Kaelen ran a weary hand over the engraved obsidian pillar, tracing the arcane symbols that twisted and converged into a single, breathtakingly complex equation. His body was still buzzing from the shock of the Mythic Will, and his mana core felt like a dry, hollow vessel. He was a Legend at his absolute weakest, yet he was entirely captivated.
The formula wasn't a series of runic commands or a sequence of activation words. It was a descriptive language. It defined the precise relationship between raw, unstructured mana (potential energy) and its transformation into perfectly stable, durable matter (physical form). It was the foundational Architectural Mana Stability that underpinned Mythic-era creations. This wasn't a spell; it was a theorem.
The memory of late nights at Stanford, hunched over physics problems and systems architecture, flashed faintly in his subconscious. He didn't remember the details of that life, but the process was etched into his soul: break the problem down, isolate the variables, find the constant.
The constant here is the decay rate of structured aether.
Kaelen felt a surge of intellectual exhilaration that briefly eclipsed his physical exhaustion. This knowledge was priceless. With this fundamental understanding, he wouldn't need to steal high-grade blueprints; he could write them. He could engineer entirely new cultivation techniques perfectly suited for his Legion—techniques that circumvented the need for ancient lineage and simply demanded efficient application of energy, much like his own modified torture technique.
He was so absorbed he barely registered the sound of Grandmaster Lira's frustrated voice.
"Lord Vayne, we have a problem of scale," Lira reported, her usual elven composure frayed. She gestured toward the far end of the atrium where a dozen of her Legionnaires were attempting to rope off a mountain of raw Mythril. "The sheer volume of wealth is paralyzing. We've found three entire crates of what look like Legend-grade weapon cores, but Belos is bogged down in the data scrolls. The Syndicate's teams are meticulously logging everything except the knowledge, but they are positioning themselves around the most valuable artifacts."
Grandmaster Belos, covered in ancient dust, approached carrying a small, crystalline data-slate that pulsed with an internal, green light. "The problem, Lord, is that ninety percent of the scrolls and tablets are written in a language that hasn't been spoken since the Mythic Age. My Grandmaster knowledge of linguistics can't even touch it. We are essentially trying to catalogue the library of the gods, and we can only read the titles."
The three of them—the exhausted Legend and his two overwhelmed Grandmasters—stood in a silence heavy with the crushing pressure of their circumstances. They had won the battle to get in, but they were losing the logistics war.
Kaelen finally pulled his attention away from the pillar, letting the formula drift into the background of his mind for later recall. He looked at the chaos of the wealth and the strained faces of his most powerful subordinates.
Then, he looked across the chamber.
Vex, the Syndicate's Expert-rank auditor, stood fifty meters away. She was ostensibly directing her teams, but her eyes were locked on Kaelen. She wasn't fearful; she was calculating. She had witnessed Kaelen's exhaustion and the frantic, disorganized nature of the Lionhart Legion's salvage operation. She was a patient predator, measuring the exact moment the Legend would collapse from internal stress.
She is waiting for the one-hour mark. Kaelen realized. She knows I cannot maintain this level of exhaustion and risk for long.
Kaelen inhaled deeply, pulling the last dregs of ambient mana into his system, forcing his Legendary reserves to cooperate. He didn't attack Vex, nor did he increase his aura's pressure. Instead, he did something only the cold, analytical part of his mind would conceive: he exerted a constant, minimalist mental presence—a low-grade, psychological threat projection.
It was barely a ripple in the mana field, but it was enough to remind Vex of the chasm of power between them. Vex subtly tensed, confirming she felt the chilling reminder: I am weak, but I am still Legend.
"Vex," Kaelen called out, his voice sharp and steady, echoing slightly in the vast chamber. "The Syndicate will begin processing the metal ingots now. We will monitor every transaction."
Vex nodded, her eyes narrowed, acknowledging his control while still calculating the risk.
Kaelen turned back to Belos and Lira, his eyes alight with newfound focus. "Forget the inventory. Forget the scrolls. The Syndicate can have their gold and their gems—that is fleeting capital. We need to secure the source of the knowledge."
He pointed to the pillar with the etched formula. "Belos, that entire pillar is the true artifact. It's the key to engineering Mythic-era stability. We are taking it. Lira, divert three hundred of our most capable Legionnaires to the rear of the Vault. Their job is no longer salvage. It's security. Find the secondary vault doors—the ones leading deeper into the R&D levels."
He paused, a predatory gleam in his eye. "If this is the Atrium, the true Forge is deeper. And where the Forge Master worked, the original blueprints still exist. Vex is waiting for me to leave. We will not be leaving yet."