Earth's Greatest Magus

The Earth faction was engulfed in sorrow.

From the fall of the Great Izta to the sage Fuxi, and now Ashaka—one after another, their senior champions had perished. And now, as Ashaka’s lifeless body was carried out of the arena under a cloak of silence and grief, the grief turned to rage.

Protests erupted. The Earth faction roared in outrage, their fury echoing through the coliseum. Ashaka had clearly declared surrender— Yet Hera had struck him down, unleashing a devastating final blow that ended his life even after the match should have ended.

The matter escalated so far that the Three Magisterial Seats of the Magus Alliance convened on the spot. Emissary Duncan argued passionately, but it was clear he was being drowned out by the other two magisters. There was no tangible evidence of Hera’s misconduct. Her reality-bending technique had masked the truth too well. The fact was that Ashaka used a technique that was far beyond his capacity, hence they had reason to weigh on Kronos’s side.

From the VIP stands, Jinkan turned to Grand Overseer Olberyn of the Nephilim. She knew he possessed the ability to read the foreign influence on a soul, and although he was only an observer in this event, his words would put weight on the matter.

But Olberyn’s expression remained unreadable. He sipped calmly from a porcelain cup and replied with measured detachment. “It’s only halfway through the duels. Let’s see how it unfolds.”

Denied justice, the Earth camp could only watch as Hera stood unpunished. Klea turned immediately, her voice desperate as she called across the stage, “Damo! She broke her words! You don’t need to face her—come back!”

Hera’s laugh rang out like chimes soaked in venom. “Oh, no, little girl,” she cooed mockingly. “After experiencing my masterpiece, do you think he’d back down now?… Isn’t that right, little monk?”

On the Earth side, Hardy, Arminius, and Titus—Damo’s fellow academy classmates—rose from their seats. Their faces were pale with worry. They knew Damo. He had only broken into the Magus realm by chance. For him to face Hera now was suicide. They can’t imagine the pressure Damo was having.

“Don’t do this!” Hardy shouted.

Hera laughed—a light, mocking melody that echoed across the coliseum. “A baby Magus dares to speak this way,” she sneered. “Let me show you what real pain feels like.”

The battle bell rang.

In a flash, four luminous feathers shimmered into being—razor-sharp and humming with tunes filled with spiritual energy. The moment they emerged, they shot through the air like divine arrows, shrieking as they cut through the wind, all aimed at the heart of the monk.

The crowd tensed.

But Damo didn’t flinch.

The young monk exhaled slowly, sinking into a familiar martial stance. Feet rooted like mountains, spine straight as a spear, and his fists moved like rippling water. A golden shimmer enveloped his form as the [Golden Bell Technique] activated. It was simple yet majestic—an aura of defensive mastery, like an invisible bell shielding him from harm.

Then he struck.

One palm upward, deflecting the first feather. A spinning elbow for the second. A sharp block with the forearm for the third. And a sweeping parry for the last.

Each deflection rang like a temple bell struck by the divine.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The crowd gasped. Hera’s smile faltered.

“You’re just like your master,” she spat. “Monkeys dancing before a storm.”

She clapped her hands once, and her aura pulsed.

The second form of her divine technique was activated. Eight feathers now, faster, deadlier, and drenched in a crushing spirit pressure. They burst forward in crisscrossing paths, each angle calculated to be inescapable.

But Damo moved—fluid, calm, graceful.

He didn’t resist the pressure head-on. Instead, he danced with it.

A single sidestep to the left, like a breeze bending around stone. A low glide to the right, fluid as water. Damo’s steps traced a strange rhythm—slow slides followed by sharp pivots, soft bounces alternating with deep rootedness.

The crowd stared.

“What is that movement?!” someone gasped from the stands.

It wasn’t just dodging. It was deliberate. His feet etched glowing glyphs into the floor, forming sacred diagrams with each motion.

Klea leaned forward in stunned realization.

“That’s… That’s not a simple movement technique,” she whispered. “That’s a formation.”

As Damo’s steps continued, the space around him shimmered. Patterns unfurled beneath his feet—six-pointed stars, rotating trigrams, and wheels swirling in harmony. Every line pulsed with ancient wisdom.

[Hexagram Steps]

The legacy of the divine sage Fuxi. A movement art said to master the Eight Paths of Heaven and Earth. It was formation, technique, and philosophy in one. Only those with unwavering clarity and flawless internal balance could wield it.

Damo’s robe fluttered as his rhythm danced through the arena. His feet painted radiant trails with each step, and the feathers—deadly as they were—missed every time by a hair’s breadth.

At that moment, a quiet understanding settled over Klea’s heart. Her breath hitched, and her eyes widened—not from awe, but from clarity.

Despite Damo being the youngest among them, despite his only recently stepping into the Magus realm, he was not the weakest.

Ashaka hadn’t stepped into that arena to protect Damo.

He had stepped in because he knew of Damo’s real power; all along Ashaka has been doing his part, to probe on the opponent.

The arena around them buzzed with renewed energy as Damo’s footwork glowed brighter, the hexagram formations beneath him shimmering like starlight reflected in water.

Hera narrowed her eyes, and the initial humor drained from her face. She gritted her teeth.

This shouldn’t be happening.

She was the queen of Kronos.

And yet…

Her feathers couldn’t scratch him. Her spirit pressure scattered like waves crashing on unmoving stone.

With a sharp grunt of frustration, she flared her aura to its peak. The sky above the coliseum dimmed. Her eyes burned with multicolored light as she summoned the Final Form of the Feathers of Omniscience. The one she used to defeat Ashaka.

“I’ll peel back your mind, little monk. Thought by thought. You’ll kneel.”

Seconds passed.

Nothing happened.

Then a minute passed.

And another. This chapter was made possible by the community at MV|LEM|PYR.

Hera blinked.

Her pupils constricted.

There was… nothing.

Her spiritual threads had pierced into an endless void.

She tried again. Pushed harder.

Still—nothing.

“No…” Her face tightened. “No, that’s impossible…”

She took a step back.

“You… who the hell are you, monk!!”