’Ti to practice the techniques I got from the Citadel,’ Max told himself, casting aside the matter of the Floor of Inheritance for now. There was no use obsessing over sothing he wasn’t ready for.
What he could do right now was improve. And the techniques he had acquired from the Citadel—those were weapons that could sharpen his strength. There were two techniques, and both were exceptional.
The first was the Star Fla Art, a fla technique unlike any other. Its concept was weight—not just in mass, but in impact.
According to the technique’s description, flas weren’t just about heat, destruction, or devouring. With this art, one could compress the very essence of fla, layering its weight until it beca a crushing force of nature.
The first stage of the Star Fla Art would allow the user’s flas to carry the strength and weight of one hundred thousand kilograms. The second stage would amplify that force to one million kilograms, and the third—final—stage would push it to a jaw-dropping one hundred million kilograms.
A million kilograms worth of strength... that was no joke. That kind of force could shatter boulders into dust with a casual wave, bend steel like paper, or level a fortress with a single strike. And yet, that wasn’t even the final stage of the Star Fla Art.
At the third stage, the user’s flas would carry the weight of a hundred million kilograms—an astronomical number that pushed the very boundaries of physical might.
Max could only imagine what sort of terror his arms would beco if he ever reached that stage. Not just flas to burn, but flas to crush... to collapse entire landscapes beneath their weight. The very thought made his blood race and his eyes gleam with fervent hunger.
Just mastering the first stage alone would elevate his strength to a terrifying new realm.
But that excitent was quickly tempered as he continued to study the instructions for the technique. His expression grew solemn, brows furrowing with focus. This Star Fla Art was not so ordinary technique. It belonged to the rare and revered category of Secret Arts.
And secret arts... they were in a class of their own. Unlike regular techniques that could be learned through daily repetition, comprehension, and guidance, secret arts were enigmatic and far more demanding.
They weren’t just skills—they were legacies. The lifeblood of entire forces. Every powerful force, from third-grade guilds to the strongest first-class empires and places, had their own secret art. These weren’t shared freely. They were locked away, entrusted only to the most loyal and most talented of mbers. Not because of their danger alone—but because of their value.
And so, practicing one was never straightforward. Each secret art was unique, with its own rules, conditions, and pathways to mastery. The Star Fla Art was no different. It didn’t simply ask Max to gather fire essence and shape it—it demanded the power of stars.
Power of stars was a very miraculous thing. It wasn’t sothing a human could control, not certainly humans from the mortal domain.
And this Star Fla Art required Max to draw the power of stars directly into his body.
He’d have to ignite his own inner fla using stars as the source and gradually compress the fla’s essence within his ridians while withstanding the unimaginable burden it placed on his body.
One wrong step... and his ridians could rupture, his spirit could fracture, and his body could burn from within. This wasn’t a technique for the impatient. It was a test of will, endurance, and precision.
Max’s gaze turned sharp, his anticipation now grounded with caution. This wasn’t sothing he could rush. But if he succeeded... the rewards would be well worth the pain.
"This technique couldn’t be rushed for the ti being," Max muttered under his breath, closing the scroll of the Star Fla Art. The requirents were too strict for now. "I need to be in an area where the sky is full of stars... only then can I draw on the power of starlight without interruption."
And finding such a location—one where the stars weren’t obscured by city lights or clouded skies—wasn’t going to be easy. The art demanded more than just a night sky. It required purity, stillness, an atmosphere aligned with celestial rhythm. A rare place indeed.
Max exhaled slowly, folding the scroll and tucking it away. The ti for that technique would co—but not today.
With that decided, he pulled out the second scroll he had obtained from the citadel—the Soul Sword Art. His fingers brushed over the smooth surface of the parchnt as he unfurled it, and a faint silver aura seed to shimr across the inked lines. As he read through the contents, his eyes lit up with curiosity and appreciation.
"This sword technique is good," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. It wasn’t just about control—it was about intent. The Soul Sword Art allowed the practitioner to channel their soul directly into their blade, binding the weapon to their will.
With enough mastery, the sword didn’t need to be in his hand. It could be miles away... yet if his soul was locked onto a target, distance beca aningless. The sword would pierce through realms to reach its mark—unseen, unheard, unstoppable.
But that wasn’t all. The technique’s greatest strength also lay in its speed. It was a sword art designed for swiftness so absolute that even the air wouldn’t have ti to part before the blade struck.
It warned that unless the user had complete mastery over the sword and clarity of mind, they should avoid using it in close combat. A slight misjudgnt, a flicker of hesitation, and the blade could turn on allies—or worse, on oneself.
It was a technique for assassins and elites, for warriors who fought with precision, not brute force. Max’s expression hardened with determination as he imagined the possibilities.
A sword that could hunt anyone... anywhere... bound only by the resolve of the soul. This was more than a technique—it was a silent death sentence.
"Let’s start learning it," Max muttered to himself as he sat down cross-legged in the center of his training chamber.
His focus was entirely on the sword he had just pulled from his storage space—a simple, unmarked blade made of refined steel. Nothing special about it. But soon, it would beco sothing more.
Max gripped the hilt with both hands, his eyes narrowing.
According to the Soul Sword Art, the first and most crucial step was to cut a piece of his own soul—around one percent—and brand it into the sword. Not as a symbol, not as a rune, but as a living mark, a bond that tethered blade and soul together.
The technique warned that this step was dangerous. Many practitioners had failed here, damaging their souls in ways that took years to recover from. So lost pieces of their minds. Others lost the ability to wield a sword forever.
But Max wasn’t just anyone. He had already reached the perfection stage of soul shaping—the highest and most stable form a soul could attain. His soul no longer drifted like a wisp or glowed like a vague fla.
It had form—his form—an exact replica of his physical self, capable of thought, motion, even emotion. A complete manifestation.
With such a soul, Max could control its structure down to the smallest threads of energy.
User Comments
0 comments from readers