Chapter 157: The Main Purpose

[Conversion Complete. Total Gained: 226,980 Points.]

"Excellent." Theo rubbed his hands together.

Combined with his previous balance, his total had skyrocketed.

[Current Merit Points: 369,313]

From a struggling operative to a wealthy sovereign in a single afternoon.

"It is a pity," Theo sighed, staring at the number. "Upgrading the Parasite class from Tier 5 to Tier 6—the Exarch Realm—requires an astronomical one million points. Three hundred thousand is only enough to push me through a few minor internal boundaries."

He leaned back against the lounger. "I wonder if Seraphina and Cassia can harvest a few more arrogant nobles during their Spire trial. If they can bring in another seven hundred thousand points, I can break through to Exarch."

The thought of needing a million points felt like a bucket of cold water, but he quickly shook it off.

There was no need to rush. It had only been a short time since he founded the Syndicate, and his progress was already reality-breaking.

Because of his unique class modifiers, his combat power was divorced from his actual tier.

At Vanguard, his Aetheric density allowed him to easily suppress an Exarch. If he actually reached the Exarch tier, he could likely beat a Supreme-tier patriarch to death with his bare hands.

"Ah," Theo murmured, a fleeting look of guilt crossing his face. "My disciples are out there risking their lives in a dungeon to earn me points, while I recline here in luxury. That hardly seems fair..."

He paused, considering the ethical implications of child labor and extreme capitalism.

"Well. A good nap will surely dispel this guilt."

The multiverse was vast, the Abyssal Syndicate was profitable, and sleep was paramount.

The twilight sky above the Forge was clear, providing the perfect ambiance. Tranquility returned to the courtyard.

The Astral Enlightenment Tree swayed, its silver leaves chiming a lullaby, as Theo drifted into a deep slumber, leaving his disciples to conquer the Eastern Marches in his name.

***

Above a secluded valley in the Eastern Marches, the wind howled through the jagged peaks.

"Gentlemen, you have been tailing this old cripple for quite some time. Is it not time to reveal yourselves?"

Old Man Corvus came to a halt on the mountain path. He leaned on his driftwood staff, a mild smile touching his weathered features.

As his words faded, the air rippled. Three silhouettes emerged in unison from the spatial distortion behind him. It was the three Provincial Archons of the Eastern Marches.

"Your Excellency’s magnanimous display at the Rullus estate left us in awe," the lead Archon said, resting a hand on his ceremonial broadsword. "However... the three of us endured considerable losses that far surpass our means. It would be unfitting for you to depart the Eastern Marches so easily."

"We are not demanding much," a second Archon added. "Five thousand high-grade Aether-crystals will suffice. But, kind sir, you must also compensate each of us with a Provincial-grade artifact. Upon your agreement, we three shall make way, with no intention to hinder you."

"Indeed. I am of the same mind," the third Archon said, drawing a long blade.

All three men radiated the oppressive Aether of the Third Realm of the Exarch tier.

Old Man Corvus was at the Fifth Realm, but the Archons were supremely confident.

They believed their numerical advantage granted them total superiority.

"Hehehe," Corvus chuckled, his laughter raspy and dry. "You jest with this old cripple. Setting aside the artifacts I surrendered to the Sovereign earlier... imagine, fellow cultivators, if this pauper-like old man were to produce three more Provincial-grade artifacts on demand. Would that not be tantamount to robbing me of my life?"

He laughed as if he had just heard the grandest joke in the world.

"If that is your perspective," the lead Archon said coldly, "then this matter might prove quite difficult."

Seeing the old cripple’s unwillingness to part with his wealth, the trio exchanged glances and nodded in silent agreement.

Before Corvus could respond, they launched their assault simultaneously. Three concentrated bursts of Exarch-level Aether erupted, aiming to incapacitate the old man before he could mount a defense. They intended to leave him severely wounded and strip his spatial ring.

"Oh my, not a word before laying hands?" Corvus taunted, feigning surprise. He did not flinch, nor did he raise his staff to defend himself.

Instead, he nonchalantly retrieved a palm-sized token from his frayed sleeve. It was forged from pure meteor-iron.

The inscription read: *Zenith Legion.*

At the sight of the token, the three Archons’ expressions contorted in horror.

