Dago's Worry

Dago slowly stepped down from the resplendent arena, which nevertheless carried an unsettlingly sinister air.

The air around him seemed to have been brought to a boil. Noisy discussions buzzed around his ears like countless flies, yet converged into a torrent called "glory," trying to sweep him away.

Some gazes burned like fire, filled with worship for the strong; others were cold as ice, brimming with jealousy at having their spotlight stolen.

Still others were merely spectators, craning their necks as though watching a cricket that had just defeated a rooster, savoring the topic of "challenging above one's rank."

He had become the sole focus of this place, as if the stage spotlight's switch had broken and remained locked onto him alone.

"Second Circle defeating Third Circle," "a crushing victory over a seeded contestant"—such phrases were like gilded signs forcibly hung around his neck.

It was an unprecedented feat, a moment worthy of being recorded in the history of this competition ground.

Some were even still reliving the Domain Resonance Dago had cast one after another as if they cost nothing. Such extravagant fighting was practically mocking every wizard who painstakingly calculated their mana consumption.

Dago's reputation had soared as though he had boarded a jet aircraft, reaching an unprecedented peak in an instant.

Faintly, he even seemed poised to stand shoulder to shoulder with—or perhaps surpass—the veteran Third-Ring Wizard geniuses on the field.

Yet Dago felt no joy at all.

His face was like a calm lake, utterly undisturbed, while an undercurrent called "confusion" surged beneath its surface.

A thick gloom, like oil paper soaked through with water, tightly covered his heart and made it hard for him to breathe.

"Dago, you..."

The moment he reached the Thorn Ring seating area, he was met with astonishment, praise, and reverence