The Sovereign Chronicles novel Chapter 38

The next morning, after finishing his grueling delivery route, Kaelen hauled the massive stone vat back to the warehouse courtyard. To his surprise, he found Lyra standing silently beneath the ancient tree, gazing down at the nameless, uncarved gravestone.

Lyra stood gracefully, radiating a tranquil, untainted beauty. From any angle, she looked flawless, like an immortal maiden stepped out of a masterwork painting.

Her long hair cascaded like a silken waterfall over her tailored purple dress, which perfectly accentuated her pristine figure.

"Who is buried here?" Lyra asked softly. She still remembered the solitary, melancholic figure of the old man. Day or night, rain or shine, he would sit beside this grave, keeping vigil for the departed, tenderly caring for the white magnolias. The profound sorrow and eternal loneliness in his eyes had always made her heart ache.

She had once asked her master, Elder Myron, who the old man was and where he came from. Her master hadn't even known of the old man's existence. He had secretly probed the area with his aether sense, only to conclude that the man was nothing more than a frail, ordinary mortal, devoid of any aether fluctuations. He hadn't been a cultivator.

An aging, solitary man ignored by the entirety of the Azure Sky Sanctum. Yet, deep down, Lyra knew his true identity was anything but simple.

"The Old Man never spoke of who lies beneath the soil." Kaelen set the heavy stone vat down, walked over to the well, drew a bucket of freezing water, and began washing the sweat and grime from his body.

"Did he say anything before he left?"

"He left the Sword Tome, the Blade, and a single slip of paper. Just one word written on it: Destiny." Kaelen freely splashed the cold water over himself, not bothering to hide anything from Lyra.

"Destiny." Lyra kept her eyes on the solitary grave, murmuring the word. "Was he referring to you? Himself? Or the threads that bind us?"

"I have a feeling I'll see the Old Man again." Kaelen dumped a final bucket of icy water over his head, shaking out his wet hair with a refreshing sigh. He smiled. "When that day comes, I'll make sure he sees a completely reborn Kaelen."

"I believe you will." Lyra turned to him, the breathtaking smile hidden behind her purple veil seeming to instantly brighten the dreary courtyard. "I bring good news."

Kaelen chuckled from across the yard. "I always like good news."

"Your ownership of The Violet Serpent's Fury has been officially recognized. The Sanctum ruled that the martial codex belongs to you personally and is not stolen sect property. The Elders debated it fiercely for five days. Initially, they wanted to execute you for treason, assuming someone smuggled it to you, but they simply couldn't manufacture any evidence."

"Does that mean I can freely trade for martial codexes outside the sect from now on?"

"Don't get ahead of yourself. You have enough martial arts. During the Spirit Warrior Tier, you don't need to bloat your repertoire."

Kaelen swiftly dried off, threw on a clean set of training clothes, and walked over, stretching his shoulders. He picked up the Daevan Blade. "Care for a spar?"

"Another time. I came today to say goodbye."

"Where are you going?" Kaelen asked, surprised.

"A closed-door expedition for three months. I'm leaving the Sanctum to train in the wild with my Master. We'll be gone for quite a while."

"Where are you heading?" Kaelen was genuinely happy for her. To break through her current bottlenecks, a genius like her needed real-world bloodshed, danger, and hardship. With Elder Myron personally escorting her, her safety was guaranteed.

"Master is still deciding. Originally, the plan was for me to compete in The Conclave of the Eight Sanctums first, then venture into the wild. But plans have changed."

"The Conclave of the Eight Sanctums?" Kaelen recalled the event. It was the massive summit held every two years by the eight supreme factions of the Northlands. The leaders of the Eight Sanctums convened for politics, while their elite disciples engaged in bloody duels. It was a tradition stretching back centuries.

It was said that on the day of the Conclave, the eyes of the entire Northlands, spanning tens of thousands of miles, would be fixed upon them.

As the overlords of the region, any major decision made by the Eight Sanctums would directly dictate the geopolitical landscape of the Northlands for the next two years. Even the supreme rulers of the mortal kingdoms, The Five Kings, treated the Conclave with absolute gravity.

But for the general populace, the real draw was the 'martial exhibition.'

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