Breaking the door by force would have been the fastest option.
It would also have been the worst.
If Thrax was truly in the middle of a critical breakthrough, any external disturbance—especially a violent one—could shatter his concentration and push him straight into deviation.
Ery exhaled slowly and chose the quieter path.
Space rippled faintly around him as he extended his will, and he folded space inward, stepped through without producing even the slightest sound.
The mont Ery entered the chamber, he froze.
A crimson aura flooded the room like a living thing.
It was so thick that it pressed against his skin, heavy and viscous, as though the air itself had turned into liquid blood.
Every breath carried the tallic stench of slaughter—raw and suffocating.
Blood covered the entire chamber.
And all of it ca from one source.
Thrax.
The Immortal Gladiator stood upright, yet barely so. His towering fra trembled uncontrollably, muscles locked in violent spasms. Blood vessels bulged across his exposed skin like ruptured veins of molten iron, pulsing erratically beneath the surface.
He scread.
Not the roar of a warrior charging into battle.
But the scream of a man being torn apart from within.
Ery did not rush forward.
He forced himself to remain still, several ters away, his eyes glowing faintly gold as Divine Sense unfolded in precise, layered waves. His perception pierced through flesh, bone, and aura, dissecting Thrax’s condition with absolute focus.
Seconds passed.
Then Ery’s expression shifted.
He’s breaking through.
Thrax was standing at the very threshold of igniting his Magus Core, the final and most perilous step before ascending into the Grand Magus Realm. His soul force was no longer rely circulating—it was overflowing, surging outward in violent tides that battered against his spiritual boundaries.
Combined with Thrax’s terrifyingly refined physical body, this should have been a straightforward breakthrough.
And yet—
There was no cosmic resonance.
No nascent cosmic aura.
No sign of tribulation descending.
Which ant only one thing.
The universe did not recognize this breakthrough.
Thrax scread again, louder this ti, and slamd his fists into his own chest—once, twice, again—as if trying to beat sothing out of himself. The sound echoed through the chamber like war drums.
Madness flickered in his eyes.
"His mind is collapsing."
Without hesitation, Ery cast [Sea Soul Restoration].
A vast, tranquil spiritual tide spread outward from him, cool and deep, washing over Thrax’s violently fractured consciousness like an endless ocean.
The violent fluctuations slowed—but at the sa ti, Ery felt resistance.
Not from Thrax.
From the chaos itself.
As Ery’s consciousness followed the spell inward, the crimson aura peeled back.
The physical world dissolved.
And Ery found himself standing at the edge of a sea.
Not water.
Blood.
An endless ocean of thick, churning crimson stretched beyond the horizon. The surface rippled sluggishly, heavy and suffocating, exuding despair with every wave.
Thrax stood within it.
Half-subrged.
His body sank a little deeper with every breath, blood lapping at his chest, his shoulders, his throat.
But it was not the sea itself that made Ery’s soul tremble.
Floating within the blood were corpses.
Thousands of them.
No—far more.
They drifted endlessly, bodies overlapping, faces twisted in agony. Hands reached upward from the surface, clawing desperately, grasping at nothing. So scread in pain. Others begged. Others simply stared with hollow, lifeless eyes.
And beneath them—
Far below—
Ery sensed tens of thousands more, pressed down by imasurable weight.
All victims of Thrax’s blade.
All were bound by grudges.
Even with Ery’s powerful soul, he could not step fully into that sea. He remained on the shore, extending only a thin thread of luminous soul-light toward his friend.
The light barely held.
Thrax roared and raised his fist toward the blood-red sky.
The crimson clouds above split apart.
Golden light poured down.
And with it ca voices.
Not screams.
Cheers.
Thunderous, glorious cheers.
The sound of countless spectators roaring his na. The echo of arenas. The clash of weapons. The roar of victory after victory.
Hands reached down from the golden light as well—but these hands were steady, resolute.
They did not pull him down.
They lifted him up.
The two forces collided.
Blood and glory.
Death and triumph.
The violent madness in Thrax’s eyes receded. His breathing steadied. The blood sea cald, waves settling into stillness.
A new glow wrapped around his aura.
Yet still—
No cosmic energy ford.
No tribulation arrived.
The breakthrough failed.
It took Thrax nearly an hour before the violent turbulence within him finally subsided.
The blood-red aura that had once flooded the chamber slowly receded, folding back into his body like a restrained beast. His breathing grew steadier, though every breath still carried exhaustion that ran far deeper than physical fatigue. Only then did he beco aware of Ery’s presence—silent, unmoving, watching from a short distance away.
Thrax straightened with effort and inclined his head in acknowledgnt. Gratitude flickered briefly across his hardened expression.
Ery stepped closer. "What’s going on?"
Thrax did not answer imdiately.
Instead, he asked quietly, "Did you get what I asked for?"
Ery nodded. "Yes. And thanks to you, we also won two billion spirit stones. We can split—"
"I don’t need it," Thrax interrupted.
He raised his head, eyes burning with resolve. "All I need... is what I asked for."
Ery sighed softly.
He reached into his sleeve and flicked his wrist.
A golden emblem flew through the air and landed in Thrax’s hand.
The Dawnstar Champion Emblem.
This emblem represented more than status. By claiming Rank Three in the Dawnstar Arena, Thrax had beco eligible to receive one of only five such tokens—symbols of recognition granted to champions of the arena.
In theory, the emblem was a right.
In practice, arenas rarely surrendered such privileges easily.
So demanded vast sums. Others required years of contractual servitude. A few bound their champions to political obligations that lasted longer than the glory itself.
This one had been obtained through a quiet favor Gwen had extracted from the Prefect.
Thrax closed his fingers around the emblem.
This emblem granted entry into a greater arena—one of the most prestigious in the universe.
The Magus Universe Infinity Arena.
The very sa arena once ntioned to Ery by Izzak the Unbreakable of the Karat Faction. An arena Ery himself could never enter, as he had already stepped beyond the Magus Realm.
As Thrax stared at the emblem, he began to explain—quietly, steadily—how the past two decades of his life had been defined by a single, unyielding wall.
His Law of Slaughter.
Like many unique laws, it was both a blessing and a curse. It granted him power far exceeding others of his realm, allowing him to survive battlefields that should have crushed him. But that sa law demanded a price.
Every life he ended left behind a grudge.
Every victory layered another strand of death aura around his soul.
Over ti, those remnants accumulated into sothing far heavier than re resentnt. They beca chains—binding his cultivation, weighing down his spirit, and preventing his ascent into the Grand Magus Realm.
Thrax spoke of years spent searching for solutions.
ditation halls. Monasteries. Cleansing arrays. Months spent in isolation, attempting to purge the death aura through discipline and ritual.
Nothing worked.
The slaughter clung to him.
"Until I realized sothing."
He raised the emblem.
"This is the answer."
The aura of glory—the faith, awe, and admiration of countless spectators—was the force capable of countering the death aura dragging him down.
Slaughter would be balanced by glory.
Blood by triumph.
"This is my path," Thrax said firmly. "I will beco the universe’s greatest gladiator."
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