Final Regression of The Legendary Swordmaster Chapter 95

The upper sanctum of the White Tower did not touch the ground.

It did not even fully touch the Tower itself.

Suspended within a vast hollow chamber near the summit, it floated in open air, held aloft by layered gravity formations so complex that only a handful of Archmages understood their design. The chamber was circular and without visible walls. Instead, it was enclosed by rotating mana arrays that moved in slow, perfect rhythm. Each array shimmered with inscriptions so intricate that they appeared alive, shifting and adjusting with silent precision.

Eight thousand luminous circles orbited within the space like constellations around a private sun.

They did not collide. They did not waver. Each circle glowed with a controlled intensity, some pale blue, others silver, others white edged in gold. Together they formed a vast celestial system that revolved around a single figure seated at the center.

The mana density within the sanctum was overwhelming. The air shimmered faintly, as if space itself were under pressure. Light bent at subtle angles. Sound seemed softer, restrained by invisible force. Even time felt slower inside this chamber.

At the center, upon a seat formed from condensed mana crystal, sat Lodret.

He appeared middle-aged at first glance, perhaps in his early forties. Yet the longer one looked, the harder it became to assign him an age. His features were sharp but unlined. His posture was straight but relaxed. His silver hair flowed gently behind him though there was no wind within the sanctum. It moved as if responding to unseen currents of power.

His eyes glowed faintly gold.

Not brightly. Not wildly. The light within them was controlled, measured, restrained. It was the glow of a man who had seen the structure of reality and chosen to bend it carefully rather than break it.

His robes were layered in deep white and pale gold, each fold inscribed with subtle circle formations. The fabric itself was a living artifact, woven with mana threads that reinforced his core and stabilized the power within him. Lines of script shimmered across the sleeves, flowing like rivers of light.

Lodret was a Peak High Mage.

More than eight thousand circles were inscribed within his mana core, each one refined to extreme purity. Most High Mages struggled to maintain stability beyond six thousand. Even seven thousand required extraordinary talent and discipline. Lodret had surpassed eight thousand and continued refining them until each circle resonated in flawless harmony.

Within his core burned a flame.

It was not ordinary fire.

It was white-gold, brilliant yet restrained, burning at the center of his unified ring structure. The Saint Flame. Not complete. Not stable. But evolving.

It flickered softly, and with each pulse, the eight thousand circles orbiting him adjusted slightly, as if feeding it.

He was on the brink.

One final catalyst. One final evolution. One final refinement.

Atlantis.

The rotating arrays at the edge of the sanctum shifted gently as several figures entered. They did not walk through doors. They stepped through layered teleportation formations that aligned with the sanctum’s defensive structures.

Four Archmages appeared at the outer ring of the chamber.

Each one paused instinctively as the pressure of Lodret’s presence pressed against them. Even as equals in rank, the difference in refinement was clear.

"Lord Lodret," the violet-robed Archmage said respectfully.

Lodret did not open his eyes immediately. The eight thousand circles continued their orbit in perfect silence.

"I am aware," Lodret said calmly.

His voice was smooth, neither loud nor soft, yet it filled the chamber without effort.

"The Gates have begun to stabilize," the elder Archmage added. "Atlantis will open within weeks."

Lodret’s eyes opened.

Gold light flickered within them for a brief moment before settling into calm brilliance.

"I have felt the shift in mana flow," he replied. "The sea trembles differently."

The younger Archmage stepped forward slightly. "The council wishes to discuss participation."

"There is nothing to discuss," Lodret said.

His tone was not dismissive. It was absolute.

The violet-robed Archmage folded his hands. "Atlantis is unpredictable. The last expedition resulted in severe losses. The mana collapse destabilized the continent for decades."

"That collapse," Lodret replied, "was the result of ignorance."

The words were simple. The meaning was not.

"The Archmages of that era entered seeking relics," he continued. "They sought artifacts. Weapons. External power."

His gaze shifted slightly, and one of the rotating circles brightened faintly.

"Atlantis is not a treasure vault. It is a crucible."

