SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS

From the neighboring volcanic ridge, Elder Jill stood frozen, a wave of spiritual pressure pressing down on her chest like a divine mountain. Her lips trembled as her aged eyes widened with disbelief.

“He’s… he’s still standing,” she whispered, her voice barely audible over the cacophony of hisses and rumbling earth. The Fire Mountain had awakened, but not as a place—it had risen as a beast. A god.

All around her, spectators and guards from the distant peaks and sect towers stared in awe. Many of them had come simply to confirm the myth. But none had expected this. The sky had turned a greenish hue. Poison mist covered the horizon like a rolling tide.

“This… this isn’t just a mountain,” a young sect disciple gasped, his knees giving out. “It’s a living divine beast!”

Some guards quickly pulled out Red Jade Recording Stones, embedding their spiritual energy into the cores to capture every detail. The stones hummed in response as glowing runes lit up across their surfaces, preserving the spectacle in motion.

“We must record this for the Grand Pavilion! The Immortal Alchemists’ Council will not believe it otherwise!” one shouted, while others nodded and aligned their red jades toward the mountain.

Down below, within the poisonous miasma and writhing coils, the golden-scaled body of the Naga Ancestor stood like a wall of divine judgment. Its enormous hood cast a deep shadow that consumed half the mountain, its fangs dripping with venom that could corrode souls.

And yet, a lone figure stood tall—Kent.

The moment was so still that even the mountain’s fires held their breath. Kent’s bow gleamed under the fading light, and the arrow he pulled back crackled with a faint mix of golden lightning and jade-colored poison mist—a weapon born from both Storm and Venom.

The Naga Ancestor chuckled—a deep, abyssal sound that rumbled across the peaks. “You dare raise a twig against a god?”

And then Kent loosed the arrow.

It whistled through the corrupted air, blazing a trail of lightning as it struck the ancestor’s neck with an audible crack. The Naga Ancestor shuddered. Not in rage, but in pain.

The divine beast’s body recoiled slightly, its massive coils tightening. Blood—thick, dark, and laced with poison—oozed from where the arrow had embedded itself. A moment of silence followed.

Then the serpent’s fury exploded.

The Naga unleashed a cloud of thick poison mist, so concentrated it blotted out the light. Trees and rocks within its path melted into sludge. Flowers withered in an instant. Even the air screamed.

But Kent did not falter.

The mist engulfed him—and passed. When the cloud cleared, Kent was still standing, untouched, his aura steady. Lightning sparks flickered around him like protective serpents of their own. His storm physique had begun to resist even divine toxins.

The Naga’s eyes widened. “Impossible. No mortal resists my breath.”

It roared and opened its maw, revealing rows of divine fangs before spewing a torrent of poisonous fire—a blaze of green-black flame that corroded the very laws of nature. The cliff Kent stood upon dissolved. Mountains cracked. The air turned to ash.

But Kent emerged from the smoke, leaping midair, another arrow already drawn.

He moved like lightning incarnate.

His arrows changed form with every shot. Each arrow carried not just spirit energy but will. The skies above roared with him. Clouds churned, and sparks rained from the heavens. The storm, it seemed, recognized its heir.

The Naga, unwilling to be outdone, summoned weapons from the air itself—spears of bone, whips of venom, chakras forged of divine scale. They struck at Kent from every angle.

But he moved like wind.

Every step took him across ridges, over shattered rocks, through midair like a storm dancer. His arrows fired in rhythm, blocking divine weapons mid-flight, slicing through illusions, even deflecting tail strikes.

He was not winning.

But neither was he losing.

Until he made one bold decision—he began aiming at the neck.

The place where the first arrow had struck.

The Naga felt the shift instantly. His slitted golden eyes narrowed. This mortal wasn’t fighting blindly. He was calculating. Learning. Hunting.

With a roar of rage, the Naga screamed, “YOU DARE TARGET MY HEART!?”

The sky cracked from the force of its voice.

From the summit, Elder Jill clenched her fists, struggling to hold her composure. Her lips trembled. “No! Don’t aim there… you’ll enrage him completely!”

But it was too late.

The Naga Ancestor let out a shriek that caused the land to quake, and from within his own coils, he summoned a sacred weapon—

The Nagasthra.

A divine serpent-shaped chain laced with ancient seals and molten runes, it flew with a hiss toward Kent. He tried to dodge, teleport, flicker, vanish—but the Nagasthra followed his soul, not his body.

The moment it wrapped around his body, Kent froze. His limbs stiffened. The sky darkened. His storm barrier cracked.

He was bound.

Below, Elder Jill gasped, stepping forward instinctively, her eyes flickering with alarm. She wanted to rush forward, to aid him, to pull him out of the divine weapon’s grasp.

But the mountain itself rose.

The Naga’s coils had wrapped so completely around the Fire Mountain that they served as a wall, a prison, a divine cage. Jill’s spirit attack rebounded against the scale-covered terrain. It was hopeless.

“Kent…” she whispered, as tears welled in her eyes. “You were never supposed to die here.”

The storm still raged above.

But now, a storm was also brewing inside Kent.

The eyes of the bound warrior narrowed.

And though the Nagasthra burned his flesh and soul, Kent’s fingers still twitched—reaching for his bow. But all his efforts were futile.

Soon, Kent kneeled bound in place, coils of sacred poison energy snaking around his limbs, keeping him suspended mid-air like a caged bird within a glowing cocoon of the Naga Ancestor’s wrath.

With a low, guttural rumble, the Naga Ancestor began to change. A blinding light enveloped the beast as he shed his monstrous form and stepped forward as a tall, regal man.

A crimson jewel shining on his forehead. His long, black hair draped behind him like a waterfall of oil, and golden snake tattoos curled over his muscular arms, alive with arcane poison energy. Only the long, dark tail trailing behind betrayed his inhuman origin.

Kent dropped onto the rocky surface with a dull thud as the sacred Nagasthra bindings unraveled. The Naga’s burning eyes stared at him with disdain, then mockery.

“You came here like a rat, picking herbs from my flesh as if it were your garden,” the Naga said, his voice cold as venom. “And now you stand before me with the delusion of resistance. Brave, but foolish.”

Kent remained on one knee, catching his breath as sweat ran down his face, but his expression was calm. His hand gripped the golden serpent-bone bow tightly, though the string remained loose.

“You’re wounded,” Kent said, raising his head and meeting the Naga’s gaze boldly. “On your neck.”