Half a year passed.
The events of that single moment—when Aeron Vale's voice had cracked the sky and shattered the pride of an empire—continued to ripple across the world like an unending wave.
Though the Dalenhart Imperial Palace had tried to keep it quiet, even the most diligent of the Emperor's servants couldn't erase the tremors that shook the heart of the empire. They had witnessed it. Thousands had felt it. And the Martial Clans outside? Their ears were sharper than steel.
The truth slipped through locked doors and crossed continents in whispers.
Word spread fast: a mysterious monk had entered the palace alone—and with a single word, brought an entire dynasty to its knees. The guards didn't fall by blade or poison, but by the mere echo of his breath. No resistance. No chance to fight.
The world burned with speculation.
"Was it the return of a god?"
"Has a new age of martial supremacy begun?"
And though Dalenhart tried to spin the narrative—saying the intruder was met with resistance, that there was a battle—it didn't matter. The eyes of the people weren't blind, nor were the ears of the warriors deaf.
They had seen the Emperor himself walk out from behind his palace walls. They had watched him bow.
And even those who refused to believe it… couldn't forget it.
---
Meanwhile, Aeron sat peacefully inside the Martial Vault, the deepest hall within the Imperial Palace. Shelves upon shelves surrounded him, each bearing martial scrolls, ancient weapons, handwritten techniques, and transcendent philosophies—the greatest accumulation of martial knowledge in the world.
He had not stepped outside once in half a year.
The Emperor, wisely, had sealed the Vault, forbidding even whispers near it. Meals were delivered by the imperial chefs themselves—each dish delicately balanced between nourishment and flavor, designed to support energy flow and vitality.
Aeron read, meditated, listened to the breathing of stone, and absorbed everything.
---
And yet…
He exhaled.
"Still not enough."
It wasn't the Vault's fault. In fact, the techniques gathered here far surpassed the Sutra Archive back at Daizen Temple. Any Martial Artist would have sacrificed years of life just to enter this place for an hour.
But Aeron Vale was no longer a man walking the road.
He stood at the summit.
Every style, every form, every legendary strike he absorbed was like adding a single pebble to a mountain.
To move forward now—beyond the Mythical Realm, into something truly transcendent—he needed more than mastery.
He needed perspective.
---
"The techniques of the world," he murmured, "aren't locked inside shelves. They live in people."
There were thousands of Martial Artists spread across the continents. Most would never write down their techniques. They didn't have sects or masters or lineage. They developed their skills in battlefields and forests, in bandit camps and forgotten monasteries. They were strange, crooked, and sometimes incomplete.
But they were also… true.
And Aeron, with his Heaven-Defying Comprehension, didn't need textbooks. He needed only to see.
---
Outside the Vault, the aging Lord Valeus stood silently in the courtyard.
The strongest Grandmaster of the Dalenhart Empire.
A man once believed to be without rival.
But now he stood guard—humbly, quietly—like a disciple waiting for a master's wisdom.
He had remained there since Aeron offered him a passing insight. A single phrase. A casual sentence.
That one thought had torn open the bottleneck he had struggled with for decades.
Now, he waited. Hopeful.
When Aeron finally called him in, Valeus bowed low.
---
"I'm hosting a Martial Summit," Aeron said without preamble.
"Here in the capital. All are welcome—Acquired-level practitioners, Innate, sectless wanderers. Anyone can come."
"And the top ten?" he continued, "They'll each receive three techniques from my personal archive. Any three."
Valeus blinked.
Three superior techniques—for free?
It would be enough to make any Martial Sect tear itself apart in envy.
But Aeron wasn't done.
"And Grandmasters..." he tapped his fingers against the table. "They can challenge me directly."
Valeus's breath caught.
"If they do, regardless of win or loss, I will grant each one a spiritual art."
He couldn't believe what he was hearing.
Spiritual martial arts...
They were not taught. They were not bought. They were inherited by Great Grandmasters and guarded more fiercely than gold. For most Grandmasters, to glimpse one was enough to shift the heavens in their soul.
And now?
Aeron was offering them like tokens.
But he wasn't offering them for free. He had a plan.
---
It wasn't generosity. It was genius.
Aeron didn't need to practice martial arts anymore. Not like others.
He just needed to see them performed once. Heaven-Defying Comprehension would do the rest.
Where others would train for years, he required a single encounter.
All the world's techniques, all their imperfect, hidden styles—he would summon them here like moths to a flame.
---
As word of the tournament spread, the world erupted.
At first, many dismissed it.
"Fake news," said some.
"Propaganda," muttered others.
But when the first summit was held, and ten battered Martial Artists walked out of the capital holding sealed scrolls from Aeron himself, everything changed.
Suddenly, the highways filled with swordsmen, spear-dancers, and fist-bearers. Vagabonds and nobles alike. From mountain monasteries and coastal islands, they came in waves.
They camped outside the city in droves, just to be closer.
The Capital of Dalenhart had become the center of the Martial world.
---
But the ones watching even more closely… were the Grandmasters.
At first, they hesitated.
But the offer was real. Challenge Aeron Vale. Win or lose, walk away with a spiritual art.
One by one, the most elusive and terrifying names in the world began the long journey toward the capital.
---
Six months later.
A shadow walked through the palace gates.
Broad shoulders. A massive blade slung across his back like an iron monument.
This was the South Sea Swordmaster.
A living legend.
He had carved his name into legend without a sect, without teachers, without patronage. He rose from dirt, climbed from nothing, and built an empire of blood and blade behind him.
"Swordmaster."
Lord Valeus stood from his place, gaze sharpening.
They were equals once. Rivals. In different times, they might have killed each other.
But today?
The Swordmaster was accompanied by a young boy—his disciple, perhaps sixteen. Nervous, wide-eyed.
Valeus frowned.
Then he felt it.
A flicker of spiritual energy.
His eyes widened.
"He's begun cultivating Essence…"
That meant the Swordmaster had stepped into Half-Step Mythic. One more spark—and he would ascend.
Few in the world could match that.
Few—except Aeron Vale.
---
Inside the Vault, Aeron remained seated, calm as stone.
The doors opened.
The Swordmaster entered. Eyes narrowed. The blade on his back hummed.
He didn't speak.
Aeron didn't need him to.
---
Outside, the young boy waited.
Nervous, yet hopeful.
He had caught a glimpse of Aeron through the door—a monk in gray. Serene. Still. Not terrifying at all.
"Master won't lose," he whispered.
---
Fifteen minutes passed.
The doors opened again.
The South Sea Swordmaster stepped out.
His blade untouched.
His face pale.
He walked in silence.
The boy called out to him, but received no answer.
They walked until they were well beyond the city. Then, the Swordmaster stopped.
He sat on a stone and stared at the stars.
"He's not strong," the boy said awkwardly.
"I mean… not that much stronger than you, right?"
The Swordmaster didn't answer at first.
Then, after a long silence, he spoke.
"You are in the Innate Realm. Your eyes still live in the well."
"When you saw him, you thought he was the moon."
He looked up, his voice low.
"But I saw the truth."
"He is the sky."
---
(End of Chapter 11)