Earth's Greatest Magus

Chapter 2625: Choice

A heavy silence hung over the coliseum like a brewing storm. Dust swirled where blood had spilled, and divine sparks still lingered in the air, crackling faintly.

Then Iris, the radiant herald of Olympus, raised her voice to the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen! We’ve decided to take a short recess!”

A collective gasp, then murmurs.

Hermes, who just returned to his senses, swiftly joins her.

“What an intense match! Let’s hear it for our two incredible fighters!” He cried, lifting the audience’s tension with theatrical flair.

Behind the colorful words and forced smiles, this was a strategic pause—called not by the Earth faction, but by Kronos himself.

Ares, the pride of the Kronos faction, was down. Broken. His face shattered, body in shambles. And Thrax? He was no better. Barely clinging to life, his torso cleaved open, blood still streaming as he was carried from the battlefield.

In the medical chamber beneath the arena, the atmosphere was grim.

Julian supported the exhausted Klea, half-carrying her through the hall as they arrived to check on their comrade. Chumo, silent and brooding, followed close behind. As they entered, a scathing voice snapped through the tension like a whip.

“You lowlifes… You will pay for what you did to my son!”

It was Hera. Her eyes, once golden with divine calm, now blazed with maternal fury.

Klea ignored her. She had no energy for her tantrums. Her only focus was Thrax.

The hulking warrior floated unconscious inside a healing tube, his blood slowly filtered out by shimmering arcane threads. Klea pressed a trembling hand to the glass, checking his condition herself.

On the opposite side of the chamber, the healers worked just as frantically on Ares, whose condition—while brutal—was slightly less dire. Still, the contrast between the two recovery areas was obvious. Ares lay upon an opulent golden slab, surrounded by shimmering healing arrays. Thrax was submerged in a fluid-filled pod, a patchwork of mortal and magus technology barely keeping him stable.

Julian’s eyes narrowed as he caught sight of Heracles lying in the corner, unattended, bandaged with the bare minimum of care. The difference in treatment couldn’t be more glaring.

Minutes passed before the chief healer entered and addressed both factions. “They’re both out of immediate danger,” he said, relieved. “Ares will need six hours of treatment. As for the other one…” His voice wavered. “Thrax… he needs double that. His life thread was nearly severed.”

Klea closed her eyes and exhaled slowly.

Hera, however, erupted. “Look at him! his face! His handsome face! You savages will suffer for this outrage!” She wept—not just out of pain, but humiliation. For her perfect son, marred by a mortal warrior.

Julian said nothing. Chumo cracked his knuckles, unmoved.

Eventually, both factions retreated to their respective boxes on opposite ends of the coliseum. The recess had done little to cool the atmosphere—if anything, it had heightened it.

Back in the arena, Hermes appeared again to declare, “The score is now four victories for Earth, three for the Kronos faction!”

“And as the leading side,” Iris followed, “Earth will be the first to send forth their next champion!”

The Earth faction gathered immediately.

“I’ll go,” Chumo said coldly. His voice carried no excitement, only deadly intent.

Klea shook her head. “No. We’re leading. It’s best we play it safe and send the weakest among us.”

She turned toward Damo. “If they send a strong opponent, just probe. And surrender if needed. No unnecessary risks.”

Damo gave a silent nod.

Klea continued, “If they see it’s you, they might hold back. They know each fighter can only win twice. I don’t think they’ll waste their top fighters on you.”

The logic was sound. Everyone in the Earth faction agreed—until a new voice interrupted.

“It will be me.”

All turned as Ashaka, the abbot, stepped forward.

The aged monk, his back slightly hunched but eyes still clear as moonlight, moved with gentle certainty. Damo looked stricken but bowed his head, accepting the decision.

Ashaka stood at the threshold of the arena, gazing out into the vast coliseum where the roaring of thousands echoed like thunder. His hand rested briefly on the frame of the gate as he whispered to himself, “We’re finally here…”

He took in the sight—and then turned back to his comrades. His eyes, aged but kind, swept across the Earth faction gathered behind him.

“All my predecessors are gone,” he said, his voice steady despite its age. “So, as the elder among you… let me say this—watching you all thrive, watching the next generation rise as one, has been my greatest joy.”

He gave a final glance to Damo, a subtle nod of pride. Then, without fanfare or hesitation, Ashaka turned and walked toward the arena.

As he emerged into the coliseum, the spectators erupted in fresh cheers, their anticipation reignited. Another duel was about to begin.

Ashaka, the elderly monk of Earth’s faction, now stood beneath the gaze of the crowds. Yet even as his name was announced and his image flashed across divine scrying mirrors above the arena, whispers rippled through the crowd. Not everyone expected greatness.

Kronos, seated high above, narrowed his eyes.

Ashaka was a full-moon magus. But he was also old and untalented by their standards. A washed-up elder who had lived past his prime and walked into this battle with nothing left to prove.

He knows the Earth faction had more powerful figures—Julian, whose raw potential was recognized by the Nephilim; Morgana, the mysterious Grand Magus realm woman; and an unspoken final slot, possibly reserved for Emery, the so-called “Genius of Earth,” still unseen.

Kronos’ lips curled into a sneer. No. This Ashaka was not the threat.

And so, Kronos made his decision swiftly. Poseidon and Zeus—his aces—would be saved for the final clashes. This was not the moment to reveal them.

Instead, his cold gaze swept over the crowd of his family—his children, grandchildren, and distant descendants—each one bearing his divine lineage. Unlike the Earth faction, the challenger needed to list their ten names. As the defender, he had more freedom as long as they met the criteria.

Two immediately stepped forward, hoping to be chosen. The first was Hecate, a full-moon magus draped in an aura of arcane darkness. The second was Athena, despite being only a half-moon magus, her martial prowess and strategic mind made her a formidable contender.

However, Kronos rejected them both without hesitation.

“Both of you dare to volunteer?!!” he growled, his voice like falling granite. “No!”

His reasoning was simple, and to him, irrefutable—neither could be trusted. Athena, despite her loyalty to Olympus, had spent the last few years mingling too closely with Julian. Her recent associations cast doubt upon her allegiance. As for Hecate, her past was stained by an unforgivable incident: she had once been mind-controlled by Emery. No matter how much time had passed, Kronos would not risk entrusting her again.

His rejection was swift, almost scornful, his disdain evident as he dismissed their offers to fight.

And then, as silence filled the room, the door creaked open.

Someone stepped inside. She had just come from the bedside of her dying son, her expression hardened by grief but sharpened by purpose. Her eyes, once known for their grace, now burned with a quiet fury.

Gaze fixed on her father, Kronos, she made her declaration:

“Send me… let me remind them… the meaning of demise.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Kronos leaned forward slowly, a glint of cruel satisfaction in his eyes. “Yes… gives them hell..”

With a gesture, he granted her the right to descend.

And so, Hera began her descent toward the arena.

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