North of the Vault, something ancient cracked.
It didn't fall. It didn't rise. It erupted. A surge of pure pressure roared outward—not spiritual qi, but legacy rhythm. Every formation in the Vault pulsed once in response, like bones remembering birth.
Those near the Vault's edges felt it first. Then those submerged in the deep sub-realms. And finally, those tethered to legacy threads—those chosen by fate itself.
Lloyd felt it in his teeth.
He wasn't the only one.
Almost every cultivator within the Vault began moving. Whispers turned to declarations. Qi surged through ridgelines. Clans and sects activated relay talismans, broadcasting silent calls to their disciples. The pressure didn't just summon them—it compelled them.
And at the epicenter: the Supreme Grade Spirit Light Sabre.
For centuries, it had rested deep in stasis—locked beneath vault strata, sealed within sovereign formations. No one knew if it truly existed. Many dismissed it as legend. Others hunted shards and mimics, hoping some fragment would echo its shape.
Now?
It pulsed above the fractured mountain basin like a sword carved from dawn itself.
The scene flooded with hierarchy.
Twenty top sects arrived first, banners unfurling through the sky like compressed memory scrolls. Ten representative families followed—each bearing their lineage seal on floating spirit carts drawn by beast constructs.
Mid-tier sects and emerging clans came next. They hovered cautiously at the edge of the basin, not daring to encroach. Finally, the tide of rogue cultivators flowed in—curious, hungry, and smart enough to remain unseen.
Lloyd stood among them.
Not near the elites. Not within their circles. But just close enough to feel the edges of pressure—where tension sparked like friction between storms.
He wasn't alone. Around him stood other Vault wanderers, many stronger. A few weaker. All watching. All waiting.
None spoke.
Because atop the glowing dais—a circle carved from stone and reinforced by vault glyphs—floated the Light Sabre.
It didn't shimmer. It radiated.
Its pulse resonated with light qi so refined, so ancient, it folded space around it. Dust curved toward its blade. Wind deferred. Even spirit threads from nearby formations bent unnaturally in orbit.
But no one moved.
Because something stronger than awe hovered over the sabre.
A formation.
Not visible to naked eye—but felt the moment one tried stepping closer. It suppressed cultivation level. Neutralized qi threads. Repelled movement like sovereign breath. And if someone pushed too far?
They were thrown.
Hard.
That didn't stop the elite from squabbling.
To be precise—thirty figures hovered at the forefront. Early Spirit Fusion Realm cultivators. One from each top sect and high family. Their robes shimmered in layered arrays. Their cores pulsed louder than wind. And their gazes locked onto the sabre with restrained hostility.
"No one below peak fusion can wield it," argued a woman from the Ancient Flame Sect. Her voice curled around fire runes. "It's wasted on your disciple."
"The sabre responds to light qi. Only my lineage carries full affinity!" roared a man cloaked in sun-threaded cloth from House Veritas.
"It belongs to the strong," added a bare-chested elder from the Titan's Root Monastery. "Strength is proof."
Voices clashed. Tempers flared.
No agreement formed.
So a fight began.
First to strike were the disciples.
Ten young cultivators—each Peak Diamond Realm to Mid Moon Realm—launched into open combat. Their strikes laced with sect signatures: Crescent Flame Lotus, Iron Wind Reverb, Thousand Memory Threads. The battle wasn't just violent—it was performance. A dance of heritage and brutality.
They didn't hold back.
Stone shattered. Sky warped. Light burst in layered arcs.
Lloyd watched silently.
Then came the Peak Imperial Realm elders—thirty in total, representing the true power just beneath Spirit Fusion authority. Their strikes echoed similar techniques but magnified—where disciples carved lines into the land, elders sculpted terrain.
Fires became storms.
Threads became fields.
Then, as expected, the early Spirit Fusion Realm elites joined.
This wasn't a battle anymore.
It was calamity.
Vault formations activated autonomously to prevent collapse. A dome of ancestral protection rose over the basin. But even those safeguards trembled. These weren't ordinary cultivators. They were generational titans.
Some tried reaching the sabre.
All failed.
Each time a body got within thirty feet, the formation flared. Suppression turned to repulsion. Blades twisted mid-flight. Qi scattered. Bones cracked. One man was folded backward in space like cloth caught in a vortex, expelled instantly.
And the saber?
It hovered. Watching. Waiting.
Lloyd didn't know why he was there.
But as the saber pulsed again—he felt it.
It wasn't calling to him. Not yet.
But it recognized him.
His Light Physique responded subtly—skin warming, qi humming faintly. His core twitched like a newborn pulse trying to walk.
Then clarity hit.
This is mine, he thought.
He didn't know how he knew.
But he did.
And the saber knew too.
Except—it didn't move.
No surge of light.
No response.
Just silence.
Because Jalen hadn't finished mastering the fifteen techniques. The Vault had said clearly: only one who holds full inheritance can unlock the saber's release.
Lloyd was chosen.
But not ready.
He closed his eyes.
Let the pressure bleed past him.
He didn't need the saber yet. Not until Jalen succeeded. Not until the Vault accepted dual heirs fully.
Around him, elites collapsed.
Disciples screamed.
Spirit Fusion cultivators struck with celestial wrath.
And above it all, the sabre burned silently—untouched.
Lloyd turned away.
Left the basin.
Not in defeat.
But in patience.
The saber would come.
He just had to keep breathing.