The elder Archmage narrowed her eyes slightly. "You believe it holds the key to your Saint Flame."

"I do not believe," Lodret corrected gently. "I know."

Silence filled the chamber.

"The records speak of a core chamber," Lodret continued. "A convergence point where the mana density surpasses any natural location within the Human Domain. A place where the laws of refinement thin."

The younger Archmage swallowed quietly. "If such a place exists, it may destabilize even your core."

Lodret’s lips curved faintly. Not a smile of warmth, but of certainty.

"My core has already surpassed what this Domain considers stable."

As if to demonstrate, he lifted one hand.

Above his palm, a sphere of turbulent mana formed instantly. It grew rapidly, expanding into a violent storm of compressed energy. Lightning crackled within it. Space around it warped. The storm intensified, swirling with destructive potential that would have flattened a city block.

The Archmages stiffened.

With a small flick of his finger, Lodret extinguished it.

Not by dispersing it. Not by releasing it.

He erased it.

The storm vanished as if it had never existed. The mana returned smoothly to the ambient flow, leaving no residue, no distortion.

Control beyond overwhelming power.

"I do not fear instability," Lodret said calmly. "I refine it."

The violet-robed Archmage studied him carefully. "The other kingdoms will not remain passive. The Iron Duchy mobilizes. Aurelion Varrek is not a man who tolerates imbalance."

Lodret’s gaze shifted toward the distant sea beyond the sanctum.

"Aurelion believes in domination through steel," he said. "He mistakes force for inevitability."

"And Luminaries?" the elder asked.

"Politically fractured," Lodret replied without hesitation. "They will enter divided. Solterra is impulsive. Silvanus unpredictable. Ondaris cautious. Aethelgard patient."

He paused briefly.

"None possess a High Mage at my level."

The statement was not boastful. It was factual.

The younger Archmage spoke carefully. "You assume no hidden variables."

"I calculate probabilities," Lodret answered. "No cultivator below Archmage level can threaten me."

The eight thousand circles rotated slightly faster for a moment, then settled again.

The elder Archmage watched him closely. "And if another seeks ascension within Atlantis?"

"Then they will serve as resistance," Lodret replied calmly. "Resistance produces refinement."

The violet-robed Archmage exhaled slowly. "Your objective is not relics."

"My objective," Lodret said, "is evolution."

The word hung in the charged air.

"I will not enter Atlantis seeking scraps from the outer regions," he continued. "Let lesser kingdoms clash over artifacts. I will move toward the core."

"The inner sanctum," the elder whispered.

"Yes."

"And if the mana destabilizes again?"

"Then I will stabilize it," Lodret replied simply.

Confidence radiated from him, not loud or aggressive, but immovable.

The Archmages exchanged quiet glances. They had known this outcome before entering. This discussion was not to convince him otherwise. It was to measure the depth of his resolve.

They had measured it.

It was absolute.

"We will support your expedition," the violet-robed Archmage said at last. "The White Tower stands behind you."

Lodret inclined his head slightly.

The Archmages withdrew, stepping once more through layered formations that sealed behind them.

Silence returned to the sanctum.

The eight thousand luminous circles continued their slow orbit.

Within his core, the white-gold Saint Flame pulsed again. Slightly brighter. Slightly more unstable.

Lodret rose from his seat.

The gravity formations adjusted instantly, allowing him to walk through open air as if upon solid ground. The rotating arrays parted subtly, creating a path toward the outer balcony of the White Tower’s summit.

He stepped onto the highest balcony in Vaeloria.

Below him stretched the glowing marble city. Mana currents shimmered across rooftops. In the far distance, the Northern Sea churned under darkening skies. The distortion above its surface was now visible even without enhanced sight.

Atlantis was coming.

Lodret clasped his hands behind his back.

The wind caught his silver hair, though the air around him remained unnaturally calm.

His golden eyes reflected the sea.

Softly, almost thoughtfully, he murmured,

"Atlantis will be the pyre upon which I refine my divinity."