The shooting star slammed into the ground right in front of them.
Stone cracked outward in a shallow ring as heat washed over Adam and Vanessa. Flames surged, then receded, drawn inward as if swallowed by the figure at the center.
When the fire cleared, an old man stood there.
He wore the same uniform as the Mission Hall's acolytes and managers, but elevated. The cut was sharper, the fabric heavier, and the linings were a deep royal purple, not gold like Vanessa's, nor silver like the regular acolytes.
A rank above.
No, far above.
Adam's attention locked instantly.
It wasn't the man's age. Nor the way he stood, relaxed yet absolute. It was the aura.
Pressure rolled off him in quiet waves, so dense Adam felt like he could be snuffed out with a single thought.
He's strong.
This time, the thought wasn't exaggeration or instinctual caution. It was a fact. Compared to everyone Adam had internally acknowledged as "strong" so far, this man stood in a completely different realm.
