Chapter 552: Supreme Master of the Seventh Floor

The moment the words left his lips, the very sky split open. The flaming crown overhead pulsed once—then erupted. From it, thousands of black flame weapons burst forth, filling the sky like an ocean of death.

Swords with glowing runes, spears forged from infernal light, curved scimitars that shimmered with edge-like intent, jagged axes, twin-bladed glaives, arrows aflame with ghostly trails—every weapon imaginable floated in the heavens, suspended in time for a breathless instant.

Then they fell.

Like divine punishment from above, the weapons rained down with terrifying precision.

A black sword pierced straight through a shadow warrior’s skull, pinning him to the cracked stone.

A spear tore through two at once, nailing their twitching bodies into the arena floor.

A halberd cleaved a group in half, its flaming edge slicing through them like paper. Daggers spun midair and shredded limbs.

An arrow shot straight through a warrior’s chest, detonating a burst of fire that erased him entirely.

There was no room to run. No shelter. No defense.

The arena became a canvas of destruction, every black weapon a stroke of finality.

And as the last flaming knife embedded itself into the ground with a sharp hiss, silence reclaimed the space.

No shadow warrior stood. Only flickering wisps of black fire floated briefly in the air—remnants of what had been.

Max stood alone at the center of the devastation, the flaming crown above his head burning brighter than ever. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

The judgment had been passed.

And then the arena began to tremble, space twisting, signaling his triumph and the arrival of the seventh floor.

The arena dissolved like mist in the wind, and Max found himself standing upon what appeared to be the remnants of a grand temple—or perhaps a forgotten castle, its true identity obscured by time.

The stone beneath his feet was ancient, weathered with cracks and engravings that told no tale he could read. Columns, once majestic, now stood broken and scattered, and the walls curved upward only to abruptly end in jagged edges where a roof might have once been.

Above, there was no ceiling—only the open sky, stretching out in a vast canvas of blue, with a blazing sun suspended high like the eye of a god watching over the ruin.

It was as though Max wasn’t in a trial or something but in a real world. It was very different from all the previous six floors so far for sure.

‘This is the seventh floor,’ Max thought, scanning the surroundings with narrowed eyes. ‘Where one of the Three Supreme Masters resides.’

The very air felt still, dense, filled with tension—as though the temple held its breath in anticipation. At the far end of the structure, where time and ruin met, stood a shattered statue.

What remained of it was monumental: half a torso, a broken crown, and a single stone hand stretched outward as if frozen mid-command. The base of the statue had collapsed, its pieces scattered like ancient bones across the dais.

Then—suddenly—his Three Dimensional Body screamed.

A disturbance. No, an attack. Fast. Precise. Silent.

Max didn’t even blink. He smiled instead, as if amused by the very idea of surprise.

Calmly, he tilted his head ever so slightly to the left.

WHISH!

A golden leaf whistled through the air, slicing past him at such speed that even without making contact, it stirred the wind hard enough to graze his cheek with its breath. It was so fast, so sharp, that for a moment Max’s senses felt delayed—only his Three Dimensional Body had warned him in time.

‘A golden leaf?’ Max thought, his expression still calm, though a flicker of intrigue sparked in his eyes.

Whoever had attacked wasn’t just fast—they were refined, surgical. There had been no killing intent, no bloodlust. Only pure precision.

And that meant one thing.

The Supreme Master of this floor had arrived.

“No need for sneak attacks,” Max said with a calm smile tugging at his lips, his gaze casually scanning the ruined temple. “That might have worked on others—but against me, they’re useless.”

A melodic, almost mocking voice drifted through the open space, carried on a breeze that seemed to hum with amusement. “Is that so?” the voice replied, its tone light and charming, yet laced with a power that caused the stone beneath Max’s feet to thrum faintly in response.

Before he could search for the source, the air shimmered a few paces ahead, and from thin air, a figure appeared—no dramatic entrance, no flash of energy, just existence slipping into being as though she had always been there.

She sat gracefully on a silver chair that hadn’t been there moments ago, one leg crossed over the other, a porcelain teacup held in her hand.

Golden hair cascaded past her shoulders, gleaming under the sunlight. Her skin was like smooth ivory, unblemished and glowing faintly with a divine aura. Her ears, unmistakably long and pointed, marked her lineage instantly.

But it was her eyes—sharp, ancient, radiant with centuries of knowledge—that truly marked her as different. She didn’t just sit in that chair; she owned the entire floor with her presence.

Max blinked. “An elf?” he muttered, a trace of genuine surprise flickering across his face. Of all the things he had expected from the seventh floor, meeting an elven Supreme Master wasn’t one of them.

The elf lifted her teacup delicately to her lips, took a quiet sip, and placed it gently down onto a small glass table that now accompanied her.

She regarded Max with an expression of serene amusement, like a professor sizing up an overconfident student before a difficult exam.

“You’re not what I expected either,” the elven woman said with a soft chuckle, her voice delicate yet commanding, like wind chimes stirring beneath a thunderstorm. “In fact, in many ways, you resemble me.”

She set her teacup down again with a faint clink and stood slowly, her posture fluid, poised like flowing water. Her golden hair shimmered in the sunlight as her piercing gaze bore into Max, not with hostility, but with a strange melancholy curiosity.

“You carry an elven bloodline in your body, as well as the bloodline of a Black Dragon. Just like me,” she said, voice quiet but heavy with implication. “But yours… yours is unusual. I can tell your elven bloodline is nearly on par with your Black Dragon heritage, but its source—” she paused, frowning gently, “—has been severed. Taken. Severed away.”

She shook her head, a faint sigh escaping her lips, as though mourning a tragedy long past. “It seems you’ve suffered enough.”

Then she stepped forward, her presence pressing down slightly, not in violence but like the weight of time and memory. Her golden eyes glinted with sudden sharpness as she leaned slightly forward, her voice dropping into something low, probing, a whisper threaded with command.

“Tell me,” she said, “how is it that I sensed not one, but two Royal Bloodlines of the Elven Race from you? How can you come in contact with two person carrying the same bloodline? At a time, there can only exist a single Royal Bloodline… two should be impossible.”

The silence that followed her words was thick and expectant, like the hush before a storm, as if even the sun above waited for Max’s answer.

Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!