Later that day, a banquet was held at the Origin Construct.

Unlike the Aethelian banquet months ago, where only nobles, imperial clans, and the top clans could enter, this one was open to all.

Every clan had been invited. Every envoy, every merchant, every minor patriarch who had once only stood outside the gates, waiting to be acknowledged, now walked freely under the dome of the Origin Hall.

The sound of voices, of awe and disbelief, filled the vast chamber.

The vaulted ceiling itself hummed softly with a formation.

Tables filled with food that never cooled, dishes arranged in perfect harmony across surfaces that seemed to stretch endlessly.

Music that never broke the balance of conversation, played by instruments that floated weightlessly near the walls.

Sound barriers kept the murmur of thousands to a serene hum, each conversation private yet the atmosphere alive.

Every luxury, every convenience, woven seamlessly into the architecture.

Adrian had inscribed the hall himself. The result was a space that breathed with intelligence.

Even the Lexarian envoys, who had seen the greatest cities of the galaxy, whispered among themselves.

“He’s done it…”

Archscribe Morvain stood still near one of the pillars, watching the glow pulse through the walls. His gnarled fingers trembled faintly behind his back.

“So it is true,” he thought, his mind racing. “He’s found it… the Mind of the Formation.”

The noise faded as Adrian entered.

He wore white-grey robes, his very presence was calm.

He looked over them, from Imperial envoys to the weathered patriarchs of forgotten border clans, and when he spoke, his voice carried through the formation itself, every word resonating through the hall.

“You have come from every corner of the galaxy to stand here today.”

The light above dimmed slightly, drawing all focus to him.

“Today, the Origin Clan opens its gates. Here, no clan is too small. No voice will be unheard. All who step within these walls stand as equals.”

A silence fell, profound and weighty.

Then applause, hesitant at first, like a tremor of disbelief, then growing, swelling, until it filled the chamber.

Minor patriarchs wept openly. Merchants clutched their chests. Even hardened warriors felt something stir in their essence.

As the banquet began, the hall turned vibrant.

Thomas and Elara, radiant and composed, moved among the delegations, warm smiles, gentle words, hands clasped in friendship.

For the minor clans, it was their first time being greeted like this in a banquet where even top clans were present.

Varik worked quietly at the logistics desk, processing trade proposals, land rights, and petitions without pause.

His fingers flew across his Node, sorting requests, flagging priorities, coordinating with administrators across the system.

Draven barked laughter across the hall as he argued with a patriarch from a blood clan.

“Sparring tournament? I’ll host it myself, as long as your people can still walk after!”

The patriarch grinned, scars crinkling. “We’ll see who limps first.”

Septimus and Selena coordinated the inscribers and diplomats, guiding conversations toward trade agreements and knowledge exchanges.

Kael oversaw order among guests, his spatial awareness tracking every movement, every potential threat neutralized before it could form.

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Aurelia and Lucian handled security, subtly managing every ripple of tension with quiet words and watchful eyes.

Cassian conversed with merchant clans, looking for good resources, his prophetic insight guiding him toward the most valuable partnerships.

Every corner of the Origin Hall was alive.

It was proof that the Origin Clan was not a single man, but a living, breathing collective.

And so Adrian sat, composed, while his clan shouldered the weight of diplomacy around him.

He watched them work, pride settling quiet in his chest.

The first to approach Adrian were Kaelith and Lady Seris.

Kaelith wore a silver robe.

Lady Seris walked beside her, her crimson robes flowing like a banner of grace, golden patterns dancing across the fabric.

Adrian inclined his head, his voice softer now.

“My thanks. When the demons descended, you both stood ready to fight beside me. I will not forget that.”

Kaelith’s silver eyes flickered. She said nothing for a moment, then gave a curt nod.

“You’ve already proven you don’t need me.”

Her tone was dry, but her eyes… they carried a rare glint of respect.

Lady Seris dipped her head slightly, her words smoother.

“Strength inspires loyalty, Patriarch Blackwood. But courage inspires respect. The galaxy saw both in you.”

Adrian returned a faint smile.

“And I saw both in you.”

Kaelith’s lips twitched. “Flattery won’t earn you discounts on our military contracts.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Adrian replied. “I prefer honest trade.”

Lady Seris chuckled. “Then we’ll get along perfectly. Duranthia values integrity over theatrics.”

