Ancient Wizards: A Little Progress Every Day

The six "spiritual suns" in the sky were like six indifferent divine eyes, each casting a beam of light. The six beams intertwined and entangled above the arena, eventually condensing into a huge, translucent, colorful sphere of light.

The sphere of light was not static; it was like a giant, living, breathing heart, rotating and releasing beautiful and enchanting light that shone on the hundreds of quiet, upturned faces below.

Some of those faces were youthful, some were weathered, some were filled with a desire for fame, and some concealed unfathomable cunning.

But at this moment, faced with absolute power and rules, they were all as docile as lambs to the slaughter.

"Buzz—"

Ancient syllables echoed from high above, the sound not coming from a throat, but rather like metal and rock rubbing against each other in the long river of time, deep and majestic.

The young wizards who had emerged from various factions to participate in the competition heard this voice and, as if receiving a signal, each forced out a wisp of their soul power and cast it into the sky.

This is not just a ceremony, but a pledge of allegiance.

Dago did the same.

His movements were slow, even somewhat casual, as if he were simply taking a coin out of his pocket to give to the beggar.

He had been reminded beforehand that this was a necessary process.

The competition for geniuses, jointly organized by the six major wizarding powers, sounds prestigious, as if it were a selection of future pillars of the wizarding world.

But in reality, everyone knew that this was just the prelude to a spoils-sharing ceremony.

The outcome of the contest is even more crucial to the ownership of two Miracle-tier magical artifacts and a World Stone.

Faced with such enormous profits, human greed will be amplified infinitely. So-called "fairness," without the mandatory constraints of this soul contract, is probably not even as good as toilet paper.

Each wizard participating in the competition needs to sign a simple soul contract, which generally states that the participating wizards will not use any means of "cheating".

This kind of contract is like putting a collar on a wild beast. Although it cannot completely eliminate its wildness, it can at least make it hesitate before biting.

The colorful orb of light, like a greedy beast, devoured the soul power of the sixty wizards.

Sixty streams of soul power, like swimming fish, chased and moved within the sphere of light. They represented sixty different wills, but were now trapped in this small cage, awaiting the random assignment of fate.

Suddenly, two of the soul forces collided abruptly, like two sharks fighting for food.

In an instant, two beams of light descended from the sphere of light, like spotlights on a stage, precisely and mercilessly enveloping two figures in the crowd below.

A low commotion arose in the crowd, like the wind blowing through a wheat field.

The two chosen individuals had contrasting expressions; one licked his lips excitedly, while the other was as pale as a sheet.

Following closely behind were the second group, the third group, and so on...

Each beam of light that fell was accompanied by a surge of excitement. This was not only the choice of the opponent, but also a judgment of fate.

"Um?!"

As the light sphere randomly selected the fourth pair of opponents, a deep red beam of light suddenly descended upon Dago's head, enveloping him entirely.

The deep red color, as rich as congealed blood, carried an ominous yet extremely noble connotation.

The beam of light transmitted information about his opponent and the arena number.

Dago was somewhat surprised, raising an eyebrow slightly.

He originally thought that, according to the unwritten rule of "the grand finale," someone like him would have to be shown in the later shows to keep the audience's expectations high.

I didn't expect to get to play so soon; my luck is almost "impatient."

The wizards around him all looked at him, and most of them were unfamiliar faces.

These normally arrogant spellcasters had unusually rich expressions in their eyes at this moment.

There was envy, there was jealousy, but more than anything, there was a sense of camaraderie and encouragement.

After all, on this stage, he represents the face of the Thorn Ring.

"Number four arena, Black Swamp, Batlan Crawley...?"

Dago silently repeated the name in his heart, a faint smile curving his lips.

The Black Swamp, a place perpetually shrouded in poisonous fog and conspiracies, probably breeds people who, like the swamp gas there, are unpleasant to behold.

He took a deep breath; there was nothing to hesitate about.

With a light touch of her toes, without any earth-shattering movement, she soared into the air like a feather lifted by the wind, gracefully and steadily flying onto the fourth fighting arena.

His movements were fluid and graceful, without a trace of artifice, yet they exuded a calm and composed demeanor befitting a master.

On the other side of the ring, his opponent also flew up at the same time.

He was a thin young man wearing a black and green robe with his hood pulled low, revealing only half of his pale face and a sinister eye.

Butland Crowley, true to his name, was like a vulture circling above a carcass, exuding an unsettling, chilling aura.

Once the two were in place, a simple rune array rose up, isolating the arena from the outside world.

This is a transparent cage, which serves as both protection and constraint.

The scenes on the other three arenas were exactly the same.