Their pupils dilated in sheer panic.

*Puff—*

All three men spat blood simultaneously.

In their desperation to halt their own attacks before striking the token’s bearer, they had forcefully reversed their Aether-flow, suffering severe internal backlash.

Corvus chuckled. He hadn’t lifted a finger; their rash actions had injured them.

"Your Excellency is a member of the Central Continent’s Zenith Legion," the lead Archon gasped, wiping blood from his chin with trembling fingers. "Why did you not say so earlier? We were at fault. We shall make way immediately."

"Had you disclosed your identity earlier, we would never have dared to draw our weapons," the second Archon groaned, clutching his chest.

"Same here!" the third echoed, wiping cold sweat from his brow.

This old cripple was truly cunning. The Zenith Legion was the personal guard of the Central Continent’s Grand Commander. Entry required a minimum of Exarch-level cultivation, and provoking them was geopolitical suicide. If a Zenith Legionnaire died in the Eastern Marches, the Central Continent’s wrath would erase their provinces from the map.

"Hehe, I did not expect you three to act with such haste," Corvus laughed heartily, tucking the token back into his robes.

"However," the second Archon asked, displaying a hint of genuine confusion, "since Your Excellency is a member of the Zenith Legion, why did you not reveal your identity earlier to avoid the Abyssal Sovereign’s extortion?"

The other two looked equally puzzled. Even if the Sovereign was strong, could he truly surpass the authority of the Grand Commander?

"Hehe, no need to worry about that, gentlemen," Corvus said, leaning on his staff. "However, meeting each other is fate. This old cripple advises you all: that individual is not someone to provoke."

Without waiting for their reactions, Corvus turned away. Despite his limping gait, his speed was surprisingly swift. As he crested the ridge, he cast one final glance back toward the smoking crater that had once been House Rullus.

*I have had the privilege of watching the Grand Commander deploy his Supreme-tier arts,* Corvus mumbled to himself. *But that Sovereign’s Aetheric density seems no weaker than the Commander’s... perhaps even stronger. Where did such a formidable expert come from?*

He shook his head and hastened his pace, vanishing over the mountain.

Left alone in the valley, the three Archons exchanged wry, defeated smiles.

"Let us go our separate ways," the lead Archon sighed. "We cannot afford to provoke that Sovereign, and the Zenith Legion is entirely beyond our means."

"What a disaster," the second muttered. "Even watching a spectacle cost us five thousand crystals and a Provincial-grade artifact."

"It is just bad luck..."

These three veteran Exarchs had not suffered humiliation in the Eastern Marches for centuries. Today, they had suffered two setbacks in a single afternoon. Frustrated and nursing internal injuries, they dispersed, returning to their respective domains.

***

The Eastern Marches. The Ashford Sword Sanctum.

Guided by Elder Vane and Elder Caelum, Seraphina and Cassia quickly arrived at the sprawling, majestic base of the Holy Mountain.

"Senior Sister!" Cassia suddenly pointed toward a structure near the outer perimeter, bouncing on her heels excitedly. "Look! When I was stationed at the Sanctum before, I stayed in that house!"

Seraphina followed the junior operative’s finger. Her eyebrows furrowed instantly.

Tucked away in the shadow of the grand statues was a crooked, mismatched shack constructed from scavenged timber and rusted iron siding. It was downright unsightly—a structure far below the standards of even a rural farming village, let alone one of the Empire’s premier martial institutions.

While the Ashford Sanctum presented itself as a place of honor and grandeur, why would they relegate her junior sister to such a remote, miserable hovel in the dirt?

Before Seraphina could voice her outrage, Elder Vane caught the murderous glint in her eye. He knew exactly what she was thinking, and a cold sweat broke out on his neck.

"Operative Seraphina, please, there is a misunderstanding!" the Great Elder practically shouted, waving his hands. "On the mountain peak, we prepared a grand pavilion for Cassia! After all, she is the designated Sword Prodigy of our Eastern Branch! Although she might not be as famous as her older sister, we would never treat her poorly!"

He pointed a finger at the shack. "That small house... she secretly built it herself! The main purpose was to find opportunities to bypass our security patrols, sneak off the mountain, and run her illegal businesses in the provincial capital!"