Oasis’s eyes darted instantly.Front—to Amon.Straight—to Lady Marcellia.Then—to Devi Pogoda.Then right and left through his peripheral vision, just above to the hovering artifacts, upward to the sea of faces in the general stands.All of it happened in a breath.No—Faster than a breath.His pupils moved with trained precision, sharpened by years of battle instincts, his body remaining unnaturally still as he forced calm through every muscle fiber.Not a twitch escaped him, not a single unnecessary motion betrayed the storm rippling beneath his skin.His posture remained straight, composed, regal—yet inside, his mind raced at terrifying speed.Something was wrong.Very wrong.“What is going on…” Oasis thought, his heart tightening imperceptibly. “Is this some kind of mana link?”Another realization struck him.“No… that was more than just mana.”“It felt like—”His thoughts halted.“As if my own thoughts were speaking back to me.”“Father.”The voice vibrated again, clearer this ti

Then, after a few breaths—bathed in the newborn glow of dawn and the vast, quiet beauty of the sky he himself had cleared—Oasis did not linger.He moved.Without haste, without ceremony, his body tilted forward and he descended.Slowly at first, then steadily, his figure cutting through the pale morning light as he returned to the stage below.As he fell, the gaze of the entire Grand Sanctuary followed—thousands upon thousands of eyes lowering in unison, as if pulled by an invisible gravity.Yet the silence that accompanied his descent was profound.There was dead silence.No cheers.No boos.No gasps.Only stillness.They had witnessed something beyond expectation, something that did not fit within the framework of reason they had carried all their lives.A saint-grade artifact—and not just any saint-grade artifact—but a masterpiece crafted by Master Deyton Juda himself…had been refined within hours.Not in a sealed cave.Not within a protected domain.But before their eyes, under

Just a few hours later—The Grand Sanctuary of Greatness had long since emptied.Its towering halls, once filled with thunder, lightning, and the weight of countless wills, now stood silent, bearing only the scars left behind by heaven-defying displays.Yet Florentis City itself was anything but quiet.The streets overflowed.Inns that were usually modestly busy now spilled laughter and voices into the roads.Merchant districts were crowded beyond measure, stalls surrounded by people reenacting battles with animated gestures,Retelling moments again and again as if repetition might finally allow them to comprehend what they had witnessed.Cultivators argued heatedly over whose perception was correct.Common folk listened wide-eyed, hanging onto every word.Bets were settled loudly—some winners already spending their newfound coin with reckless joy, others sitting silently with hollow stares, still unable to accept what they had lost.From dawn’s first light, Florentis City buzzed like

Just After Oasis helped NovaThe sun had begun its slow ascend and now vastly over the jagged horizon of Florentis City, but the heat within the Gilded Flagon Inn had nothing to do with the weather.The air was a thick, heady soup of cheap ale, roasting meat, and the electric tension of a thousand unresolved arguments.Every table was a battlefield of opinion.Men and women, clad in the dust-stained robes of traveling cultivators or the sturdy leathers of local mercenaries,leaned over chipped wooden tables, their faces flushed with drink and the lingering adrenaline of the Grand Sanctuary.“I’m telling you, it wasn’t just a refinement!” a burly man with a scarred chin slammed his mug down, sloshing foam onto the table.“I’ve seen Master Smiths in the Southern Capital sweat blood for a week just to temper a Spirit-grade blade.Oasis of Lunaris didn’t just ‘refine’ that saint-grade sword.He re-ordered it. I saw the lightning.It didn’t strike the sword; it was being sucked into it, li

In another Guest courtyard of the Woods Estate.Lukan Maser sat outside beneath a wide shade canopy woven from mana-silk threads that shimmered faintly whenever natural mana currents brushed against them.Before him rested a polished jade table set with refreshments — chilled spirit-fruit slices arranged on silver trays, crystal cups filled with condensed dew nectar,And a porcelain kettle releasing thin trails of fragrant herbal steam that curled lazily into the morning air.The courtyard itself was quiet, refined, and protected by subtle wind formations that kept the temperature perfectly balanced.White stone tiles beneath their feet were etched with faint runic lines — not active formations, but legacy engravings meant to harmonize ambient mana flow for cultivators.Standing before Lukan were two disciples from the Oblivion Orchid Sect.“Young master… why are we still waiting for him? We have already been here for a few hours, and yet he is nowhere to be seen,” one of the two disc