Witnessing this moment, every mind still bowed to the ground, flooded with frenzied thoughts, for they all recognized one thing at once: Caprion, formidable as he appeared, was no independent being at all, but a construct—an embodiment wrought by a Spark skill the Wanderer Merchant had used to create him.

And what skill was that? Those who knew felt their shock deepen. It was a Rank 4 Spark ability, one of the rarest, even among Rank 4 Sparks, a technique that made cloning from a body part possible.

"Sorry for not greeting you all personally," the Wanderer Merchant’s voice carried to every ear at the same instant, warm and amused, a soft chuckle threading through it. "I cannot help it; this habit is years in the making."

Seeing and hearing the Rank 5 Adept, not harsh and domineering as most had imagined but almost affable in his manner, a quiet relief settled across many chests. Backs straightened. Heads rose. Silence remained, disciplined and expectant, each person waiting to speak only when addressed.

"Sevrak." The Wanderer Merchant did not make the crowd wait. He turned those deep yellow eyes, old and steady, and spoke in a voice brushed by age. "I heard your plea, but Caprion’s words are my words. No more is necessary. You can come drink at my place later and chat over trifles."

Sevrak bowed his head once more. "Yes. Thank you for the hospitality." Without lingering, he turned his Black Dragon and left the gathering without another word.

It was power that, even while smiling, made an arrogant man bow and swallow his pride.

The other races that had remained out of stubbornness began to depart in turn as well, one after another, until only a handful of delegations remained—those whose candidates still stood upon the white marble of the arena.

"The place is quieter now, isn’t it?" The Wanderer Merchant laughed with bright energy, sweeping his gaze over the remaining 200 Practitioners. His look paused on Adyr for a fraction longer before moving on.

Adyr registered the extra second of attention and let a small, controlled discomfort settle as he traced the causes.

The clearest vector lay in the first Sparks he had bought from the goatman’s shop, chosen across different paths.

Did anything leak? Inference comes from pattern, not from me. He does not know Primora, right? He does not know I can access all 4 paths. If he suspects, he shows no probe, no bait, no change in cadence.

He weighed the threat channels with a steady mind, considering his shop records, exchange of words, body language, residual aura, and perception beyond the ordinary, and kept the mask in place while the Wanderer Merchant continued speaking.

"I am a busy man, and I believe you are as well, so I will keep this short. Soon, I will take you inside the main tent and open the gates to the Legacy Domain. Before that, there are a few expectations I have of you, and a few things you should expect from me and from the dimension you are about to enter."

Faces sharpened with attention. The Wanderer Merchant went on.

"First, a warning. The place you are entering is filled with fortune and treasure; that much is certain, but it holds danger in equal measure. Still, I doubt anyone here fears danger after what we have just witnessed."

His words rang true. After a tournament in which hundreds had died and just as many had risked life and limb, no threat seemed enough to make these 200 withdraw now and abandon a chance to step into a Rank 5 Adept’s Sanctuary.

"As my clone said before," he continued, "everything you find inside is yours to keep. You need not ask me, and you need not show me. Hide it if secrecy serves you, or flaunt it if your vanity demands a witness. It is no concern of mine." He laughed softly and let the sound fade.

"But there is one condition. There is one thing I require from within. Bring me that, and I will not only let you keep everything else you obtain, but I will also reward you with a Rank 4 Spark of your choice from my personal collection. Take note that among them are pieces I do not part with lightly; some I keep simply because I cannot bring myself to sell them, so consider the rarities you would be choosing from."

For the first time, the quiet broke. Motion rippled through the assembly, whispers rising and falling as every mind seized on the promise of the reward and strained to guess what the Wanderer Merchant would demand—what single prize could outweigh all others in the eyes of a Rank 5 Adept.

"The object I want is not easy to obtain; you may need to work together, to combine your strength and your judgment. Think carefully before you make enemies inside, for you may soon need the very help you were ready to cut down."

The suggestion settled over them with the weight of reason. Then he revealed at last the target of his commission.

"I want the core of the Sanctuary. Some of you may know the term, but I will make it plain. When one reaches Rank 5, the Sanctuary undergoes a profound transformation. It becomes not a constructed space but a true dimension, a real place anchored within the endless void alongside other realms. This transformation occurs only with the generation of a core. I cannot tell you where it will be found or what form it will take; such details change with every Sanctuary. Do not worry about recognizing it—when you find it, you will know. Bring me that core. That is all I ask."

He paused a moment, gauging their faces as surprise and excitement spread. Many of them had never heard any of this.

"One more thing," he added, his voice dropping into a thoughtful, almost conversational cadence. "When you seize the core, remember that it is the anchor and the load-bearing stone of the whole Sanctuary. The instant you take it, the dimension will begin to crumble. Your time will be limited. Leave quickly, or your body and soul will be lost forever in the collapse, scattered into the endless void."

He let out a low, untroubled laugh, as if he had mentioned nothing more consequential than the weather, and the sound ran like a thin blade through the hush that followed.

"Before I invite you inside, I will give you time. Use it well: rest, mend your wounds, speak with your leaders and elders, make your plans, and raise your chances of success." With that, the Wanderer Merchant turned away, his hooves splashing through the pooled blood as he crossed the marble.

"As you will." Every race bowed once more. A disciplined hush settled over the white marble, broken only by the faint rasp of fine cloth and the slow patter of blood in the gutters. They held the posture, heads lowered and breaths measured, until the goatman’s silhouette slipped between the tent flaps and vanished from sight.

Then motion and murmurs rose once more among the remaining races, spirits high and expectations higher, as they registered anew the weight of the future that awaited them.