SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS - Chapter 1044 - 1044: All against One!
Heavenly Phoenix Range…
Early Morning…
Inside the Gambling association room, thick smoke curled upward, carrying the stench of expensive spirit-tobacco and greed.
Around the long table sat the true lords of the betting circles—owners of the Serpent Fang Hall, Thousand Dice Pavilion, Sky Jade Stakes, and a dozen other dens. All of them had one thing in common: enmity against Fatty Ben.
One of the older owners, a hunched man with a goatee dripping spirit-wine, slammed his cup down.
“Brothers… we cannot let this fat rat bleed us dry! Two rounds, and he’s already stripped the skin from our backs. If that Kent King survives the third round, we’ll be feeding on grass spirit porridge for the next decade!”
Murmurs of agreement rippled around the table.
A tall, thin gambler with gold rings on every finger leaned forward. His voice was sharp as a blade.
“Then we kill him. If that ‘Kent King’ dies inside the third round, the odds collapse, and Fatty Ben’s Golden Rat Gambling House will choke on its own payouts.”
The oldest among them, the Stone-Tooth Matriarch, squinted through the haze.
“Not so simple. That boy fights like a ghost. Even the Aurora Glass barely catches him. We’ll need more than common killers… we need skilled disciples. Ones with instincts sharper than greed.”
By the time the meeting ended, a deadly plan had been forged.
From their hidden channels, the gamblers began recruiting disciples who had survived the second round with ease—beast hunters, assassins, cultivators with bloodthirst in their marrow.
The payment promised was obscene: countless mana crystals, rare treasures, even blood contracts for future favors.
“Make it look like an accident in fight,” the thin gambler ordered.
“Break his limbs, crush his core, whatever it takes. But do not let him see the dawn after the third round.”
The greed didn’t end there.
The conspirators decided on a cruel twist—they would all place massive bets against Kent King… at Fatty Ben’s own Golden Rat Gambling House.
“Imagine it,” one of them laughed coldly.
“We take his mana cores, use them to bury his master, and then watch the fat rat’s gambling house crumble under its own debts.”
–
By the next hour, chaos had taken root in the marketplace. All gambling houses sent their wealth to bet against Kent King.
The Golden Rat Gambling House—usually a storm of shouts and laughter—turned into an unstoppable flood of gamblers. The air was thick with sweat, coin clinks, and curses.
Fatty Ben sat behind his polished counter, while counting the wealth, his sharp eyes flicking over the mountains of mana crystals piling up before him. The house’s attendants worked in a frenzy, recording bets, stamping contracts, and handing out jade slips as proof.
In just one hour, the Golden Rat’s coffer swelled by five million mana crystals—a number so vast that even the massive storage ring filled upto it’s brim.
One of Fatty’s servant ladies whispered in his ear, “Master Ben… something’s not right. We are receiving large amounts of Mana crystals out of nowhere.”
Fatty Ben smirked, the corners of his lips twitching like a cat who had spotted a fat mouse. “Let them bet. Let them bring their whole fortune. If they want to play in the tiger’s den, they better pray they don’t get eaten alive.”
—
But outside, the rumors were running faster than the morning breeze.
Word spread like wildfire that the third round would be unlike any before—there would be elimination of 500 members. Also rankings would be decided based on how much wealth they gather from the 3rd round.
By mid-morning, the betting halls across the Heavenly Phoenix Range were shaking under the anticipation. Spectators chattered wildly:
“I’m telling you, the fat rat’s luck runs out here.”
“Kent King? Hah! Let’s see how invisible he is when the top killers have his scent.”
“Third round will be his grave. I’m putting five thousand crystals on it.”
—
Late evening…
Boom… Boom… Boom…
The drums rang out for the 3rd round and everyone rushed towards the gathering place.
When Kent reached the highest peak, the scene was already magnificent—terraces carved into the mountain slopes were crowded with disciples and spectators.
The one thousand qualified disciples stood in a tight line, their weapons and spirit pets standing ready. The spectators filled the sky on flying ships, spirit clouds, and hovering platforms, their gazes all locked on the mountain’s summit.
High above them, like a streak of lightning made flesh, the Seventh Elder, Zong, soared into the air. His robes flared behind him like storm clouds, and his voice cracked across the peaks.
“Disciples!” he roared. “Welcome to the third round!”
The mountain quieted instantly.
“This round will decide the rankings of the Top Five Hundred. From one thousand, half will remain—half will be eliminated. You will enter the Treasure Land—a realm filled with spirit grass, heavenly herbs, rare metals, and treasures untouched for a thousand years. Only one pet is allowed per disciple. You may keep whatever you find… if you survive!”
A wave of murmurs swept the crowd.
“Finally, treasures we can actually keep!”
“I’ll gut anyone who gets in my way!”
“And hear this well—snatching is allowed! Killing is allowed!” The Elder’s voice was cold steel. “Inside, the weak will feed the strong. That is the law of cultivation.”
Laughter, shouts, and roars erupted among the braver disciples. Some clenched their weapons eagerly, others exchanged looks that promised betrayal.
One burly man shouted, “So if I see my brother with a treasure, I can take it?”
Elder Zong’s lips curled. “If you have the skill to take it… and the guts to keep it.”
That answer brought a fresh wave of manic excitement.
Kent stood apart from the crowd, silent, his eyes narrowing slightly. The roar of the gamblers from the city seemed to echo in his mind. He knew the third round was not just about treasures—it was about survival in a field where half the disciples might already have reasons, or bribes, to cut him down.
On the far side, several groups of disciples glanced toward Kent with eyes full of killing intent. Their spirit pets growled low, the air between them already thick with hostility.
Fatty Ben, seated in a luxury sky pavilion among the spectators, was grinning like a fox in a henhouse. “Come on, Master… show them why I sleep on crystal pillows.”
The Elder raised one palm. A massive teleportation tower bloomed in the air, shimmering with green and gold light. Through its hazy surface, the disciples could see flashes of the Treasure Land—fields of glowing grass, lakes with molten silver surfaces, and mountains of precious ore glittering like a god’s hoard.
“Enter!” Elder Zong commanded.
–
Tq:-)