Dago stood in the center of the ring, not looking at his opponent immediately, but turning his head slightly to feel the gazes around him.

He could clearly feel that some of the gazes from the surrounding stands were on him, a feeling like ants crawling all over his skin.

The vast majority of them came from the directions of the French Ring and the Black Swamp; the former was expectation, and the latter was scrutiny and malice.

On the Lava Brotherhood's side, a few gazes stood out—not many, but extremely heavy.

One of the gazes was sharp and intense, like a red-hot blade pressed against Dago's brow, carrying a heat that seemed to boil his brains.

Dago followed the gaze, his eyes piercing through the layers of people and the magic array, and saw a tall young man with reddish-orange hair staring coldly at him from a central position on one side of the Molten Crystal Lake.

The other party had a pair of eyes similar to Obadiah's back then, like flowing magma, but the red in them was not the red of ordinary fire, but the red of destruction surging from the depths of the earth.

Compared to Obadiah's superficial mania, this young man's eyes were more restrained and more terrifying, like a suppressed volcano ready to erupt at any moment.

He is far more powerful than Obadiah.

The young man sat in his seat, making no move whatsoever, yet he was like a lake of lava constantly emitting terrifying heat. No one dared to approach him, and even the air around him seemed to distort.

Simply by making eye contact with Dago from a distance, Dago felt a tremor and pulsation in the blood crystals of his heart—an instinctive warning when encountering a natural enemy.

"Igesius...?"

Dago silently recited the other person's name in his mind.

He had seen the name in the documents; the current leader of the Lava Brotherhood, Obadiah's older brother.

With a blank expression, Dago avoided the undisguised hostility in his eyes, but inwardly he sneered: "The younger one gets beaten up, and then the older one comes along. This kind of drama may be cliché, but there are always people who enjoy it."

Obadiah didn't come to this competition, probably because of this man. Maybe he felt ashamed and was put in solitary confinement.

His gaze shifted, and Dago's eyes soon met another pair of strange and striking eyes.

Those were wine-red eyes, deep and dark, like whirlpools of ancient blood, or like poison aged for a thousand years, exuding an intoxicating yet deadly attraction.

The owner of the eyes had an indescribable wicked smile on his face. He was casually resting his chin on his hand, looking at Dago with a half-smile.

He sat there, seemingly out of place with his surroundings, like a demon who had strayed into the mortal realm, enjoying the farcical performance of humanity.

Dago locked onto the other person's figure instantly, and his eyes involuntarily turned cold.

Ang Leo

The name flashed through Dago's mind, carrying a complex emotion that was hard to describe.

He searched for his opponent for a long time before the competition but couldn't find him, like searching for a ghost in the fog.

But now, Ang no longer conceals his presence, sitting there openly as if to say, "Look, I'm right here, what can you do to me?"

This attitude is both provocative and confident.

Dago saw Ang's thin, knife-like lips slightly part and close, without making a sound, but the shape of his mouth was crystal clear, as if he was silently telling him something.

He frowned, trying hard to make out what was happening. The surrounding noise seemed to fade away at that moment, leaving only the opening and closing of those two lips in the world.

On the third try, he finally understood the meaning conveyed by the lip movements—

"Focus...on."

That was not just a reminder, but more like a mockery of those in higher positions by those in lower positions, a cat-and-mouse game.

He was mocking Dargo for looking around before the fight even began, and also hinting at the trouble to come.

"call!"

Just as Dago understood the sentence, a cold wind stirred up by dark magic suddenly swept across Ronan's cheek. The wind carried an aura of decay and decay, causing the hem of his robe to flutter high and rustle.

Dago snapped back to reality and realized that a thick shadow was already looming over him.

The shadow was not a natural shadow, but was composed of countless tiny, twisted dark runes that seemed to be alive, writhing and spreading in the air, attempting to devour Ronan.

The Black Swamp Wizard, Batterland Crow, who had been chosen by the orb as his opponent but had been ignored since the start of the match, was now looking so gloomy that his face was almost dripping with water.

Bartland felt he had been insulted like never before.

As a genius of the Black Swamp, when had he ever received such treatment? After his opponent went on stage, he didn't even glance at him, but instead exchanged glances with people outside the arena!

This is tantamount to throwing his face on the ground, stomping on it, and spitting on it.

"Arrogant fool, you will pay the price for your arrogance!"

Batlan roared inwardly, coldly waving his staff, the black gem at the top of the staff gleaming with an eerie light.

He continuously summoned spells, and black light blades, corrosive acid rain, and entwining shadow tentacles rained down on Ronan like a storm.

He wanted to use the cruelest methods to make this arrogant guy kneel on the ground and beg for mercy.