Earth's Greatest Magus

To prepare for this day, Thrax had trained with dozens of Cosmos-level warriors—each formidable in their own right—but none like this. None like Ares.

The God of War didn’t just command cosmic might—his aura was steeped in a Law of War. He was war incarnate. His every movement summoned the presence of a celestial legion, a phantom army that bolstered his strikes and drowned the battlefield in divine fury.

Thrax rose, blood dripping from his brow, only to meet Ares’ gleaming eyes.

“Good…” Ares sneered, voice booming like thunder. “Do not yield… Just die!”

Raising his colossal axe again, Ares channeled the might of his celestial army. Energy surged around him like a tidal wave of gold. With inhuman speed, he brought the axe down—this time aiming to cleave Thrax in two.

Thrax raised his spear to meet it—Gaelbolg, his soul-bound weapon, his tier-6 spear, tempered with tier-7 materials.

BANG!!!

The ground beneath him shattered. Cracks spiderwebbed across the coliseum floor. Thrax fell to one knee, his arms trembling under the titanic force. Bones creaked. Blood ran from his mouth. But he held.

Then came the second blow. Then the third. The fourth.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Each swing crashed like thunder, but Thrax blocked every one. His spear bent. His hands split open. His armor cracked. But he did not yield. Not once.

Blood soaked his body, painting his armor crimson.

Yet something within him—something deeper than rage—began to stir.

He would not accept defeat. Not after everything he had endured.

His past life flashed through his eyes: his days as a proud Thracian warrior, the battle that led to the death of his wife, the torment he suffered as a slave gladiator, and the long, brutal journey to finally break into the magus realm.

These were things a pampered prince of Kronos would never understand.

He would not fall. Not to him. Not now.

The fire burned not just in his limbs, but in his very soul.

Then—he roared.

“AARRRGGHHH!!!”

The scream echoed across the arena, rattling the walls, shaking the heavens. The blood around him began to shimmer, then evaporate into crimson smoke. The crowd gasped.

It swirled around him, as if summoned by will alone, forming a blazing red aura that clashed against Ares’ golden one. Dozens of phantasmal figures emerged—not soldiers, but echoes of pain, desperation, and fury.

These were the ghosts of Thrax’s fallen enemies and comrades, his victims, his burden.

This was no mere technique. This was a breakthrough.

The Law of Slaughter awakened to a new stage.

The figures surged into his body, merging with his spirit, amplifying him. His muscles swelled, his wounds knit with smoky blood, and his eyes blazed brighter than before.

Ares narrowed his eyes. “So… you too command an army. Let’s see whose will breaks first.” He charged again.

BOOM! CLASH!

Each strike met resistance now. Thrax’s movements sharpened, his reactions faster. He no longer fought on the defensive. He matched Ares blow for blow, roar for roar. The arena transformed into a battleground of gods.

One commanded the law of war. The other, the law of slaughter.

Both were the embodiment of battle.

Thrax began to land a few solid hits on Ares, but he couldn’t fully stop the god’s counters. They clashed in a ferocious, escalating duel. Neither yielded—only heightened.

The audience was frozen—Olympians and commoners alike. No one dared to speak. The Earth faction watched in silence, concern growing in their eyes. Thrax was known for being reckless, for pushing far past their limits—and he had clearly done just that.

And yet… he still stood.

Then, it happened.

The celestial host—Ares’ divine phantoms—roared as one, channeling their power into a single, cataclysmic strike. Ares brought his weapon down with the wrath of a thousand years of conquest, as if sealing the fate of this insolent mortal once and for all.

CRAAACK!!

The impact shattered the coliseum floor beneath Thrax.

And with it… His precious spear.

Gaelbolg split in two.

The force of the divine strike didn’t stop there. The shockwave ripped through Thrax’s chestplate, carving a brutal gash from collarbone to hip. Blood erupted like a fountain, painting the stones red, drenching the sand.

He stumbled, barely upright.

Ares stood over him, face gleaming with victory. “You’ve lost.”

Thrax didn’t speak.

He barely moved.

He simply… stood there. Upright. Lifeless—but still standing.

It was unnatural. As if some invisible force kept him anchored in place despite his ruin.

The crowd quieted. Even the heavens seemed to hush.

Ares narrowed his eyes. “So be it,” he muttered. “Then I shall grant you a warrior’s death.”

He lifted his axe once more.

And then—something impossible happened.

As the weapon swung down, Thrax’s arm shot up—his bare hand wrapped in the remnants of his broken spear’s shaft, now fused into his armor.

He caught the axe.

One-handed.

“What…?” Ares blinked, the blow frozen mid-air. “How… do you still have strength?”

Thrax’s lips moved. Blood spilled between each word, but his voice was clear:

“My spear is not broken yet… and neither is my will.”

The silence in the arena turned electric.

Then Ares understood.

Even broken in half, Gaelbolg had not left Thrax’s side. The shattered weapon’s essence had merged with his armored gauntlets.

More than the gauntlet… it was Thrax’s willpower that stopped the divine blow.

Ares frowned, something dark flickering in his eyes.

Not rage. Not confusion.

Envy.

He saw something within Thrax, something that he lacked.

The embodiment of defiance. A warrior spirit that’s stronger than him.

“No…” he growled, voice low.

Irritated, he released the axe and drove a fist, fast, brutal, meant to crush what was left of his opponent.

But Thrax caught that, too.

His other hand surged up like a striking serpent and seized Ares’ wrist. Their arms locked, trembling with raw tension. Ares bared his teeth.

And then…

Something unpredictable occurred.

The black armor coiling around Thrax’s arms began to move. It pulsed like a living thing, crawling—no, consuming—its way up Ares’ forearm. Metal fused with divine flesh. The two warriors became intertwined, their limbs now shackled together by the soul-bound armor of a man who would not yield.

“LET GO!” Ares screamed.

Thrax only smiled.

He didn’t speak.

He slammed his forehead into Ares’ face.

BAM!

Ares reeled.

Thrax did it again.

BAM!!

Cracks formed across Ares’ golden helmet.

Again.

BAM!!

Blood sprayed from beneath the metal. Ares snarled, trying to pull away—but he couldn’t.

BAM!!

The helmet shattered.

And still—Thrax didn’t stop.

He drove his head into the god’s face again and again, until flesh split, until bones cracked, until the arena filled with the sickening rhythm of defiance.

The god of war—Ares—was being beaten down by a man who had no business still breathing.

And in the stands—silence.

Even the Olympians no longer cheered. They were stunned in disbelief. Their champion… was losing.

The crowd watched in awe as their god’s face turned purple and swollen. His legs gave way. His head lulled.

And then, both warriors went still.

No more strikes. No more roars.

Only the sound of ragged breath.

Then… nothing.

Julian, eyes wide, leapt into the arena. “Call it! NOW!”

Hermes, stunned, hesitated. It was Iris who stepped forward, her voice echoing across the divine coliseum as she began the countdown.

“Ten… nine…”

The arena held its breath.

“Eight… seven… six…”

Ares did not rise, nor did Thrax move.

“Three… two… one.”

“Match ends…. It’s.. It’s… a …Draw.”

Only then did Thrax let go.

Knees hit the stone. His chest rose faintly, barely alive.

And yet… in that moment… he had become more than a warrior.

He was a legend.