On the first day of Lootwell’s Middle Continent branch opening, the factions realized one thing very quickly.

Coming here had been the correct decision.

Those who had followed the rumors felt relief.

Those who had hesitated felt regret.

And those who had thought the rumors were exaggerated began quietly revising their understanding of the word impossible.

The system at the entrance was similar in the West.

Tokens. Every visitor had to receive one.

The tokens were handed out by Lootwell staff in organized lines beneath the towering projection panels outside the grand barrier.

Those panels displayed the rules clearly.

The rules were simple and direct.

And, judging by the expressions of many proud faction representatives, slightly insulting.

Yet no one broke them.

That surprised Lucien.

The Middle Continent was different from the West.

Here, people were more careful.

Because they had face.

In the Middle Continent, reputation mattered almost as much as strength. Status was a weapon. Public dignity was currency. A faction could survive losing a little money. It could survive losing one argument. It could survive a failed negotiation.

But becoming an example in front of the entire continent?

That was dangerous.

No sect master wanted a projected record of his disciple being dragged out of Lootwell for ignoring written rules.

No elder wanted rival factions laughing about how his ancient lineage failed a token inspection.

No young master wanted his arrogance turned into a warning displayed through communication devices before the day was even over.

So they read the rules.

And they followed them.

Lucien blinked.

"Well," he murmured. "This continent is easier to manage than expected."

Eirene stood beside him and looked down at the same scene.

"Do not mistake fear of embarrassment for obedience."

"Right."

"But it is useful."

"It is very useful."

•••

The communication devices were received first.

That was expected.

They had already become the symbol of Lootwell’s transformation in the West. And rumors had spread through the allies.

But public sale was different.

The moment the first official counters opened, the communication device halls filled.

Lootwell staff presented each tier clearly.

A richly dressed elder stared at the price list with disbelief.

"This is too low."

The staff member smiled politely.

"The listed price is correct."

The elder frowned.

"A device that allows instant communication across great distance should not be priced so cheaply."

Several smaller faction representatives nearby stiffened.

Another wealthy representative added, "The high-tier models should also be more expensive. If everyone can own one, their value declines."

Lucien, watching through a projection, raised a brow.

Kael, who stood nearby, sighed in appreciation.

"Ah. There it is."

"What?"

"The wealthy attempting to protect prestige by requesting higher prices."

Lucien stared at the hall.

Another faction representative said more bluntly, "Poorer factions should not have access to the same tools. It disrupts proper hierarchy."

The atmosphere turned cold.

The smaller factions nearby lowered their eyes, but several clenched their fists.

The Lootwell staff member’s smile did not change.

"The prices are set by Lootwell."

The elder frowned.

"We are willing to pay more."

"That is appreciated. The prices are still set by Lootwell."

The staff member lifted one hand and pointed toward a panel behind the counter.

[Communication access is a public stabilizing tool. Price manipulation, artificial scarcity, forced reselling, and obstruction of basic communication access are prohibited.]

The hall went quiet.

The staff member continued gently, "Higher-tier devices exist for those who require stronger functions. Basic access remains basic access."

Lucien’s smile deepened.

Good.

He had no intention of letting communication become a toy of the wealthy alone.

The West had proven that information flowing quickly could protect the weak, expose abuse, speed up trade, and strengthen regional response. If only the rich could speak quickly, then the poor would remain easy to crush quietly.

That was unacceptable.

Still, the Middle Continent’s wealth surprised him.

The premium counters became crowded almost immediately.

Factions fought, politely but intensely, for high-end devices. Those who obtained them walked away with the unbearable smugness of people carrying something everyone else could see and want.

A disciple from one smaller sect held his basic device like a treasure.

A young master from a major faction held his premium device like a royal seal.

Both were happy.

For very different reasons.

That was fine.

Lootwell sold to both.

•••

The attribute-granting special crops caused the next storm.

The moment the stock appeared, faction representatives moved like predators who remembered they were supposed to be polite.

Then the merchant scalpers appeared.

They were easy to identify.

They moved in groups. They tried to purchase maximum quantities from multiple counters. They attempted to use different affiliated buyers. They sent servants into separate lines. They asked whether bulk purchase discounts existed. They asked whether private resale rights could be negotiated.

Lootwell had expected them.

The warning appeared across the market panels before the first scalping attempt could mature.

[Restricted attribute products are subject to purchase limits.]

[Buying for forced resale, artificial price inflation, hoarding, proxy stacking, or disguised faction monopolization is prohibited.]

[Violators will lose purchase rights.]

The merchants froze.

One of them smiled weakly.

"Surely normal trade is not forbidden?"

A market supervisor answered calmly, "Normal trade is welcome. Predatory hoarding is not."

"That is a harsh word."

"It is an accurate one."

The merchant’s smile stiffened.

Meanwhile, the ordinary buyers looked relieved.

Lucien watched the market response with satisfaction.

Equal opportunity did not mean everyone could buy everything.

It meant no single power could strangle access before others even had a chance.

So he limited quantities.

The limits did not reduce demand.

If anything, they increased urgency.

•••

The automatons were received with a different kind of hunger.

Communication devices were status and speed.

Attribute products were magical advantage.

Automatons were long-term power.

Rurik had prepared the Middle branch display personally.

These new units could execute simple array construction, basic alchemy, and basic crafting tasks with terrifying precision.

They could sort materials, maintain simple formation nodes, refine low-grade pills, assemble standard components, repair basic structural cracks, and follow repeatable workshop procedures without fatigue.

Their speed was only average.

Lucien had deliberately limited that.

Their creativity was almost nonexistent.

