Hearing this, Max finally understood. He would not be alone in the den of the Devouring Ants. He would not be fighting against the swarm only for himself. There would be others—geniuses from countless worlds, representatives of other giant dwarven villages—each of them striving for the same thing, each of them desperate to claim the Holy Nectar, each of them willing to kill to ensure their victory.

Max's expression grew darker with the realization. The Holy Nectar was the key to opening the Seven Divine Veins, and because of that, every single genius who entered the den would give their all. There would be no half measures. Failure would mean losing the path forever, and none of them could afford that.

"Are Nina and Evan part of this?" Max asked with genuine curiosity.

"No," Chief Igris replied, shaking his massive head. "As I have already told you, they have their own paths to walk, and they are following those paths even now. Each village can only send one representative, one champion, into the trial. For our village, that person is you. There can be no other."

Max nodded slowly, accepting the weight of those words. Yet another question rose to his lips. "So, when will we be heading out for the nectar?"

"A week from now," Chief Igris answered as he pushed himself to his feet, his presence towering and unyielding. "Rest well until then. A week from now we depart for the den of the Devouring Ants. That is when your true trial will begin."

With that, the meeting came to an end. The gathered giant dwarves dispersed silently, their heavy footsteps echoing through the village square, leaving Max alone with his thoughts. He returned to the hut that had been given to him and sat cross-legged in the stillness.

Closing his eyes, Max withdrew into his Dimension of Time. Within that dimension, he began to hone everything he possessed. He moved with his sword until his arm blurred, striking in patterns both sharp and fluid. He tested the weight of his fists, driving them into the void with the force of the Immemorial Dragon Elephant Fist Art until the shadow of the dragon and elephant appeared again and again.

His black flames roared, black and purple intertwining, their heat twisting into shapes of destruction and rebirth. Lightning crackled around him, blue and red arcs snapping across his form as he pressed the Storm King's inheritance to its very edge. The space around him trembled under his will as he bent it, tore it, and reforged it to follow his command.

Every inheritance, every technique, every art he had gathered on his path was summoned and refined. There were no wasted movements, no wasted breaths. His strikes became sharper, his control steadier, his understanding deeper. The Dimension of Time rang with the echoes of his training, a forge where body, will, and spirit were hammered into one.

Just like that, the days outside slipped away. In the violet wasteland a week passed, but within Max's dimension, it was as though he had lived through decades.

Arriving outside of his hut, Max stretched his shoulders once before walking toward the center of the village. He remembered clearly that Chief Igris had told him the day before that he must be present at the square at dawn. The violet sky above was tinged with the fiery glow of the distant volcano, its smoke painting the heavens in streaks of red and black.

When Max reached the village square, his steps slowed. Before him, a line of giant dwarves stood waiting. Each of them wore ancient armor forged from dark metals, their broad chests gleaming under the faint light of the wasteland.

Their posture was rigid, disciplined, almost ceremonial, as though this gathering was not just a departure but a sacred rite. In their hands they carried rectangular cages, each one containing a strange creature.

Max's eyes narrowed as he focused on the beings inside the cages. They were small, no larger than his palm, but their appearance was unsettling. Their bodies were entirely black, their skin chitinous and smooth, while countless needle-like appendages jutted out from all sides, giving them an unnatural and threatening shape. Despite their grotesque appearance, they were perfectly silent, their stillness adding an eerie air to the scene.

He stepped closer, his curiosity piqued. "What is the use of these insects?" Max asked, turning his gaze toward one of the giant dwarves.

Etor, the giant dwarf who had guided him through the violet wasteland before, stepped forward and answered with a respectful nod. "These creatures are the natural predators of the centipedes that infest the wasteland. Wherever they are present, the centipedes dare not draw near. By carrying them with us, we ensure safe passage. Their presence alone will repel the centipedes."

Max tilted his head slightly, absorbing the information. "That is useful," he said after a moment of thought. "I suppose living in this place for so long, you would have found ways to deal with those centipedes."

Etor gave a deep chuckle. "We have no choice. In this land, even survival requires wisdom passed down through countless generations. These little creatures may look harmless inside their cages, but out there in the wasteland, they are hunters feared by the centipedes. One sting from them is enough to end a centipede's life."

Max nodded in acknowledgment, his eyes drifting once more to the cages. The black creatures twitched faintly, their needle-like bodies shimmering faintly under the light, though they remained silent. Something about their stillness unsettled him, yet he could not deny the usefulness they represented.

"Natural predators… huh," Max muttered softly in thought. He remembered hearing the same phrase once before during his stay here, and now the words echoed differently in his mind. This land seemed to thrive on such balances, predator against prey, force against counterforce. It was a reminder that even the strongest had something in this world that could bring them down.

Soon, Chief Igris appeared from the path leading up from the deeper part of the village. His footsteps echoed across the stone square, heavy but steady, like the rhythm of a drum announcing the arrival of command.

He too wore armor, though unlike the others, his was not plain or uniform. His breastplate shimmered faintly with a violet hue, etched with runes that pulsed as though alive.

The pauldrons were shaped like dragon heads, their eyes glowing dimly, and his gauntlets bore intricate engravings that spoke of countless generations of craftsmanship. He looked every part the leader, a figure who stood apart from his kin and carried the weight of their traditions on his shoulders.

The armored dwarves who had been waiting immediately raised their weapons high into the air, clubs and axes striking together in unison with a resounding clang that shook the air.

The sound was not chaotic but deliberate, forming a beat like the pounding of hammers against a forge. Max realized it was a ritual, a ceremonial act performed before any great trial.

Chief Igris stepped into the center of the circle they had formed. The dwarves surrounding him began chanting in their deep voices, their words guttural and ancient, carrying the resonance of stone breaking against stone.

Each phrase rose and fell like waves, echoing across the square, filling the air with an oppressive weight that made Max's chest tighten.

The cages with the needle-like insects rattled faintly as though they too responded to the chant, but the creatures inside remained silent, unmoving, and watchful.

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