CHAPTER 468: TOURING II

The guards stepped aside, motioning them in. "Proceed," one said respectfully. "New arrivals report at the first registration desk on the left."

Asher gave a curt nod and led his group through the massive archway. Inside, the Velstrand Association Hall was vast and quiet—its air thick with spiritual energy that hummed like a contained storm. Lines of ascenders, merchants, and wanderers stretched before several rune-inscribed counters. Clerks in silver-blue robes processed their documents with practiced efficiency, light from their sigil pens flickering across parchment and crystal tablets.

Freya looked around with mild curiosity. "Doesn’t look that different from any bureaucratic office. Just... more glowing rocks."

Valeris smirked faintly. "You’d be surprised how terrifying paperwork can be in a realm like this."

Asher’s lips curved slightly at that. He walked up to an open counter where a middle-aged clerk, his aura mild but disciplined, looked up. "Next, please."

Asher placed a small orb on the desk—it pulsed faintly with soul energy, displaying his name and origin. "Asher Magnus, from the lower realm of Volarisa. My family and companions seek registration under the Migrant Accord."

The clerk’s brow lifted just slightly at the mention of "family," but he said nothing. "Very well. Standard procedure applies. You’ll need to declare your realm of origin, cultivation tier, and intent of residence. Are you planning to settle in Velstrand territory or passing through?"

"Settling," Asher replied. "For now."

The man nodded, recording it on his glowing ledger. "Understood. Each member of your group will need to register their soul signature. Step forward, one at a time."

Catherine went first, placing her hand over the crystal pad. The orb shimmered, reading her essence before stabilizing. Freya followed, then Veyra, Valeris, and Marina. Arnold and Maxwell completed the line.

Once done, the clerk examined the readings, then pressed a small stamp of light against each of their wrists. The mark glowed faintly—a simple rune that would allow safe passage and residence under Velstrand jurisdiction.

"All in order," he said. "You are now registered citizens of the higher realm under Velstrand’s administration. Do note: combat within city boundaries is restricted. Spirit manifestations above the Star rank require clearance, and all trade involving relics, souls, or forbidden materials must be licensed through the Association. Violations will result in disciplinary summons."

Freya crossed her arms. "Sounds strict."

The clerk gave a small shrug. "Rules keep the city from collapsing. Too many ascenders forget that."

Asher inclined his head. "Fair enough. Thank you."

The clerk handed him a small tablet etched with silver runes. "This contains your identification matrix and residence authorization. You’ll need it for transactions, permits, and any official dealings within Velstrand."

They stepped away from the counter, letting the next group move forward. Around them, the hall buzzed with a quiet energy—dozens of voices, footsteps echoing, and the faint hum of spiritual arrays regulating the flow of power.

Marina looked up toward the vaulted ceiling, where floating crystals bathed the chamber in soft light. "So this is it... we’re officially part of the higher realm."

Asher nodded. "At least on paper."

Arnold chuckled. "Paper’s what keeps your head attached when you’re new somewhere."

They exited the hall and stepped back into the plaza. Outside, the noise of the city greeted them again—distant bells, the murmur of cultivators bargaining, and the faint shimmer of spirit beasts flying overhead.

Catherine turned to Asher. "What’s next? We have the manor, and now registration. Do we start reaching out to the local sects?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of a family shopping trip," he said casually. "Since we’re already here, let’s go check out the market. You guys can buy anything you want. I destroyed a cultist sect—I’m practically rolling in money right now."

He laughed lightly, waving them along. The others knew how he meant it—Asher wasn’t joking about being wealthy; he was just relaxed about it. Most people would’ve been shocked to see a young cultivator destroy a sect so easily and then think nothing of it, but Asher was different. He was a monster in his own right, so it didn’t surprise them that within just a month of his ascension, he had already wiped out an entire cultist sect.

The group made their way through the bustling avenues of Velstrand’s lower district, where the air shimmered faintly with spiritual energy and the scent of rare herbs and incense drifted between rows of shops. The streets were alive with chatter—vendors calling out prices, cultivators bargaining over materials, and the rhythmic hum of runes lighting up each storefront.

Freya was the first to break formation. Her eyes lit up as she spotted a weaponsmith’s stall lined with blades that glowed faintly in alternating hues of crimson and gold. "Look at these!" she exclaimed, rushing over. "They’re forged with dual spirit cores! I’ve never seen craftsmanship like this in Volarisa."

The smith, a grizzled old man with metal-threaded gloves, grinned. "Fine eye, miss. You know your steel. Each one’s tempered in lightning essence—costs more than most sect stipends."

Freya looked over her shoulder at Asher, smiling playfully. "Can I?"

He chuckled. "If you can lift it without cracking the ground, it’s yours."

She grinned and picked one up with ease, the weapon humming to her aura before she turned away, satisfied. "Guess I’m taking it, then."

Catherine, meanwhile, was drawn to a stall overflowing with intricate charms and runic jewelry. She touched one—an earring shaped like a crescent moon—and felt the faint thrum of protection magic. "These are... beautiful," she murmured. "They resonate with calming soul energy."

The vendor leaned forward eagerly. "Made with fragments of sky crystal. Good for stabilizing cultivation during meditation."

Asher nodded approvingly. "Get them. They’ll help you when you enter deeper trance cycles."

Catherine smiled softly, slipping a pair into her pouch.

Valeris, ever the pragmatic one, had wandered into an armor atelier. Rows of tailored protective gear—light, reinforced with spiritual fibers—lined the racks. She tested the weight of a long black coat lined with silver veins. "Functional," she said, turning to the attendant. "What’s the material?"