Chapter 560: Creating History...Again

Chapter 560: Creating History…Again

Outside the Nine Dragons Painting, a tense silence settled across the arena as all eyes remained locked on the ancient mural. The instructors and gathered geniuses watched intently, tracking the glowing dots that represented the participants still undergoing the trials inside.

One by one, those dots had flickered out—each disappearance marking the failure or removal of a challenger. Until, at last, only a single dot remained.

All others had been kicked out.

All but one.

That one dot, unmoving for what seemed like an eternity, glowed steadily on the seventh floor. And everyone watching knew exactly who it belonged to.

“…He’s taking too long,” Jason muttered, arms crossed, a frown shadowing his face. “He’s been stuck on the seventh floor for far longer than expected. Honestly, he should’ve either advanced or been kicked out by now. I don’t think that Supreme Master—especially that elf—would toy with anyone. Either you pass or you don’t.”

Lucia, standing beside him with her arms also folded, stared at the lone dot. Her voice was cool, but laced with interest. “Do you think he’ll make it? Enter the eighth floor?”

Jason exhaled. “Honestly? No. It’s practically impossible. Only a few ever entered the eighth floor, and those were the most monstrous beings in history—legendary prodigies who stood above everyone else. In our generation? Nobody. Not a single genius has managed to reach that floor. I don’t think Max is the exception to that.”

“Hmm.” Lucia nodded slowly, her gaze unwavering, fixed on the single glowing dot in the painting. Though her words were neutral, her expression betrayed the intensity of her thoughts.

A short distance away, Lady Virelia stood in silence as well. Her usually calm and distant demeanor was strained with focus. Her eyes hadn’t moved from that seventh floor dot in what felt like an hour.

She said nothing, but her clenched fists and tightened jaw revealed the storm of thoughts racing through her mind.

Everyone was waiting.

That single glowing dot… it held the attention of the entire arena.

And then—without warning, without buildup, without any sign or sound—the dot representing Max blinked out from the seventh floor and reappeared instantly on the eighth floor.

For a moment, there was a stunned silence, as if the world itself had forgotten how to breathe. The crowd standing before the Nine Dragons Painting froze completely, their expressions stuck mid-sentence, mid-breath.

It was a moment so surreal, so sudden, it shattered the calm that had built up around the arena like glass struck by a hammer. A collective gasp echoed seconds later, spreading like wildfire.

“What—?!” one genius blurted out, rubbing his eyes frantically as if dust had gotten into them. “No way… that dot—it moved! It moved to the eighth floor!”

“No, that can’t be right!” shouted another, his face twisted in disbelief. “Check again! That must be a mistake! The seventh floor was his limit—he was there for too long!”

“It’s real! I’m looking at it! He’s… he’s really on the eighth floor!” a young woman cried out, pointing a trembling finger at the mural.

The atmosphere broke into a wave of murmurs, exclamations, and gasps. Some shouted in awe, others shook their heads in disbelief, unable to accept what their eyes had just seen.

A few even backed away from the painting instinctively, as if the glowing dot on the eighth floor might suddenly leap out at them.

Dozens of instructors who had stood unmoving for hours leaned forward with widened eyes, faces hardening with serious contemplation—this wasn’t just rare, this was history in the making.

Jason’s jaw dropped open mid-comment. His lips moved, but no sound came out at first. He blinked several times, then slowly turned to look at the mural, a nervous chuckle escaping him.

“No… freaking… way…” he muttered, stunned beyond comprehension. “He actually did it?”

Lucia’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, her composed face cracking as her mouth parted slightly in disbelief. “He… passed?” she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else. “He really passed the seventh floor…”

Lady Virelia stood completely still, her cloak fluttering lightly in the breeze, but her body was frozen in place. Her lips tightened, her gaze locked onto the single glowing dot now burning brilliantly on the eighth floor.

Even she—someone who had trained many geniuses and witnessed the rise and fall of countless talents—was shaken.

Her thoughts spun in disbelief. ‘Even the Divine Realm’s top geniuses… even they couldn’t… but he…’

Gasps continued. Conversations burst across the viewing stands like sparks on dry grass. A chorus of names filled the air.

“Max Morgan…”

“From the mortal realm…”

“The first in this era… to ever reach the eighth floor…”

A new legend was being born before their eyes. And the entire crowd knew it.

The realization struck like a thunderclap. That dot—small, glowing, silent—had shifted to the eighth floor, and yet its weight felt like it had shaken the very foundations of the Black Dragon Palace.

The arena, once filled with idle conversations and half-hearted banter, had now transformed into a storm of disbelief and reverent murmurs.

“He’s not just a genius… He’s a monster. Only monsters have entered the eighth floor in the past,” someone whispered from among the instructors.

“A mortal-born… made it to the eighth floor…” an elderly expert muttered, staring at the painting as if seeing a divine revelation unfold.

Even those who had dismissed Max earlier—calling him arrogant for challenging the Grimes Family, labeling him overconfident for standing beside Lucia Grimes in the Flame Tyrant dome—now stood speechless, their pride swallowed by the immensity of this moment.

Jason slowly leaned back, exhaling deeply. “That lunatic actually did it…” he said, a half-smile creeping onto his face. “Lucia, your rival just rewrote history.”

Lucia didn’t reply. She stared ahead, her arms folded, lips pressed together, and brows knitted. Her pride flared inside her like a storm, but even she couldn’t deny what she saw. She had tried and failed. Thrice.

Yet Max had passed the floor she couldn’t. Not just passed—it seemed he had even earned the acknowledgment of the one who guarded it. That wasn’t just talent. That was terrifying.

“Who is he really…” she whispered under her breath, the weight of her words lost in the chaotic buzz of the crowd.

Lady Virelia, meanwhile, had closed her eyes. Not from disbelief, but from something deeper—acceptance, pride, and the dawning of something far greater.

“You were right, Harthorne,” she murmured to herself. “The Mark of Divinity wouldn’t choose wrong.”

All eyes were now glued to that single glowing dot, burning like a lone star on the eighth floor of the Nine Dragons Painting. A symbol. A declaration.

Max Morgan… was no longer just another name among geniuses.

He had become the storm.

***

Meanwhile, Max found himself standing on a vast, open plain covered in lush green grass that swayed gently with the wind. The soft breeze brushed against his skin like a whisper, cool and soothing, and carried with it the scent of wildflowers hidden somewhere amidst the gentle hills.

Above him stretched a sky so blue and cloudless that it looked painted, a quiet canvas of serenity, starkly contrasting the intensity of the trials he had just endured. The entire landscape breathed tranquility—no battle cries, no scorching flames, no pressure from ancient legacies—just peace.

‘This is… Peaceful.’ Max thought feeling the soft current of wind flowed through him.

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