Ancient Wizards: A Little Progress Every Day

Among the onlookers, perhaps only the wizards of the Thorn Ring and the Progressive Society remained silent at this moment, each shrouded in an inexplicable heavy emotion.

"Every gift of fate comes with a price tag attached in secret."

Lindis's blue eyes, hidden beneath his gray hair, were half-closed, and his fingers traced the edge of the golden compass with a light, rhythmic touch, as if playing some cruel melody.

"Isn't it interesting, Doru?"

He turned his head to the side.

"Witnessing the death of a relatively powerful individual in misfortune, and then celebrating and reveling around its corpse, is truly an age-old habit etched into our blood."

Lindis closed his eyes, a beautiful smile curving his lips. He seemed to enjoy the feeling of controlling the fate and emotions of others.

Pleasure.

Pure, condescending pleasure.

Doru, the man in the black robe, did not respond. He knew Lindis's temperament very well and had long anticipated how this would all unfold.

The muscles beneath the black robe were slightly tense, and his gaze pierced through the layers of heads, fixing on the figure in the distance.

A fleeting, illusory brilliance.

Deadly bait.

This is not inheritance at all.

This is a meticulously designed theatrical performance.

Lindis never intended to truly give the legacy Isidore left in this southern land to anyone; all he wanted was a game.

The young man named Dago was the only prey, and also the only actor.

A complex sense of sympathy welled up in Doru's heart. He was destined to die either in obscurity or in glory under the spotlight.

Will I suffer the same fate?

Doru, the man in the black robe, couldn't help but recall the various promises Lindis had made to him before, and his gaze lowered.

.......

"Anyone on the field could kill Dago Heca."

"Who do you think will ultimately kill him?"

"This is a trap you can't escape; once you step in, you can only wait for death to come amidst a faint and uncertain hope."

Dago stood on his own stone pillar, listening to the constant chatter of the onlookers.

He stood in the eye of the storm.

Seven gazes, like sharp swords, venomous snakes, and heavy hammers, were subjecting him to a mental torture from different directions.

greedy.

Murderous intent.

And that cold calculation that views "mobile treasure chests".

He was not someone who was favored by "luck".

On the contrary, he seems to be the only "unlucky one" among the eight who was unfortunately chosen.

He needs to defeat everyone currently on the field in order to obtain the legacy left by Isidore.

The other seven, however, have a certain chance of taking possession of the inheritance if they kill him.

An unfair game forced Dago to gamble with his life.

He couldn't refuse yet.

But Dargo was surprisingly calm at that moment.

There was no fear.

There was no anger.

There was only a chilling, stagnant calm.

Long ago, he had become accustomed to being toyed with by fate and facing desperate situations time and time again.

For a wizard who grew up like a weed from the cracks in the lowest layer of rocks, he had too many experiences of narrowly escaping death.

The wizard refers to the first to third rings as the "formal stages".

The textbook says that this is a process of exploring the truth.

But now, Dago thinks that's nonsense.

This stage is a fig leaf for desire.

Some embark on the path of wizardry in pursuit of omnipotent power.

Some seek omniscience.

Some people are captivated by the beautiful scenery they see, experience, and travel through.

Some people dream of building their own ideal home.

Everyone has something they most want to achieve, and this is the deepest force that supports those who go far and high on the path of wizardry.

What is Dago trying to achieve?

He forgot when his heart began to feel somewhat lost.

After leaving behind his life as a wandering wizard, his strength continued to improve. Without the constant threat of death, he found himself somewhat lost.

These uncertainties, like an invisible fog, shrouded his path, causing him to wander aimlessly.

At that moment, Dago suddenly understood.

The sudden arrival of the Battle of Isidore, a long-awaited crisis of death—either die in a moment of ultimate glory, or...

Either you will become even more glorious after overcoming all obstacles!

Oh, fate!

Dago slowly raised his right hand, his five fingers making a loose clench in the air.

His movements were so elegant, it was as if he were inviting a lady to dance with him.

What I've always wanted is... to be able to completely control my own destiny.

He no longer wanted to be a stray dog ​​of fate, helpless and without control of his own destiny. To borrow a phrase he liked very much in his previous life: a stray dog ​​doesn't need a tombstone; just run wildly until it rots.

"Click—"

The sound of something breaking.

Deep within the soul, it seems as if impurities and deep-seated ailments are peeled away, and a small, miraculous transformation is born.

Some old shackles have been broken.

In an instant, the thick gray cloud behind Dago began to churn violently.

Layers of gray waves gathered and piled up.

The colorful streams of light surging through the void formed a bridge of light that stretched from Dago's feet to the increasingly towering and massive platform at the center.

Dago stepped onto the bridge of light, walking at a leisurely pace, as if strolling in his own backyard.

We approached the central platform step by step.

As he stood in the center of the platform, the loose gray clouds behind him instantly solidified into a tangible darkness.

Profound.

Sticky.

Like the gaping maw of an abyss.

The shadowy mass writhed, as if concealing an indescribable ancient beast, coldly gazing down upon this colorful and absurd world through the dimensional gap.

He completely ignored the surrounding clamor, malicious stares, and mocking glances.

Dago stood at the highest point.

His eyelids were lowered, and his blue pupils were unfocused.

He didn't look at Michael, or any of the so-called "geniuses".

He was looking at emptiness.

"Kill me, or I'll kill you."

The sound wasn't loud, but it clearly penetrated everyone's eardrums, carrying an unquestionable sense of command.

He gently straightened his cuffs, as if that were the most important thing at that moment.

Then, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze finally falling, carrying a hint of languid weariness.

"Who wants to be the first one?"

silence.

A deathly silence.

The geniuses on the seven stone pillars were so shocked by this sentence that they gasped for breath.