High above the clouds, Ethan had no idea that Matriarch Whitmore’s so-called "test" was far more deliberate than it appeared.
She hadn’t sensed the energy she was hoping for in his all-out strike.
The power he released wasn’t similar to Starfall’s—the being Ethan had encountered in the Silverwood family’s Hidden Territory. A strange entity, neither ’ghost nor corpse’ according to Ryan.
Matriarch Whitmore’s suspicion wasn’t unfounded. Ethan’s rapid growth bordered on unnatural. He was around the sa age as Markham, yet he’d already matched linda’s level—lightyears ahead of his peers.
Starfall’s family bloodline had always passed to a single heir. Every generation, without fail, produced soone unmatched—crushing all their contemporaries with ease.
That’s why both Matriarch Whitmore and linda wondered: Could he be related Starfall? Was he the child who they have been looking for?
The clues fit. He’d grown up in an orphanage. His age lined up. It was possible.
But after Whitmore’s test—after Ethan unleashed a desperate, full-strength blow—his arm fractured from the recoil. Yet not a hint of Starfall’s family’s legendary Divine Body erged.
The result was clear: Ethan wasn’t a Starfall’s son, and that only made his potential more terrifying.
If Ethan had known that matriarch Whitmore had briefly mistaken him for a ’Divine Body’ heir, he might’ve laughed out loud.
He, the Vessel, as Morzan called him—a body universally dismissed as worthless across countless planes of existence.
The Vessel and the Divine Body were polar opposites.
---
Less than fifty minutes after takeoff, the plane began its descent.
As it landed, Ethan reached over and gave Markham a firm slap.
Markham jolted awake, disoriented. "Wha—? Did I fall asleep?"
At that mont, the flight attendant walked past, barely stifling a laugh. She reached into her pocket, pulling out a tiny vial and handed it to Markham.
"This helps with motion sickness," she said, smiling. "Next ti you fly, just let it dissolve under your tongue."
She shot a quick glance at Ethan, making him feel montarily awkward.
Markham, still foggy, accepted the vial and asked, "Thanks, miss... what’s your na?"
She raised her brow and pointed at her na tag. "It’s right there."
The tag read Zoe Blake.
Ethan noticed the na. But what almost made him lose it was how she addressed Markham—calling him "sir" with a mock-sincere tone. Given Markham’s perpetually grumpy face, he did look far older than he was.
As Markham stumbled through an apology, Ethan grabbed him and steered him off the plane.
He was on a mission. No ti to waste.
---
After leaving the airport, they headed straight for the nearest Aeon Corporation flagship store.
"Welco to Aeon Corporation," the receptionist greeted as they stepped through the doors.
"I’ll take one of the SUP models," Ethan said before she could say another word.
The employee froze. Markham turned to Ethan, wide-eyed.
"SUP? Dude, that’s... Are you loaded now?" he asked, half-whispering, half-growling, clearly envious.
Ethan didn’t respond. He looked at the receptionist. "You don’t have it?"
She blinked back into professionalism. "Oh, no—we do. Please, follow upstairs."
"The new SUP just ca in. You’ll want to see it."
She led them to the second floor.
Aeon Corporation’s SUP model was their most advanced VR capsule—boasting 99.8% operational sensitivity and a price tag around six million dollars.
Lyla used the upgraded SUP-R version, a customized build. Ethan never even asked how much hers cost.
He still had it in his spatial storage. But once a unit was authenticated, it was permanently bound to the user. Otherwise, Ethan would’ve gladly used hers. He’d been envious of it for a long ti.
Now, with this chance to upgrade, he figured—go big or go ho.
Custom builds took too long. He needed sothing now.
---
Upstairs, four SUP VR Capsules were arranged prominently in the center of the showroom.
There were few custors. Most already had their Aeon headsets or capsules. But those on the second floor? Definitely wealthy.
Two couples were examining the SUP models.
"Oh, I love this one..." one of the won gushed, practically draping herself over the man beside her. She clung to his arm, voice sickly sweet.
The man clearly enjoyed the attention. He narrowed his eyes and gave her a playful squeeze, making her giggle.
"I just bought you a new one. You never even use that! And look—this one doesn’t even have that feature."
"Yours is custom, rember?"
He pointed toward the capsule’s interior.
"You’re so an! Why’d you even install that thing in my capsule?" she pouted, without a hint of actual irritation.
Ethan and Markham heard the exchange as they ca up the stairs. They didn’t pay it much attention.
The saleswoman accompanying them, though, blushed slightly from the nearby chatter and kept her head down.
Once they reached the display area, Ethan’s gaze was instantly drawn to one unit.
It was marked with bold lettering: X-SUP Model.
His heart stirred. He’d heard of this beast before. Only a hundred had ever been made. Just three had sold—and all were returned.
This was a machine of legends.
The X-SUP offered 99.999% realism and 99.999% operational sensitivity.
The problem? Its pain sensitivity could only be adjusted between 35% and 100%.
By contrast, most headsets and capsules could drop to 20%—making intense simulations far more bearable.
And at over ten million dollars, this capsule was well out of reach for the average person.
Even for the elite, the high pain threshold was too much. Most buyers returned it.
Requests were made for Aeon to lower the pain limits. But their engineers discovered a hard truth: at 99.999% realism, pain sensitivity couldn’t be reduced further. It was a limit of the technology.
Progress beyond the SUP model would only ever be costic.
Still, Ethan was stunned to find one here.
He already knew that, whether he used a headset or capsule, his pain sensitivity defaulted to 35%—no lower.
Which made the X-SUP the perfect fit for him.
"I’ll take this one," he said, his voice calm but brimming with excitent.
He’d always loved this capsule’s design. Unlike the sleek, curvy lines of other models, this one had bold, sharp angles—like the armor of a black knight.
---
"This one?" the saleswoman asked, startled.
Before Ethan could answer, that sa syrupy voice from earlier cut in:
"Oh, look at this! Wearing rags and dreaming of buying the X-SUP?" the woman’s voice was low, but could clearly be heard from across the floor.
Ethan didn’t even glance her way. Her voice was just background noise.
He nodded at the saleswoman. "Yes."
She hesitated. The woman’s mockery wasn’t totally unfounded—Ethan and Markham did look like they’d been dressed by a thrift store.
Still, the saleswoman kept her professionalism.
"We only have this unit in stock—it just arrived yesterday for display," she said. "If you’d like a sealed one, I can place an order, but..."
"This one’s fine," Ethan cut in, raising his ID card.
In the US, ID cards functioned as personal identification, banking cards, and access keys—all in one.
The saleswoman blinked, surprised by his readiness.
From the other side of the room, the woman’s voice rang out again, loud and petulant.
"Hmph! Damien, look at these two paupers. The first one ignored , while the other one keeps glaring, like I’m beneath him. I don’t like their attitude."
She tugged at the man beside her, clearly trying to provoke sothing.
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