Divine Mask: I Have Numerous God Clones

Hades stepped through the portal, his vision adjusting to the dim light of his new surroundings. As he emerged on the other side, he found himself standing in the center of a massive arena, its dark stone walls towering high above.

The air was thick with tension, a mix of anticipation and fear radiating from the figures scattered around him. The arena was vast, with a wide, circular space surrounded by tall, jagged walls that gave it a menacing atmosphere.

Hades scanned the area, noting that he was not alone—dozens of other individuals stood nearby, each with the same determined look in their eyes. The sheer size of the arena and the number of participants hinted that something significant was about to happen.

Suddenly, a figure appeared on the opposite side of the arena, standing on a high platform that overlooked the entire space. It was an old man, his long, dark robes flowing around him like shadows, and his presence immediately commanded attention. His eyes, sharp and cold, surveyed the group before him with a hint of amusement.

"Welcome to the Necrovauld Academy," the old man announced, his voice cutting through the tense silence of the arena like a blade. The weight of his words hung heavily in the air, commanding the attention of every disciple present. "You hundred have been gathered here to face your next test."

Before the old man could continue, a young man in the crowd, his face a mix of anxiety and defiance, suddenly stepped forward. His voice wavered slightly as he blurted out, "Wait! I used the wooden card! Isn't that supposed to let me skip the test?"

The old man paused, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. He nodded slowly, his eyes narrowing as they fixed on the young man. "Yes," he replied, his tone dripping with amusement, "the wooden card does indeed grant special privileges, typically allowing one to bypass the usual entrance tests."

He let the words linger, watching as the young man's defiant expression faltered, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. The old man's smile widened, a sinister gleam in his eyes as he continued, "But this time, the rules are different."

The atmosphere in the arena grew even more charged, the tension palpable. The old man's smile turned into a grin, one that sent a shiver down the spines of those who dared to meet his gaze.

"You see," the old man began, his voice dropping to a sinister tone that sent chills down the spines of those listening. His eyes gleamed with a twisted pleasure as he continued, "you are all now recognized as outer disciples of Necrovauld Academy. However," he paused, letting the tension build, "there is one final challenge that stands between you and true power."

A murmur swept through the crowd, disciples exchanging uneasy glances and whispered speculations. The old man's grin widened, his expression almost predatory as he raised his voice, ensuring no one missed what he was about to say.

"In this arena," he announced, gesturing grandly to the vast space around them, "the hundred of you will battle it out. And for the fortunate soul who emerges victorious... you will be immediately promoted to the rank of inner disciple."

The declaration landed like a thunderclap, and the shock was palpable. Some disciples gasped, others stiffened, realizing the gravity of the trial they were about to face. The idea of such a brutal contest, where only one could rise to the coveted position of inner disciple, was both thrilling and terrifying.

The old man observed their reactions with a smug satisfaction, his eyes dancing with amusement. "This opportunity," he continued, his voice dripping with false sweetness, "to become an inner disciple is a rare one, reserved for new recruits like yourselves. Fail here, and the path to becoming an inner disciple will become far more treacherous."

He let his words hang in the air, the silence that followed heavy with dread. Then, with a smirk that spoke of dark intentions, he added, "And let me remind you—this is not a righteous academy. Here, killing is not just allowed... it's encouraged."

A murmur of fear spread through the crowd, some disciples visibly recoiling at the revelation. The old man's smirk deepened as he watched their reactions. "If any of you lack the courage for this... if the thought of taking a life is too much for your weak hearts... you are free to surrender now and remain mere outer disciples. No shame in admitting your limitations."

He crossed his arms, watching with a cold satisfaction as a few disciples hesitated, their faces pale with fear. "But know this," he added, his tone turning deadly serious, "those who surrender now may never have another chance to rise. This is your one and only opportunity to seize greatness."

As soon as the old man finished speaking, the arena erupted into a flurry of motion. Panic washed over the crowd like a tidal wave, and ambition crumbled in the face of the looming threat.

The harsh reality of what lay ahead quickly settled in, and one by one, disciples began to make their choice.

Nearly 80 of them took a step back, their faces pale and their resolve shattered. Hands shot up in surrender, their once eager expressions now replaced by fear. It was clear—they were unwilling to risk their lives in what they now understood would be a brutal and deadly confrontation.

"I can't do this," one disciple muttered, his voice trembling as he backed away, his eyes wide with terror. "It's not worth dying over."

"Better to live as an outer disciple than to die here," another whispered, her hand shaking as she raised it in surrender.

Hades watched the scene unfold with a cold, calculating gaze. He didn't flinch as the crowd thinned, his eyes narrowing as he assessed those who remained. Only 20 disciples stood their ground, their faces set with grim determination.

Hades could sense the power emanating from them, recognizing that each one had reached the three-star level. These were no ordinary opponents.

The old man's eyes gleamed with approval as he looked down at the remaining contestants, his lips curling into a satisfied smile.

"Now that only 20 of you are left," he said, his voice rich with anticipation, "let's see which of you has the strength, the cunning, and the will to immediately become an inner disciple upon entering the academy."

One of the remaining disciples, a young woman with fiery red hair, stepped forward, her eyes blazing with defiance. "I won't let this chance slip away," she declared, her voice firm and unwavering. "I'll fight with everything I have."

Another disciple, a tall, muscular man, clenched his fists and grinned. "This is what I've been waiting for," he said, his tone filled with excitement. "Let's see who's the strongest."

The old man chuckled softly at their bravado, clearly pleased with their determination. "Good," he murmured, his smile widening. "I'm glad to see some of you have the guts for this."

Without another word, the old man raised his hand high, his expression turning deadly serious. "Let the battle begin!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the arena like a thunderclap.

In that instant, the tension snapped, and the disciples sprang into action. The air was thick with the clash of steel and the crackle of energy, each of them driven by the same desperate desire—to seize the opportunity or die trying.