SUPREME ARCH-MAGUS

Across the vast immortal realms a single name echoed louder than thunder—Golden Heir Tournament.

Born from the alliance of five ruling sects and seven ancient royal clans, this once-in-a-century tournament was no longer just a contest—it had become a pilgrimage for power-hungry prodigies.

From secluded peaks to bustling spirit cities, banners flew and battle drums thundered. Jade slips buzzed with news, and prophecy oracles whispered of rising stars.

The reward?

A direct path to the Immortal Heaven Magus Realm.

A throne of resources. Patronage of ancient clans. And perhaps… fate-altering encounters.

Youths who had never left their mountain homes were stepping into the light. Mage geniuses tempered in fire and blood now sharpened their final edge. Each contestant knew—winning this tournament meant no longer crawling, but flying toward godhood.

In every nation, the winds carried one truth:

“When the Golden Heir rises… the world order changes.”

And deep beneath the surface, powers long dormant began to stir. Because to crown a single heir…nthe heavens must bleed.

Kulu Nation – The Royal Academy…

Among the Seven royal clans, Kulu Nation had always stood at the forefront of martial dominance. The Royal Academy, nestled deep within the mountain palaces of the imperial domain, was the crown jewel of Kulu’s power — a place where only elite bloodlines trained to become rulers, generals, or sovereign mages.

In preparation for the Golden Heir Tournament, the Academy had selected its top three disciples after weeks of ruthless inner trials.

First: Yan Fei, the Flame Spear Saint – Cool-headed, calculating, and endlessly focused, he was the academy’s most reliable champion.

Second: Huo Lian, the Firewind Dancer – Graceful yet deadly, Huo Lian moved like fire riding the wind. Her dual-element domain allowed her to create devastating flaming vortexes while remaining untouchable in battle.

Third: Han Bo, Arrogant. Talented. Dangerous.

Unlike Yan Fei or Huo Lian, Han Bo rarely showed restraint. His duels often ended with craters in the arena, and complaints from injured disciples flooded the elder halls.

But he didn’t care.

“Why should I hold back?” he once scoffed before a council elder.

“If the weak break, it’s their fault. The path to the Golden Heir isn’t for porcelain toys.”

Rumor had it that Han Bo had refused team sparring sessions, claiming:

“I don’t need allies. In the end, I’ll stand above all of them — even the Seven Nations’ so-called prodigies.”

Despite his arrogance, no one could deny his terrifying talent. Some even said the Han clan had provided him with forbidden fire marrow to refine his core — a rare elixir that could burn away a mage’s weakness and rebuild their elemental foundation with pure destructive qi.

The elders didn’t like him, but the Academy Headmaster had only said one thing:

“Let him burn. Fire that rages may destroy the forest… but it may also light the path.”

Throughout the academy, discussions swirled like sparks in a storm.

“Yan Fei will lead the team,” one instructor claimed.

“No,” another said. “Huo Lian will outlast the others. She’s never taken a single hit in any tournament.”

“Pft! You all underestimate Young Master Han. That boy carries his family’s ambition like it’s his own crown.”

Some disciples whispered in fear. Others in admiration. But one thing was certain: Kulu Nation would arrive at the Golden Heir Tournament with fire in its blood — and pride in its flames.

And Han Bo, whether as hero or disaster, would make the world remember his name. Han family fate is also in his hands. If Kent wins, the Han family is doomed to die.

—

High above the mortal lands, there floated a palace unseen by common eyes — The Celestial Jade Platform, the sacred seat of the Immortal Rulers Syndicate.

Here, the seven sovereigns — the true architects of the Golden Heir Tournament — gathered in silent thought.

They were not emperors, nor gods. They were older than memory, wiser than realms, and each bore the weight of a nation’s karma on their shoulders.

On this day, they sat in a ring of floating crystal thrones — each marked with their elemental authority: flame, wind, sand, mist, stone, shadow, and frost.

A fire-haired man in burning crimson robes, Sovereign Flame Warden, leaned forward first. His voice crackled like embers tossed into oil.

“Kulu Nation’s choices this year are… predictable. Yan Fei remains their steady blade. But the Han brat — Han Bo — is dangerously unstable.”

