SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS - Chapter 1035 - 1035: Snatching is Better!

As the sun dipped low in the sky, painting the heavens with hues of crimson and gold, the grand gong rang.

BOOOOM!

All 10,000 participants rushed into the base of the pagoda, their eyes fixed on the magnificent structure that looked less like a tower and more like a living deity.

With a roar of enthusiasm, thousands dashed forward like a tidal wave of ambition. Spells were flung, weapons unsheathed, and formations broken as eager disciples began attacking each other in desperation.

“Make way! Make way!”

“Wind Cutter Slash!”

“Thunder Step! Move aside, fools!”

Within moments, bodies tumbled, groans of pain filled the air, and illusions shattered as those with poor luck became meat shields.

Amidst the chaos, about a thousand disciples stood perfectly still at the base without entering inside.

And at the center of them stood Kent King also. His arms folded, expression serene, the beast-skin cloak he wore fluttered gently as if mocking the storm around him.

Unlike others, Kent was very calm.

Some people did not understand why they were not fighting for the flag poles.

Suddenly, the glass orb of Kent glowed with Fatty’s face on it. He lifted the orb and answered.

“Master, don’t show any action. There people were afraid to place bets since yesterday.” Fatty cried out in hurry.

“Don’t worry. I will stand here still. They’re making it easy for us by bringing the flag poles down,” Kent said with a lazy smile.

“Heh, half of them won’t even reach the first floor alive.” Fatty Ben munched on spiritual peanuts, unconcerned.

Kent turned his eyes toward the base of the pagoda.

“We’ll let them rush in, fight the traps, get the flags… then we’ll claim the prizes off their broken bodies. Why do the hard work when the greedy ones will pave the way?”

Fatty chuckled. “Snatching is easier than walking all the way.”

“Let them bleed,” Kent whispered. “We’ll walk on their blood.”

“Who is that man in the beast cloak? He is actually talking to someone in the middle of the fighting?” a noble lady on the sky stage asked.

“That… might be Kent King. The one with 1:10 odds,” her maid replied.

The lady narrowed her eyes. “Either he’s mad… or brilliant.”

The Pagoda rumbled as the first floor opened wide like the mouth of a beast. Screams and laughter echoed from inside as the wild ones vanished into the depths.

And yet, Kent and many strong ones remained silent. Waiting. Smiling.

—

Meanwhile, the gambling continued on the Sky Stage.

“Step right up! Triple odds on any clan disciple from the Eastern Heaven Alliance! Five to one if your pick survives past the second floor! Place your bets, break your hearts, or break your fate!”

Fatty Ben, dressed in a shimmering red robe too tight for his generous belly, waved a golden fan as he stood atop a temporary spirit platform overlooking the Seven Nations Pagoda.

Dozens of servant girls, each holding a floating tray of betting slips and Mana cores, moved gracefully through the waves of spectators, smiling and encouraging wagers. The energy in the air was electric. Like gamblers around a coliseum, nobles and peasants alike leaned forward with glittering eyes and trembling fingers.

“Thousand Mana cores on Scott Lin!”

“Put me down for twenty on Young Kai—he has a Void Soar Token, he’ll fly through the traps!”

“I’ll bet thirty thousand on Mo Han. That Magma Heart is no joke.”

“Hmm? Who’s that guy standing still at the base? With the black cloak and the golden throne?”

“That’s Kent King. Some say he’s a dark horse, but I’ve never seen him fight once. Looks like a poser.”

“He hasn’t even moved since the fight began. Probably afraid.”

Fatty Ben smirked, hiding his amusement behind the golden fan. “Ladies and gentlemen, remember this moment… the calm before the slaughter.”

Time Passed Slowly…

The Seven Nations Pagoda lit up with runic fire, its entire spiral structure glowing from bottom to top. One by one, its seven floors shimmered in corresponding colors—red, orange, yellow, green, cyan, blue, and violet, like a divine rainbow threatening death.

Thousands of cultivators surged forward like ants rushing toward a flame.

The crowd screamed. Mothers in the distant camps clutched prayer beads. Young geniuses unsheathed swords, unfolded fan scrolls, and activated elemental shields. Some clasped ancient talismans gifted by their masters.

Chaos Unleashed

The first to step on the first floor of Pagoda was Scott Lin, his white robe fluttering, his hair tied back like a war prince. Two golden sabers floated behind him, pulsing with killing intent.

More people crossed the first level.

Within seconds of entering the first level, screams erupted.

The floor wasn’t a floor—it was a shifting maze of floating platforms, some crumbling, others launching flame spears from below. One step wrong and a disciple was impaled, charred, or thrown into a pit.

“Aaaargh!”

A cultivator from the Jade Sword Pavilion screamed as he was sliced in half by a trap blade.

A young girl from the Moonlight Sect tried to teleport, but her talisman backfired—the spatial seal cracked and she fell from a platform, crashing head-first onto the rocky entrance steps below. Blood and teeth scattered like petals.

Gasps and cries erupted from the spectators.

“By the heavens!”

“Wasn’t she only fifteen?”

“Dead in seconds… this Pagoda doesn’t care about age.”

Inside, some cultivators activated Life Jade Tokens—instantly vanishing in a flash of light, forcibly ejected from the Pagoda to the outer boundary.

Dozens were tossed out this way, coughing blood or unconscious.

A disciple from the Blackflame Fortress fell screaming from the third floor, his robes on fire, before smashing into the ground like a broken puppet.

The Pagoda took no prisoners. The only mercy it offered was ejection—if your Life Token worked in time.

A pair of twin cultivators from the Beast Whispering Hall made it to the second floor by summoning two lion-phantoms, but one of them got caught in a rotating blade column—blood painted the ceiling before the other even realized his sibling was gone.

Onlookers grew silent.

This was no tournament. This was a massacre in slow motion.

While the world screamed, Kent King stood calmly at the edge of the gate, hands behind his back, cloak unruffled.

Slowly some waiting disciples ran past him.

Some looked at him with confusion, others with ridicule.

“Still pretending to be cool?”

“By the time he takes his first step, half the flags will be gone.”

But none dared touch him.

Even the wind avoided his path.