the wind. From above, he looked like a king surveying his world—not proud, not arrogant, just quietly assured.

The throne drifted past the ninety-ninth step.

One final stone remained.

Kent’s foot rose and stepped forward.

As his sandal touched the peak—the pressure shattered like brittle glass.

A ripple of silence exploded across the mountain.

He had done it.

The first to stand atop the Immortal Living Pool Mountain.

Down below, Master Lei Zhen watched with an amused expression, his lips curling into a rare smile.

“Did you all see?” he said softly to no one in particular. “He didn’t conquer the mountain with power. He waited… and made it bow to him instead.”

Back above, the elders on the cloud platform rose to their feet.

The bald elder who had spoken before chuckled.

“I told you,” he said, turning to the others. “That boy is terrifying.”

Another elder whispered, “That throne… it wasn’t resisting the force of the mountain at all. It simply didn’t recognize it.”

“A throne fit for a God,” someone muttered.

As Kent stood alone on the summit, he finally turned and looked down—not with contempt, not with superiority, but with calm indifference. He raised a single hand, and the throne dissolved into golden light behind him.

The trials had just begun.

But Kent had already made the first statement:

He was here to conquer.