Wizard: Starting from the Skill Tree

Chapter 853: Chapter 769: Only One Lives

Duke straightened and looked around.

The ancient battlefield was vast, so vast that the borders were out of sight.

Beneath the lead-gray sky, there were only shattered weapons, withered corpses, and a desolate earth.

He couldn’t sense anyone; this battlefield had separated them.

Just as he was about to take a step, the space behind him suddenly twisted.

Turning back, he saw the white vortex slowly contracting, the edges flashing as if making a final struggle.

The vortex continued to shrink, finally turning into a tiny point of light, then with a ’puff’, vanished completely.

The entrance was shut.

At the same time, several lines of enormous text appeared in the sky.

The text was in the same language as the inscription on the tomb’s main entrance, but this time, Duke didn’t need a translation to understand them.

The words were branded directly into his consciousness, like someone whispering in his ear:

"Third level, Gladiatorial Arena."

"Rule: Last person standing."

"No rules, no limits, no mercy."

"One lives, the rest die."

The Gladiatorial Arena, a mutual slaughter, only one person left standing in the end.

These were the rules of the third level.

He thought of those corpses, those bodies that had been dried by the wind for millennia yet had not decayed, those shattered weapons scattered all over the ground.

The tomb’s master evidently had no intention of letting anyone who entered leave alive.

To be precise, this was a grave all along.

Those who entered had to either become the last one standing or become one of the corpses.

The wind stopped, and the ancient battlefield fell into a deathly silence.

Duke stood still, his spiritual power rippling outward like waves.

He sensed not just one but at least seven or eight directions, where life essences were moving.

Some were rapidly attacking, some were slowly stealthing, some had stopped, as if waiting for something.

It seemed quite a few had chosen to enter in the end.

He was one of the first to enter, and after him more people had flooded into this gladiatorial arena.

Duke’s lips twitched slightly, these people all wanted that final grace, each thought they would be the last one standing.

Footsteps were heard from afar, not from one person but from several directions, all heading toward him.

Duke didn’t move, he merely withdrew his spiritual power, focusing on the nearest few presences.

Three, no, four.

Their steps were swift and direct, clearly targeting him.

Soon, four figures emerged from the gray-white mist.

Leading them was a tall warlock, dressed in a gray-blue magic robe, with an unfamiliar emblem on his chest, evidently from some minor faction.

Following him were two men and one woman, each wearing differently colored and styled robes, from different minor factions, temporarily formed into a group.

Upon seeing Duke, they all hesitated in their steps simultaneously.

The leader’s gaze lingered on Duke’s face for a moment, then quickly recognized him, his expression changing slightly.

"It’s Duke," he lowered his voice to say to the others behind him.

The other three’s expressions changed too, wary, tense, with a trace of unconcealed dread.

The weight of being ranked fifth in the Illusion Tower was substantial for these people.

Duke remained silent, merely watching them quietly.

He recognized one among them, ranked in the seventies on the Illusion Tower leaderboard, not weak but just so-so.

The four exchanged glances, clearly using spiritual power for secret communication.

Duke obviously couldn’t hear, but he understood.

They were reaching a consensus, which was to first deal with the strongest, most threatening person present.

"All together," the leader no longer concealed it, raising the magic wand, the crystal stone at the wand head shining a piercing blue light.

The other three acted simultaneously, one forming a flame longsword, another summoning an ice pick, and the last one sneaking toward Duke’s rear.

Duke didn’t move.

Sand flowed out from around him, silently, like a tide.

The thin curtain of sand spun slowly beside him, unhurriedly, as if waiting for something.

The flame longsword descended, and the sand curtain divided into a stream of sand, gently wrapping the flame longsword into scattered sparks.

The sword wielder was pushed back several steps by the rebound force, his hand cracking, blood flowing.

The ice pick shot forth, the sand stream coalesced into a small shield, the ice pick shattered on impact, not even causing a ripple.

The assailant from behind just rounded to Duke’s rear, yet before he could act, the ground below suddenly collapsed, plunging into quicksand, leaving only his head exposed.

He struggled desperately, but the grains of sand, like living creatures, entangled him tighter and deeper.

The leader’s face turned pale, blue light flickering madly on the wand, but unable to decide where to attack.

Duke focused on him, raising his right hand, his fingers slightly clenched.

Sand rushed out from beneath his feet, enveloping the leader, like a giant hand grasping him in its palm.

The blue light on the magic wand extinguished, the crystal stone at the wand’s head crumbling into powder, slipping through his fingers.

Four golden beams of light flared almost simultaneously.

That’s the protective mechanism of the arena; they were all eliminated.

Duke lowered his hand, the sand dispersed, falling back to the ground, and those four people were no longer there.

Now he had a huge advantage facing these people far weaker than himself; the existence of the Sand Guardian essentially ensured that he was invincible.

And that metallic yellow sand was also extremely troublesome for these wizards; once bound, it was incredibly difficult to escape.