Also deliberate.

Their task range was basic.

Very deliberate.

But their accuracy was flawless within permitted functions.

For a sect, merchant house, workshop clan, or remote branch, such a thing was priceless.

Rurik stood beside the demonstration platform, bristling with pride.

A representative asked, "It can perform alchemy?"

"Basic alchemy," Rurik corrected. "Do not insult alchemists by assuming this replaces them."

The representative relaxed slightly.

Then Rurik continued, "It replaces bad apprentices."

Several elders looked personally struck.

The automaton began its demonstration.

First, it arranged formation plates in perfect spacing.

Then it refined a simple pill with stable fire control.

Then it assembled a small defensive charm.

Then it repaired a cracked array tile.

The watching factions went silent.

Lucien had priced each unit at one million highest-grade spirit crystals.

An outrageous number.

The first buyer agreed before the demonstration ended.

The second tried to buy five.

The staff refused.

One per qualified faction during the first phase.

A merchant patriarch looked pained.

"One is not enough."

The staff member replied, "Then cherish it."

Rurik nodded approvingly.

"Good answer."

The factions understood the value immediately.

One million highest-grade spirit crystals was absurd.

But over years?

Over decades?

With perfect basic output, no failure rate, no wasted materials, no fatigue, and no discipline problems?

The cost would return itself.

And more importantly, owning one meant a faction had entered the age of automaton-supported production.

No one wanted to be left behind.

The first batch sold out quickly.

Rurik looked at the empty display allocation and sighed with satisfaction.

"Beautiful."

•••

Then came the Echo Crucible.

That was where order nearly died.

He had underestimated the Middle Continent’s relationship with reputation.

The moment the Echo Crucible opened, the allied representatives who had tasted it before moved first.

Behind them came their rivals.

Behind their rivals came people who had only heard stories and were determined not to let others claim the first public records.

Within the first hour, every available low and middle-tier room had been booked.

Within the second hour, three different factions attempted to negotiate for additional time slots.

Within the third hour, one elder accused another faction of "cowardly choosing easier environmental settings to create prettier numbers."

Within the fourth hour, two disciples nearly fought in the waiting hall because one had beaten the other’s record by three breaths and then smiled too visibly.

Astraea intervened.

She did not shout.

She simply turned her head.

The two disciples immediately remembered every moral teaching they had ever ignored.

Lucien had stationed Astraea and several ancient beasts throughout the Echo Crucible for exactly that reason.

The ancient beasts organized the place with terrifying efficiency.

Not because they were naturally administrative.

Because no one dared argue with them for long.

A faction elder tried once.

Astraea listened patiently.

Then said, "If you wish to fight over booking order, I can arrange a private room."

The elder hesitated.

Astraea smiled.

"With me."

The elder discovered compromise.

The Echo Crucible became a battlefield without weapons being drawn.

Pressure filled the halls.

Competitive pressure.

People stared at scoreboards as if they were sacred tablets.

Names rose.

Names fell.

Affiliations appeared.

Records were challenged.

Spectator rooms filled with elders watching their disciples either shine or embarrass the sect.

A small faction’s young woman cleared a survival trial faster than three disciples from a famous pavilion.

Her faction members cried.

The famous pavilion immediately requested analysis reports.

A healer from Clearwater Meridian Sect took first place in a mass-casualty assessment and became the subject of immediate attention from half the medical factions present.

A commander trial humiliated a proud battlefield elder so badly that he exited the room, stared at the after-action report, and muttered, "I have been sending people to die inefficiently."

Lucien watched everything and smiled.

The facility was doing exactly what it needed to do.

Teaching through pride.

Correcting through humiliation.

Training through obsession.

A faction representative refused to leave after failing to put his name on a scoreboard.

A staff member reminded him gently that his session time had ended.

He said, "I cannot return home like this."

The staff member answered, "Then return after practicing."

That answer spread through the hall and caused several people to look personally attacked.

Lucien laughed for the first time in an hour.

The Echo Crucible was chaos.

Controlled chaos. Profitable chaos. Useful chaos.

A win-win.

His favorite kind.

•••

Th first day continued.

The academy received scholars, warriors, and ambitious young disciples who looked at the training fields with hunger and alarm.

The Celestial healing complex received injured practitioners who had arrived partly to test whether the rumors were true.

They left healed enough to become walking advertisements.

The chapel received those who came to meditate, those who came to question, and those who came because everyone else was entering and they did not want to miss something important.

Clara handled all three categories.

Some visitors emerged calmer.

Some emerged inspired.

A few emerged looking as though they had been gently judged by their own conscience and lost.

•••

The floating administrative city above remained restricted, which made people stare at it even more.

The early allies moved through the branch with visible confidence.

That confidence was its own advertisement.

Starveil Observatory representatives were guided through priority access halls.

Mirror-Sun Hall received private device calibration.

Jade Horizon Pavilion disciples returned to the Echo Crucible with expressions that made their rivals grind their teeth.

Ninefold Ledger House negotiated supplier terms in rooms most factions could not enter.

Clearwater Meridian Sect healers were escorted into observation sections of the healing complex.

Everywhere they went, other factions watched.

With frustration.

With admiration.

With regret.

The early birds had indeed eaten first.

And in the Middle Continent, everyone hated being late to a feast that mattered.

One sect elder stared as an allied faction received priority booking and muttered, "We should have moved earlier."

His disciple whispered, "Master, you said it was better to wait and observe."

The elder closed his eyes.

"Do not preserve my mistakes in spoken form."

Nearby, Kael heard and smiled.

That line would sell itself later.