Earth's Greatest Magus

The one chosen by Kronos was none other than their queen, the daughter of Kronos and wife to Zeus. Her selection sent murmurs rippling through the coliseum, especially among the Olympians. Hera was rarely associated with war. Most saw her as a figure of grace and authority, not martial power.

And yet, unease crept through the ranks of the Earth faction. There was a reason Jinkan’s intelligence held minimal data on Hera: what little existed was accompanied by dire warnings. Hera was a full moon magus and a spirit master—one of such prowess that even Zeus himself was said to have once bowed before her will.

“Don’t worry,” Klea whispered, trying to reassure those beside her. “Senior Ashaka has the strongest mental defense among us.”

It was true. Without her formation, even Klea couldn’t compare to the Abbott’s spiritual fortitude, honed over centuries of silent meditation and Sutra recitation.

But unknown to the others, the usually serene Ashaka gave the faintest of shudders upon hearing his opponent’s name. He closed his eyes and began to chant, steadying his soul.

From the arena gates, Hera stepped forward. Draped in divine silks, she moved with a quiet finality, her expression unreadable. As she reached the center, her eyes met Ashaka’s, and a smile played on her lips.

“You seem very familiar…”

Ashaka opened his eyes slowly. “This is fate.”

Hermes, having finished riling up the crowd, raised his hand. “Let the duel begin!”

Hera’s spiritual pressure exploded outward.

The crowd watched with breathless awe as a beautiful yet oppressive aura surged from their queen. Swirls of brilliant color—emerald, violet, gold—radiated behind her, coalescing into four exotic, peacock-like feathers. Each feather shimmered with unnatural iridescence, and embedded within each was a single mystical eye that glowed with arcane light, swirling with complex emotions—beauty, judgment, vengeance, truth.

“Let me see deep into your mind,” she whispered.

Ashaka stood calmly, his feet grounded, his hands pressed together in the mudra of stillness. His voice rose into the arena in a low, rhythmic chant as he recited the ancient [Sutra], a scripture that strengthened the soul and sealed the mind. It was the cornerstone of his defense, a spiritual barrier honed through centuries of meditation and asceticism.

The audience watched, mesmerized. What looked like beauty on the surface—a storm of vibrant color and graceful feathers—was, in reality, a battlefield of spirit willpower.

Hera gave a graceful nod, her lips curling into a subtle smile. “Well done,” she said, voice as honeyed as it was condescending. “You have a strong resolve indeed. Now… let’s see how long you could last.”

With a flick of her fingers, two of the peacock feathers soared into the air. They twisted mid-flight, leaving behind shimmering trails before emitting a hauntingly discordant tune. The air quivered, vibrating with spiritual energy, before the feathers thrust toward Ashaka like spears.

In response, the old monk drew a deep breath. His body glowed, and from his skin radiated a golden sheen. [12 Golden Bell Divine Technique] he intoned, and an ethereal bell, immense and radiant, formed around him, humming with celestial power.

The feathers struck the bell’s surface with a resonant gong that echoed throughout the arena. The spiritual projectiles dug deep into the bell’s luminous surface, causing cracks to spider out from the impact sites—but it held.

Yet Hera was far from finished.

Without speaking, she raised one hand, fingers spread like a fan, and made a swirling motion. The remaining two feathers launched simultaneously, soaring in synchronized arcs. But it wasn’t just the numbers that increased—their power swelled, their glow sharpened. The haunting melodies they emitted began to harmonize into a dizzying cacophony.

The air grew thick with pressure. Every feather seemed alive, pulsating with intent, dancing with illusion.

Ashaka was forced to abandon his position, weaving through the air using [Dao Steps], a martial art of flowing movement. Though aged, his steps combined slowness and swiftness in perfect harmony, evading each blow with near-impossible precision. His flowing robe spun with his motions, and his lips never ceased their chant.

Ashaka’s counteroffensive began. With one last sidestep, he surged forward, his body a blur, aiming to close the distance between them. His objective was clear: silence the caster. Break her rhythm. Seize the momentum.

But Hera remained unfazed.

“You’re rather nimble,” Hera mused. “Like a monkey.”

She lifted her arms again, this time drawing both forefingers to the sides of her eyes. Her spirit energy ignited anew, surging in a kaleidoscope of blinding colors.

“You deserve the second form of my Feathers of Omniscience,” she whispered.

In an instant, the feathers duplicated, growing from four to eight. The arena dimmed beneath the weight of their spiritual radiance. The feathers spun and hovered mid-air, and now each was adorned with a central eye that moved. The gazes—eight in total, turned in unison toward Ashaka.

“URGHH!!”

The pressure was mounting. Every gaze bore into his soul, unraveling layers of memory and will. Several feathers broke past his defenses, cutting into his robes and flesh. Blood shimmered under the coliseum light.

To counter, Ashaka unleashed two more divine techniques—[9 Sun Divine Technique] and [9 Moon Divine Technique]. Fire and ice exploded around his arms, enhancing his strikes as he parried the spectral blades.

The crowd roared in awe. Earth’s venerable monk had become a whirlwind of martial might, each movement graceful and devastating.

On the Earth faction’s side, Klea grew more anxious by the second. She could sense it—something was terrifying within Hera’s unique technique. She tried to shout a warning, but the haunting melody woven into Hera’s attacks blocked all sound.

Just as Ashaka was mere meters from her, Hera began to chant. Her aura darkened, and with it, more eyes appeared around them—floating, blinking, observing. The peacock feathers hovered mid-air, surrounding Ashaka in a spectral prison.

“Now… I remember who you are,” Hera said with a chilling smile. “You were our little warrior…. Achilles.”

The name hit Ashaka like thunder. He froze.

Memories long buried surged to the surface—visions of war, a younger self standing defiant. He stumbled, caught between the present and the past.

Hera laughed softly. “Perfect… You are the perfect choice for my vengeance.”

She extended her arms wide. The eight feathers duplicate again, exploding into sixteen. They divided into four cardinal groups, forming glowing sigils in midair. And from each quadrant, four humanoid figures began to form, coalescing from spirit energy.

From each cluster of feathers emerged shadowy figures—four in total—

As their faces took shape, Ashaka’s composure finally cracked.

These weren’t just spirit manifestations. They were phantoms of his past.