Earth's Greatest Magus

Ares, heir to the Kronos legacy, was no ordinary warrior. He was born of royalty—a direct bloodline of Zeus and Hera, two of Kronos’s original children. In the ranks of the divine pantheon, that made him third generation, but none could deny his stature. Even from childhood, Ares exhibited terrifying promise—not just raw power, but clarity of mind, commanding presence, and a thirst for battle that set him apart.

He received the best the Kronos faction had to offer: ancient training scrolls, battle-hardened mentors, and combat trials held in molten arenas or voids of time. By his fortieth birthday, he’d already led campaigns in three realms. Now, after centuries of blood and conquest, he stood as one of the Pillars of Kronos—second only to the original gods in authority and strength.

Though only a third generation, Ares was nearly 400 years older than Thrax. The difference in age was evident in their combat experience. Thrax had fought in hundreds of battles, but Ares had fought in thousands.

It was after witnessing Ares’s overwhelming might during the Moon Battle several years ago—a defeat Thrax would never forget—that Thrax had set his heart on this duel.

He’d studied Ares meticulously ever since, analyzing his techniques, deconstructing his fighting style, learning every subtle movement. This battle was his trial by fire, the culmination of years of preparation.

CLANK!

Spear met axe, the sound echoing like thunder through the stadium. Sparks flew as the immortal gladiator pressed his assault.

“Show me your real strength!” Thrax shouted between strikes. His voice was hoarse with adrenaline. “Show me the true power of your domain!”

But Ares only gave him a cold smirk. “Against a mere magus like you? No need.”

Their weapons clashed again, a symphony of violence echoing through the arena. Every strike, every motion between them painted a violent masterpiece across the arena floor. It was no longer just a contest of strength but a clash of technique and resolve.

Ares, for the first time since the duel began, began to reveal his deeper arsenal. His movements became tighter, faster—ancient techniques woven into seamless sequences. He stepped in with a spinning feint and activated [Warstride Collapse], a footwork technique that created afterimages to confuse his opponent’s senses. His axe swept through the air in a vertical arc, channeling [Soul Shaker]—a blow that rattled not just bone but spirit.

Thrax met him head-on. He countered with [Vicious Barrage], a series of spear jabs that targeted joint seams and armor gaps. The spear blurred in his hands, striking six, seven, eight times in an instant—each blow fueled by layered battle arts from his homeland.

CLANK! BAMM!!

Steel rang against steel. Shockwaves rippled across the arena floor with each clash. The very air screamed with pressure. Booming echoes burst outward in rhythmic waves, making the colossal stadium tremble. And above it all, the crowd roared in unison, swept into the frenzy of divine combat.

Yet despite Thrax knowing many of Ares’s techniques—despite the years of study, of mimicry and counterplay—he couldn’t fully shut them down. Ares’s mastery ran deeper than knowledge; it was instinct, ingrained across centuries. His axe moved with predatory precision, each motion designed to dominate, disarm, or destroy.

Still, Thrax endured.

Minute by minute, the duel stretched on. Blades flashed. Blood splattered. But something unexpected happened.

Ares began to frown.

There was doubt in his eyes now.

His opponent… wasn’t just surviving. Thrax was adapting. Learning. Thriving. Each exchange made him sharper. Faster. More dangerous. His spear was no longer reacting—it was anticipating. Reading gaps before they opened.

“He’s… evolving,” Ares muttered under his breath.

Even so, Thrax was nearing his limit.

His arms trembled after each block. His breaths came in painful gasps. Every clash with Ares sent shock up through his ribcage, threatening to break something. He could feel his stamina draining like sand through an hourglass. He couldn’t last like this. Not much longer.

Then he made the decision.

It was time.

Thrax’s eyes flared with primal light as he activated his trump card:

[Blood Rage].

A crimson aura erupted around him like an explosion. Veins of raw red light traced across his skin. His irises turned molten, burning like warfire.

This was no ordinary power-up. Blood Rage was the signature awakening fueled by the Law of Slaughter. It did not just amplify his strength. It fed off wrath. Off killing intent. And it paid him back in power.

Thrax surged forward—transformed into a predator of chaos.

Every spear thrust now carried a dreadful weight. Each swing cut the air with howls. The aura surrounding him bled into the atmosphere, corroding it. Spectators flinched just watching, shielding their eyes as oppressive waves rolled off him in bursts.

BAMM!! BAMM!!

What stunned even the divine onlookers wasn’t just the power—but the control.

Even in this berserk state, Thrax didn’t lose himself. His spear didn’t flail. It struck with intention. With discipline. The Blood Rage didn’t consume his reason—it refined his instinct.

His combat instinct, already monstrous, now bordered on precognitive.

He read Ares’s shoulder twitch and struck at his elbow joint. He timed a perfect counter when Ares shifted weight to his rear foot—predicting a cleave and dodging a breath before it came.

For the first time in the match, the tides turned.

Ares staggered back as Thrax pressed in like a storm.

His axe, once a symbol of supremacy, was now used to block, not cleave.

His steps, once confident and crushing, now retreated under pressure.

The god of war, Ares—retreating.

Thrax’s strikes came faster. Harder. Like a bloodthirsty beast locked onto prey, he hounded Ares across the arena. His spear became a blur of afterimages. Each swing chipped away at divine armor. Each blow cracked the illusion of invincibility.

The crowd gasped as the unimaginable unfolded before them.

The god of war was forced into a defensive stance.

Ares’s cloak flared behind him as he stepped back, parrying wildly, his face etched in concentration.

“So this is your true power,” Ares muttered, admiration flickering in his tone. “You are a worthy warrior.”

But now, Ares was done holding back.

He stepped forward and released the full force of his Domain.

Suddenly a golden light burst from his body. The power of the cosmos flared outward. Behind him, from his aura, a celestial army appeared—hundreds of warriors in formation, standing tall like statues of legend.

When Ares swung his axe, they swung with him.

BAAAM!

Thrax raised his spear just in time. The blow struck with the weight of a hundred men. His internal organs rattled, his armor cracked, and he was thrown back dozens of meters.

“You cannot win against me!” Ares shouted, his voice booming across the arena.

Another swing. Another devastating impact.

Thrax struggled to stand. Blood trickled from his lips. His bones ached, and his vision blurred.

The god of war raised his axe again, his domain flaring. “Yield! And you shall be granted mercy!”

The celestial army marched with him, their ethereal footsteps echoing like drums of war. The pressure was suffocating. It felt as if a mountain was collapsing on top of Thrax.

His head lowered. His knees trembled.

The crowd hushed. Was it over?

Then—

Lifting his head, eyes blazing with defiance, Thrax roared, “I AM THE IMMORTAL GLADIATOR!” “I WILL NOT YIELD!”

The arena erupted.

Thrax surged forward once again, spear raised, aura flaring, defiance burning brighter than ever before.