Earth's Greatest Magus

Chapter 2798: Blood Feast

Despite the Immortal Gladiator School’s flawless performance, Lord Gerardy Dawn leaned back in his gilded seat, fingers greasy from roasted meat, his small eyes betraying a hint of disappointment.

The silver-haired man beside him noticed at once.

"Do not worry, my lord," he said smoothly. "The next event will be far more to your taste."

The prefect’s eyes brightened. "Is it what I think it is?"

The silver-haired man smiled. "Yes, my lord."

"Excellent." Gerardy clapped his hands together.

At his signal, the dwarf master of ceremonies stepped forward, raising the amplification artifact to his mouth. His voice thundered across the colosseum, drowning out even the restless murmur of tens of thousands.

"People of Dawnstar!" he bellowed. "Behold our challengers!"

One of the massive iron gates groaned open.

From the darkness within emerged more than three dozen figures.

They marched forward in disciplined strides, each figure radiating the unmistakable pressure of the Magus Realm. Some wore heavy armor dulled and scarred by countless battles; others were draped in ceremonial robes etched with sigils that glowed faintly under the arena lights. Most were gladiators drawn from the various schools across Dawnstar, seasoned by years of pit fighting—but not all. Among them were outsiders: famous hunters, veteran soldiers hardened by wars, and rogue mages cast out from their orders. All had come for the same reason—to carve their names into Dawnstar’s sands and claim fortune, fame, or both.

The crowd erupted.

Names were shouted one by one, each accompanied by brief, lavish introductions. Every announcement drew cheers, jeers, and howls of anticipation.

Among them stood one man. He was tall, broad-shouldered, bare-armed, his muscles coiled like steel beneath scarred skin. A long spear rested casually against his shoulder, its blade dull not from neglect, but from having tasted too much blood.

Thrax did not look at the crowd.

He did not look at the prefect.

He simply waited.

Then the arena changed.

Flames erupted along the outer ring, pillars of fire roaring skyward and bathing the sands in deep crimson light. Heat washed over the spectators as a second gate—thicker, heavier, reinforced with layered enchantments—began to open.

Only ten figures stepped through.

Yet their arrival shook the colosseum.

Cheers exploded instantly. Names were screamed from every tier. Banners bearing familiar insignias were unfurled as excitement rippled through the stands like a living thing. These were no nameless challengers.

They were Dawnstar’s elite.

Ten of the current top thirty arena champions.

At their head strode Vargos Stonehide, tenth Rank of Dawnstar, his iron gauntlets already stained dark from previous victories. Beside him walked Lysera the Silver Gale, sixth Rank, her twin crescent blades catching the firelight as if eager to drink again. A step behind them loomed Karn Blackmaw, third rank, a towering veteran known for ending fights by sheer endurance alone.

They led the remaining seven like predators approaching unfamiliar prey. The two groups met at the center of the arena. The tension alone was intoxicating. Auras pressed together, sparks of intent colliding in the air—but no one moved.

This was not yet a duel.

The dwarf announcer raised his artifact once more. and gestured sharply toward the opposite gates.

"Then behold—The Blood feast!"

The final gates opened.

More than a hundred figures stumbled into the light.

The contrast was immediate—and disturbing.

Unlike the disciplined gladiators and celebrated champions, these newcomers were a broken sight. Ragged clothes clung to gaunt frames. Rusted chains still hung from wrists and ankles, some dragging across the sand. Some of the prisoners looked hardened—eyes cold, bodies tense. Others trembled openly, terror written across their faces.

Guards surged in behind them, tearing off chains, shoving crude weapons into trembling hands before retreating.

The dwarf announcer’s voice rose gleefully. "As always, our wise and generous prefect grants mercy! Survive today’s game—and your crimes shall be pardoned!"

Hope ignited like wildfire.

Some prisoners rushed forward, scrambling for weapons. Others stared at the gladiators ahead of them, realizing too late what stood in their way.

The dwarf slammed his artifact downward.

"LET THE GAME BEGIN!"

The moment the command was given, chaos exploded across the sands.

Spells ignited midair. Blades were hurled. Screams drowned beneath the clash of steel as both sides collided in a violent surge. The prisoners were not weak—every one of them possessed Magus Realm cultivation. Some were infamous killers, hardened criminals who had once stood in this very arena as challengers rather than offerings. With nearly triple the numbers, many in the crowd expected a balanced slaughter.

They were wrong.

The moment blades met flesh, it became painfully clear who the predators were.

Shields’ crushed ribs. Spears punched through throats and torsos with merciless efficiency. A man barely managed to lift his weapon before an arc of lightning split him in half. Another tried to flee, only to be dragged down and trampled beneath armored boots.

Blood sprayed across the sand like rain.

Prisoners screamed—some in rage, others in pure terror—as they were cut down one by one. Those who hesitated died first. Those who begged died no slower. Bodies piled up, the sand darkening until it clung wetly to every step.

And the crowd loved it.

Tens of thousands of spectators roared in exhilaration, intoxicated by the spectacle of violence. Cheers rose with every decapitation, every shattered spell, every body that fell. This was the entertainment Dawnstar demanded—blood, despair, and domination made public.

Each gladiator displayed their strength openly. Techniques were unleashed not merely to kill, but to impress—to demonstrate mastery, speed, and control. Fire carved paths through groups. Blades danced in lethal arcs. Every strike was an exhibition.

At the center of it all, Thrax stood still.

He did not rush forward.

He did not raise his spear.

The aura of slaughter coiled around him like an unspoken law, heavy and suffocating. His eyes swept over the prisoners charging toward him—desperate, screaming, uncoordinated.

Sheep.

That was all he saw.

These lives were not worth his blade. Not worthy of his kill. Compared to the wars he had fought, the fronts soaked in real blood and real resistance, this was nothing more than culling.

In a city like Dawnstar, crimes occurred by the hundreds every day. Criminals were never in short supply. Yet, beneath the cheers and spectacle lay an uglier truth: corruption ran deep, and justice was arbitrary. Among those cut down, some had undoubtedly deserved their fate.

Others may not have.

But the arena did not care.

And neither did the crowd.

Within minutes, the arena fell silent save for the groans of the dying. The sand was soaked crimson. Not a single prisoner remained standing.

The arena fell silent as the last prisoner collapsed. Blood soaked the sands so thoroughly that it clung to boots with every step.

The gladiators stood nearly unscathed.

The prefect rose from his seat, laughing loudly. "Very good! Wonderful! This—this is entertainment!"

Gwen’s face had gone pale. She turned away, fighting down nausea as the smell of blood and burning flesh filled the air. The silver-haired man glanced at her, smiling thinly—as if to say this is what the arena truly is.

The crowd slowly settled.

The dwarf announcer raised his artifact again. "Citizens of Dawnstar! The exhibitions are complete!"

A pause.

"Now—it is time for the duels!"

Excitement surged anew.