Their conversation was brief but genuine, a foundation laid without pretense.

Then came Archscribe Morvain.

The old Lexarian did not storm forth with arrogance, nor the self-importance of Lexaria’s scholars.

He walked slowly, robes trailing behind him, until he stood before Adrian, and bowed his head slightly.

Gasps rippled across the hall.

Conversations died mid-sentence. Goblets paused halfway to lips.

For the Archscribe of Lexaria, the keeper of the Language of Mana, to bow even slightly before another, it was unthinkable.

“Patriarch Blackwood,” Morvain began, “For centuries, Lexaria has sought the mind of the formation. We searched, deciphered, and failed. And now you have found it.”

Kaelith’s brows twitched. Seris’s eyes sharpened.

To hear Lexaria admit failure was unthinkable.

Morvain’s gaze lifted, meeting Adrian’s directly.

“I will not hide the truth. Lexaria has ruled formation trade for ages. And so I must ask… would you consider trading this knowledge?”

The entire hall stilled again.

Every eye turned toward Adrian. Patriarchs leaned forward. Merchants held their breath.

Even the top clans waited.

A refusal could spark war. An agreement could rewrite the balance of the galaxy.

Adrian’s eyes lingered on the Archscribe.

He thought briefly of the formation itself, it ran on Source essence. It would be hard to run with just elemental crystals.

To sell them now would just bring many questions later.

And even if he planned just to sell the formation, Lexaria was the last empire he would hand it to.

He inclined his head slightly, his tone polite, “I understand the value you see in it, Archscribe. But the formation was built specifically for Origin. I do not intend to share it beyond our clan.”

Adrian simply said this belonged to Origin.

A murmur passed through the hall. Denying Lexaria was unthinkable for many present here.

And yet, Adrian had spoken it without hesitation.

Morvain’s expression shifted, a flicker of frustration.

Then Adrian added, lightly, “But if Lexaria wishes to speak of Knowledge Spheres, my doors remain open.”

That simple offer turned the tension on its head.

The Lexarian delegates shifted uneasily, whispering behind raised hands. Morvain’s thin smile returned.

“Very well,” he said. “Then let us trade knowledge for knowledge.”

Agreements followed. Knowledge Spheres for Lexarian archives.

Thousands of skill books would flow into the Origin Capital, techniques refined over millennia, concepts hoarded by scholars who believed secrecy was strength.

Adrian’s eyes gleamed faintly.

Skill books meant concepts.

Concepts meant growth.

Morvain bowed once more, this time deeper, before retreating into the crowd.

Later came Castian, the Aethelian envoy.

He wore golden-trimmed robes.

“Patriarch Blackwood,” he said warmly, extending a hand. “To have the Origin Clan rise within Aethelia’s borders is a fortune to our empire.”

Adrian nodded politely, his handshake firm but brief.

“The empire’s support during these early days has been noted.”

Castian’s smile widened, though his eyes betrayed nothing.

“We are honored to have witnessed your strength firsthand. The Emperor himself sends his regards.”

“Please convey my gratitude.”

They spoke briefly, courteous words, careful phrasing, neither revealing more than necessary.

Castian departed with a bow, his expression unchanged, though his mind churned with reports to draft.

As the hours passed, the banquet became more than celebration, it became transformation.

Minor clans, those who had been nameless on galactic scales, purchased land within the Origin Capital, planting their banners beside the great ones.

Merchant clans formed contracts for trade routes, their eyes gleaming with dreams of wealth.

Even wandering masters offered teaching in return for residence.

No one left empty-handed.

And when they did leave, their voices carried whispers through the corridors, “It feels different here.”

“I never thought I’d stand beside a top-ten clan without being dismissed.”

When the banquet finally ended, Adrian stood alone at the high window, overlooking the glowing sprawl of his capital.

From this height, he could see the lights of the Origin star system, the markets, the embassies, the streets alive with voices from all worlds.

His people, his clan, worked and celebrated as one.

The formation above pulsed softly, its glow casting faint reflections across the void.

“Maybe its time to move earth here…” He muttered.

The galaxy had not just witnessed his power. It had seen his clan, his foundation.

Adrian smiled faintly to himself.

The Origin Clan was no longer a young clan. A truth the galaxy could no longer ignore.

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