Robert smiled faintly, his lips forming the syllables meant to hone articulation, yet in truth, he was secretly stirring the divine power within, tracing the circulation of the Dragon's Chant technique.
By midnight, he had already mastered the workings of the first form; all that remained was the trial of combat. In his eyes, the day's lessons had concluded. Casting a sidelong glance at Donald, who was still immersed in preparations, Robert's thoughts turned elsewhere.
For Ya'er's revival, it is time to pry those second and third crystal diamonds from that stubborn old man!
Clearing his throat softly, Robert was just about to speak when, through the window of the training hall, he caught sight of an unusual commotion: from the library opposite and the academy's storerooms, faculty members were ferrying crate after heavy crate, hauling them toward the main gates.
"Uncle Donald," Robert asked in surprise, "it is already past midnight. Why are they still moving things?"
Donald's mouth twisted in pain. Glancing about to ensure no strangers lurked nearby, he snarled, "Do not mention it! Yesterday the statue of the Goddess was destroyed. Lord Michel has commanded its restoration. Yet the upper half of the statue was blasted to dust—how could one possibly recover all the fragments?"
Another elder interjected, "Since the pieces cannot be recovered, other precious materials must make up the loss. And what is more precious than relics infused with divine power? Alas, at dusk Lord Michel decreed that every sacred object within reach be requisitioned—great or small, so long as it contains divine force, all are to be delivered to the ruins of the cathedral."
A surge of anger flared through Robert. Damn it! I need divine relics to restore Ya'er, and that decrepit miser hoards every last one for himself! Michel, are you not openly setting yourself against me?
"Uncle, the academy's second and third crystal diamonds…"
Donald gestured toward the crates being hauled. "There they go! Nephew, had you not destroyed the first and fourth this morning, those too would have been seized."
Robert nearly wept. With the authority of the Yalan Church and Michel's decree, all sacred objects within Moonwatch City had already been stripped away. Where then could he hope to find the energy needed for Ya'er's rebirth? Must he truly… devour men?
Though disheartened, he found no way to oppose Michel's monopoly. Instead, he poured his frustration into his training.
Days blurred into weeks. Robert trained in seclusion without pause, while Donald, desperate to fulfill Michel's command, watched over him with tireless rigor. His diligence left Robert's friend Sena stifled, unable to snatch even a moment to boast about the visage of the Yalan Goddess, for Donald allowed Robert no idle time.
Thus it was that Robert still had no notion of what that woman's face looked like.
Half a month later, exhausted, he returned at last to the lord's manor. The guards at the gate blinked in confusion. "Young master, were you not still in seclusion? How—"
Robert waved a dismissive hand. "The Yalan Selection Tournament is nearly upon us. That old codger Donald had some formalities to attend, and so your young master is granted a single day's respite… damn it all!"
Though he grumbled, Robert's heart was torn between relief and resentment. Relief, for in half a month his progress had soared—now he stood as a Ninth-Level Disciple, surpassed only by Eddiehaus among the students of the entire Aemiseir Academy. Resentment, for he had secretly cultivated countless combat arts shared through Ya'er, yet dared not unveil them prematurely. To possess brilliance yet be unable to flaunt it—that was a torment indeed.
A guard approached him quietly. "Young master, as you commanded, we have searched for sacred relics in secret. But within five hundred li, every object has already been seized by Lord Michel… we are powerless." He hesitated, then added in a low tone, "However, the church's elite have marched with the city lord on an expedition to the Xingluo Mountains. Michel lacks the men to guard the ruins. Those left behind to watch over the relics are but idle clerks and useless scribes."
Robert's eyes gleamed. "My valiant warrior of House Ro, and then?"
The guard grinned. "Then Michel conscripted men from the manor and the academy to reinforce the ruins. But, young master, those outer guards are all our own! If you require relics urgently… heh, with a careful hand, seizing seven or eight would be child's play."
Had the man been a woman, Robert would have kissed him soundly. Lowering his voice with glee, he said, "Excellent. Gather the brothers—tonight I go to the cathedral ruins!" His eyes flickered with cunning. "Also, summon Sena. That rascal, being a disciple of Concealment, is a master at slipping unseen. He will be invaluable."
Already the sky seemed brighter, the world clearer. Humming an old tune from Earth, Robert strode toward the family shrine, buoyed with cheer. Truly, what seemed a dead end now revealed a hidden path—Michel's monopoly had unwittingly gathered every relic within reach into one place, ripe for the taking.
"What is that tune you sing? It has a curious charm."
The words drifted from the shrine ahead. Robert froze. This was the private sanctum of House Ro—no one entered without leave. Since the guards had raised no alarm, whoever was inside must have slipped past them all unseen, infiltrating the lord's manor itself.
At once his divine power surged forth, and he peered intently into the chamber. Within the silent shrine, a lone figure wandered leisurely among the memorial tablets, as though strolling through his own home.
"Nephew, do you still remember your Uncle Mo?"
Robert blinked, startled. Recognition stirred, and with a sudden slap to his brow, he recalled the vaguely familiar face. "Uncle Mo! It has been so many years—I almost failed to know you!"
The man appeared to be around fifty, with black hair, sun-browned skin, and a vigorous, clear-cut countenance. He wore plain blue robes, and his five slender whiskers lent him an air of otherworldly refinement.
This was Mo Yan—a philosopher, an astrologer, and the very man who had once gazed upon Robert's left hand and foretold that Ro Xiong would live and die in solitude.
Mo Yan's eyes lingered on Robert's left hand. A knowing smile curved his lips. "So many years, nephew, and you have changed greatly." He looked once more at that fateful hand and chuckled softly. "The palm that holds heaven and earth—the rise and fall of the cosmos turns upon a single thought. Your left hand… is more intriguing than ever."