“He’s gifted,” replied Lady Mistveil, the sovereign of Yura Nation, her voice as soft as moonlight on still water. “And that makes him dangerous. I’ve seen the echoes of his duel with a senior elder — he nearly melted the entire arena.”

Sovereign Flame Warden snorted.

“His arrogance may ignite more than his spells. Still, if anyone can tame him, it’s the pressure of battle.”

The old Sky Sovereign of Narela, a thin man with long white hair tied by sky-silk and eyes that mirrored the sky, opened a scroll before him. It glowed with wind runes and flowing clouds.

“My disciple, Feng Rui, has reached the third stage of Heaven’s Cutting Wind. He fights with invisible blades and sleeps in the clouds. He’ll keep the Han boy busy, if not humble him.”

Lady Mistveil smiled faintly.

“Feng Rui… the Sky Piercer, isn’t it? He’s graceful. Precise. But in the end, wind must choose whether to fly or break.”

A deep voice — solid, unshakable — echoed through the platform. Sage Rockcaller, the sovereign of Kaulon, adjusted his stone bracers.

“None of your blades or winds can pierce my Mu Lei’s fortress.”

The crystal platform rumbled slightly as he said the name.

“That boy is a mountain with legs. Let the rest dance around — he’ll still be standing.”

Sovereign Shadow, a cloaked figure wrapped in dark mist, chuckled.

“Mu Lei’s walls mean nothing if he never sees the dagger in his shadow.”

There was a brief silence. No one enjoyed discussing Veshar Nation — not openly. But none could deny their power.

“Hei Lin moves without light or noise. His steps don’t echo, and his spirit presence is absent even under divine sense. He’ll win fights before they begin.”

Mistveil frowned.

“You allow him to practice Spirit-Draining Blades. Those are—”

“Necessary,” Sovereign Shadow interrupted, his voice cold as a tomb. “We fight to win, Lady Mistveil. Morality is a luxury of the peaceful.”

Sky Sovereign changed the subject with a gentle cough.

“What of Thaal’s desert prodigy?”

Flame Warden nodded thoughtfully.

“Sha Wu… yes. The Sand King’s boy. I heard he’s mastered Molten Flow Control. Turned three elite duelists to glass in a trial. His power is not elegant, but overwhelming. Like the desert — quiet until it buries you.”

“And Rin Jin?” Mistveil asked. “The Mirage Witch?”

“Crafty,” Sky Sovereign said. “I’ve watched her fight — she doesn’t kill. She confuses, reshapes the battlefield. She’s one of those mages who win without casting a single real spell.”

The discussion paused as a faint cold mist rolled over the platform.

From the northern throne, carved of unmelting frost, sat the Sovereign of Glacia, the Frost Monarch — silent until now. His voice was a whisper of snow falling on granite.

“There is one more.”

Eyes turned. Even Sovereign Shadow straightened.

“The Frost Nation does not participate,” Sage Rockcaller said calmly. “You always watch, never join.”

“This time,” the Frost Monarch replied, “we sent a whisper.”

He raised his hand, revealing a silver mirror flickering with blue lightning. Within it, a masked figure stood calmly beneath a frozen waterfall, lightning circling his form like chained serpents.

“His name is Lei Chen. We do not claim him — he came to us. He asked for silence, solitude, and a bow.”

Mistveil’s eyes narrowed.

“A bow? There hasn’t been an archer in the tournament since the Silver Crane War.”

“This one forges his own,” the Frost Monarch said. “He bends lightning. He stands as if built for war. And…”

He paused, letting the mist freeze the silence.

“He carries an aura not of our realm. It is old. Storm-bound. And divine.”

No one spoke for a long moment.

Finally, Sky Sovereign asked the question that had settled on all their minds.

“Do you believe he… carries an inheritance?”

The Frost Monarch did not answer.

Instead, he closed the mirror and let it dissolve into ice dust.

The wind had shifted.

The Golden Heir Tournament would soon begin — and the immortals knew:

This was not merely a test of power.

This time, someone would ascend.

Someone would fall.

And someone might not be mortal at all.

–

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