In Arena Number 243, a continent-sized battlefield forged from primordial jungle and treacherous swamps, a palpable tension hung in the air.

A million champions from across the universe had been scattered across this deadly landscape, their hearts pounding with the thrill and terror of The Crucible.

The audience watched with bated breath, their collective gaze shifting between a hundred different screens, eager for the first clash, the first kill.

Many eyes were fixed on a single figure, a magnificent serpentine dragon of brilliant jade green, who hovered serenely above the dense canopy.

It was Thorn, the first apostle of Shenlong. The whispers in the live chat were a storm of speculation and anticipation.

They had seen Kalzarin, the Ice Dragon, annihilate an entire arena in a single, terrifying breath. They expected a similar display of overwhelming power.

But the massacre never came.

Thorn simply floated, a calm, almost indifferent observer to the chaos erupting below.

He drifted through the air with a carefree attitude, seemingly oblivious to the frantic battles breaking out across the jungle.

Lifeforms clashed, alliances formed and shattered, and the number of contestants began to dwindle, but the green dragon remained aloof, a silent, emerald star against the backdrop of carnage.

Even as the arena itself began to crumble at the edges, the shrinking battlefield forcing survivors into desperate confrontations, Thorn did not engage.

Spells sizzled past him, arrows whistled by his scales, but none found their mark. A shimmering, almost invisible shield, woven from pure, solidified hope, deflected every attack effortlessly.

The viewers in the live chat were baffled.

Lifeform26646: "What is happening? Why isn't he fighting? Is he just going to float there until the end?"

Lifeform3627: "Still, even if he doesn't fight, he's effortlessly tanking thousands of attacks. It shows he has the power, but maybe he doesn't want to show his hand yet?"

Lifeform6272: "I hope so! I want to see a real dragon fight in the finals! Kalzarin versus Thorn! That would be epic! Ones attack breaks the arena while others defend every attack"

The chatter continued, a mix of confusion, disappointment, and fervent speculation.

But Thorn remained unchanged, a serene enigma in a world of brutal conflict.

He watched the duels below, his ancient eyes observing the different fighting styles, the flashes of unexpected talent, the desperate struggles for survival.

After several days of this passive observation, he finally descended, drawn by a conflict near the center of the shrinking arena.

Four warriors remained in this sector. Three, clad in the matching armor of a single God's world, were ganging up on a lone figure.

Their target was a massive, burly man whose skin seemed to possess the dull sheen of iron, his muscles rippling with a strength that bordered on the monstrous.

Even outnumbered three to one, he fought with a primal, desperate bravery, his fists like sledgehammers, refusing to yield.

Thorn watched the uneven battle, a faint chuckle rumbling deep in his draconic chest. He projected a quiet whisper, a thought carried on the wind that only the burly warrior could hear. "Do you hold even a sliver of hope for victory, little warrior?"

The burly man, staggered by a blow, looked around wildly, searching for the source of the voice.

His eyes finally locked onto the serene, green dragon hovering nearby.

Despite the desperate battle, despite the overwhelming odds, his reply was instant and absolute. "Yes!"

The moment the word formed in his mind, something shifted within him.

A warm, invigorating energy flooded his battered body. He felt lighter, stronger, his exhaustion vanishing as if it had never been.

The very air around him seemed to hum with a newfound vitality. His iron-like skin seemed to harden, taking on the dark, unyielding luster of obsidian.

With a roar of pure, revitalized fury, he charged back into the fray. His movements were faster, his blows heavier.

The three opponents, moments ago confident in their victory, were suddenly overwhelmed.

In a matter of seconds, they were disarmed, their tokens snatched, their worlds dissolving into the disorienting light of elimination.

The burly warrior stood alone, panting heavily, looking at his own hands in disbelief.

He looked back towards the dragon, wanting to offer thanks, but Thorn was already gone, vanished back into the sky as silently as he had appeared.

'Hope,' Thorn whispered to himself as he soared high above the clouds, 'is the greatest weapon of all.'

He continued his passive flight, his presence a silent, calming influence on the chaotic battlefield. Days turned into weeks.

The arena continued to shrink, forcing the remaining survivors into ever-closer proximity. Finally, the moment arrived. The landmass beneath them was now only a few hundred kilometers wide.

Thorn opened his eyes, the passive observer replaced by the focused will of a demigod's apostle.

"It is time," he said, his voice no longer a whisper, but a deep, ancient resonance that seemed to carry the weight of Shenlong's own power.

"Break."

It was a single word, spoken with absolute authority. As if his voice were the very law of this reality, the tokens bound to the waists of every remaining lifeform in the arena; save for 999 souls he had silently marked as 'worthy', shattered simultaneously.

Thousands of champions, who had fought and bled and survived for weeks, vanished in an instant, their journey in the tournament abruptly, inexplicably over.

A system notification chimed in the minds of the thousand survivors.

[Congratulations! You have passed the second round of the Tournament of Gods]

They reappeared in the stands, their expressions a mixture of exhaustion, relief, and utter confusion.

They looked at Thorn, who had teleported back to his stand, his serpentine form now shimmering with a bright, golden light, his eyes closed, lost in a state of profound epiphany.

Sunny, watching from his throne, smiled. He cast a bubble of accelerated time around Thorn, isolating him, allowing him the peace needed to integrate his newfound understanding.

The tournament continued. For Sunny, the endless parade of battles had lost some of its novelty, but for the Gods and lifeforms watching, it was the greatest spectacle they had ever witnessed.

Finally, the second round for the lifeforms concluded. Only one hundred million champions remained from the initial hundred billion who had entered The Crucible.

Adam reappeared at the center of the arena, his smile broad and pleased. "This concludes the second round for our mortal champions! And now, the moment you have all been waiting for… it is time to see how our demigods fare in The Crucible!"

A roar of pure, unadulterated excitement erupted from the trillions of spectators. This was what they truly craved; the clash of titans, the battle of divine beings.

"But first," Adam said, a mischievous glint in his ancient eyes, "shouldn't we make the stage a bit more… appropriate for contestants of their stature?"

He waved a hand. The thousand continent-sized arenas below began to merge, flowing together like liquid land, forming a single, impossibly vast battleground, a canvas the size of a thousand worlds.

He then glanced towards Sunny's stand, towards Nova, Mammon, and Nexus, and sighed dramatically. "Why do I always have to overwork like this?"

He waved his hand again, and the arena doubled in size, then tripled, finally stabilizing at a scale that defied comprehension, a single battlefield the size of a million worlds.

"The rules remain the same!" Adam announced. "One million demigods will enter. The last thousand standing will advance. And the arena will shrink, but given its current… immensity… it will likely take two full months for the final circle to form."

The audience cheered. The Gods smiled. The demigods grinned, their auras flaring with competitive energy.

"Let The Crucible begin once again!" Adam declared. "But this time… for the Demigods!"

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