The Vastness of Magical Destiny

Uma enjoyed the cool breeze coming from the Olympus Valley, where even in the height of summer, the snow-capped Divine Mount Olympus remained chillingly cold. The wind swept down the valley, slightly tempering the fiery atmosphere of the Grand Arena.

The Grand Arena was situated at the end of a winding canyon that descended from the Divine Mount Olympus, perched in a basin. The circular stands, built to take advantage of the terrain, offered an unobstructed view over the competition field below, which, except for a narrow exit to the southeast, was perfectly enclosed on all sides, accommodating tens of thousands of spectators.

With only the last two kilometers left in the sprint, the two Spartain racers behind him grew increasingly impatient. The javelins they hurled seemed like child’s play to Uma; with a heavy sword, he slashed the incoming javelins in two, and those targeting the Ghost Warhorse were rendered ineffective by its nimble strides. Before long, the Spartain racers’ supply of javelins on the back of their carts dwindled, while Uma’s remained untouched. The outcome was clear even before the dust of the race settled, as the mix of excitement and joy on the faces of representatives from various countries and cities on the stands evidenced their eager desire to overthrow the Spartains’ dominance in this event.

The last fifteen hundred meters were almost entirely smooth and flat. It was no longer possible to gain an advantage with horsemanship alone; now, it was solely up to the racers’ skill with javelins and swords. The Black Iron Chariot, still maintaining a firm lead, thundered across the dry, dusty earth, kicking up clouds of dust. Uma stood proudly atop the chariot, his pure black cloak whipping wildly in the dust storm. Though his face lacked the domineering aura of a conqueror, many saw this blend of frigidity and ferocity as befitting a battle-hardened veteran.

The two following Spartain racers skillfully exchanged an imperceptible glance before the one on the left suddenly jabbed his javelin towards the flank of his horse, causing the pained steed to accelerate. Meanwhile, the other racer began to zigzag at an increasing pace, stirring up a blinding cloud of dust.

"Eh? Something seems off; what are those two up to?" Komer immediately felt that something was amiss.

"Hehe, Dark Lord, this is exactly the suspense of the last phase of chariot racing. This final fifteen hundred-meter stretch is the most thrilling part of the race. In this segment, racers are unrestrained by any rules. As long as you win the laurel wreath, no matter the means—magic, martial arts, hidden weapons, or tricks—defeating an opponent by any means is permitted. However, it’s limited to this fifteen hundred meters. Racers often use the dust kicked up from this dry, dusty ground as a cover, especially for acts that aren’t so noble. Over time, it has become a custom, and the track is specially designed with dry, dusty soil in this section. When the dust settles, the rightful owner of the laurel wreath will be revealed."

The explanation amused Komer; even in their scheming, these Southerners needed to use cover-ups as a guise. It was funny how combat, which is inherently ruthless, still required a semblance of honorable justification. It was, perhaps, a case of convergent evolution.

"Well, that’s fine; it’s a good chance for Uma to experience the combat atmosphere of this era," Komer said nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders.

Uma had already sensed the subtle killing intent behind him as soon as the two opposing chariots began to weave and separate. Centuries of Cultivation in the Underground had honed his senses to perfection. The tricks of the Spartain racers, though cleverly hidden, were child’s play to him. Could you imagine two toddlers attempting to scheme against a robust adult? To Uma, it was precisely this ludicrous scenario he faced.