SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS - Chapter 1042 - 1042: Winning Exactly?!

“Where’s Kent?” a young girl asked her father, clutching a betting slip. “They said he entered… why isn’t he out yet?”

“He might have died by now.” Her father replied with a smirk.

Fatty Ben chuckled softly as he over heard. “Patience, little one. The master doesn’t need to come out first. When he comes, it will be with quiet steps and a full bag. Let those flashy fools have their moment… the real storm hasn’t arrived yet.”

Above them, the Aurora Glass shimmered, momentarily flashing a still image from inside the forest—several bodies sprawled in the underbrush, cleanly slain, no blood spilled outside their wounds. The audience gasped. No one could see who had done it… only the eerie silence that followed.

Some spectators shivered. “That’s… the work of an assassin, not a showman.”

Fatty Ben only smiled wider, eyes glinting. He knew exactly whose shadow was moving in that forest.

The elders concluded the announcement of the successful qualifiers, tallying the beast cores collected so far. Out of the five thousand who entered, fewer than three hundred had returned yet. The rest were still inside, battling the clock, the beasts, and each other.

As the night deepened, the crowd kept watching, eager for the final wave of survivors. For now, the arena belonged to the loud and the dazzling. But somewhere in the depths of the beast hive forest… a quiet predator was still hunting.

The shimmering light of the forest portal rippled like molten glass, and the crowd’s roar reached a fever pitch as the more disciples emerged, clutching bags and baskets of beast cores. Some strutted proudly, others limped and bled, but all who crossed that glowing-threshold carried the aura of survivors.

Suddenly, a heavier ripple stirred through the portal.

From the golden-haze, Kent stepped out.

No fanfare.

No victorious posture.

Just a calm, almost casual figure, his dark robe brushed with dust and faint blood stains that weren’t his own. In his right hand, dangling by rope vines, were massive skulls of minor burrowing beasts, each still fresh with cracked ivory and traces of crimson.

For a moment, silence spread through the plaza.

Then the laughter began.

“That’s it? Small beast skulls? Did he forget the rest inside?”

“Maybe he got lost underground and thought the competition was about bone collecting!”

“Pfft, look at him—trying to act mysterious with some oversized rat skulls.”

The mockery rolled in from every direction, sharp and loud. Spectators in colorful-robes leaned over balcony rails, pointing at Kent as though he were the evening’s entertainment instead of a contender.

From one side, a group of gamblers who had staked everything against Kent were furious. “Pathetic,” one of them spat. “That’s the great Kent King they were hyping? I’ll take my winnings in the next round.”.

A messenger from the Seven Nations Syndicate ran to verify the result, clutching the list of qualified disciples from the Elder’s official seal. His voice cracked as he shouted—

“Kent King… qualified! Final tally: one thousand beast cores.”

The plaza went dead quiet.

One thousand cores. Exactly the required number. Not one less.

The ridicule in the air curdled into disbelief. A few jaws hung open, and one man’s betting slip slipped from his fingers, fluttering to the ground like a fallen leaf.

From the raised dais, the gambling house owners of the Scarlet Crane, the Azure Dice, and the Dragon Coin exchange all turned sour as spoiled milk. They had spent heavily—hiring assassins among the competitors, bribing disciples, whispering in the ears of reckless youths to target Kent in the beast forest. All that effort… gone.

The Azure Dice owner slammed his fan against his palm.

“Useless brats! All of them!”

The Dragon Coin master spat to the side.

“Couldn’t even take down one quiet newcomer. Worthless.”

Scarlet Crane’s matron clicked her tongue.

“And now look—this Fatty will rob us blind.”

Indeed, Fatty Ben was already climbing the central steps to the Syndicate counter, his pipe trailing fragrant smoke. The servant girls placed the heavy chests on the counter with a satisfying THUD that echoed across the plaza.

“3 million, one thousand and twenty thousand mana crystals,” Fatty declared, thumping his ledger with theatrical flair. “Clean profit. All from your generous bets against my master. I thank you. Truly, I do. You made my day… and my year.”

The crowd rippled with murmurs. Three million mana crystals in profit? That was enough to buy mid-grade spirit weapons for an entire mercenary troop.

The gamblers who had gone against Kent looked as though they’d swallowed bitter guard. Some turned pale, others flushed red in anger, but none could reclaim a single crystal.

Fatty puffed out a cloud of smoke, his eyes glittering with mock sympathy.

“Ah… the look of losers. Like salted fish left too long in the sun. But don’t fret—there’s always the next round. Please, do bet against us again. My vaults have room for more.”

Meanwhile, Kent stood in the shadow of the portal, untouched by the clamor. His calm gaze swept over the crowd, neither defensive nor boastful. He didn’t raise the beast skulls high like a trophy; instead, he simply handed them to the registration elder along with a plain storage pouch.

The elder’s eyes flicked over the tally stone, verifying the cores inside. His brows lifted slightly — one thousand cores neatly stored, each from different confirmed kills. No excess, no waste, no showmanship. It was as though Kent had walked into the forest, picked exactly what he needed, and walked back out without breaking a sweat.

The Elder inclined his head in acknowledgment but said nothing. Kent turned away, moving toward the temporary quarters without responding to the scattered jeers that still lingered from the slower-witted crowd.

From the balconies above, more qualified disciples emerged from the portal. Some were laughing, drenched in blood but exhilarated, waving their sacks of cores. Others showcased their flashy skills, calling down streaks of light or flames as a victory display. These were the darlings of the Aurora Glass — their every move magnified and replayed to cheering fans.

But those who had watched the Aurora Glass closely earlier in the day knew the truth. Every time the floating mirrors had swung toward Kent’s location inside the beast forest, the image had been the same — bodies. Silent, still bodies of disciples who had crossed his path. Never the actual fight, never his movements. It was as though the forest itself had hidden him, revealing only his wake.

And now, here he was, with exactly what was required, standing as though nothing extraordinary had happened at all.