In an instant, all conversation ceased, the experimental glow dimmed, and the contemplators lifted their heads.
Whether the Seventh Level beings seated above or the newly inducted apprentice below, everyone instinctively straightened their spines.
Every wizard in attendance restrained all unnecessary energy fluctuations around them, their gaze unanimously fixed upon the seemingly small figure beside the master seat.
The hall was silent enough to hear a pin drop, even breathing was intentionally suppressed to a minimum.
For fear of any slightest noise, interfering with the one who had closed his eyes, his breath starting to resonate faintly with the entire plane—Anton Buchanan.
An invisible and grand rhythm was emanating from his small body.
This rhythm was not sound, nor was it pure energy resonance.
It was more like the pulse of "rules," the breath of "existence."
