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“Is the Hall of Edicts where the descendants of the gods study?” Braydon Neal queried casually.

Zetsa Yeza affirmed with a nod.

“Indeed. When the Great Divine Priest has free time, he often imparts his wisdom there. Upon learning of Matu Joko’s demise, the brilliant minds of the Hall of Edicts grew restless, eyeing the coveted position of the divine son.”

Braydon remained indifferent.

“That holds no interest for me,” he declared.

The prospect of ascending to divine son status held no allure, nor did he wish to assume any roles within the Oracle Palace.

While the Oracle Palace possessed the power to confine Braydon, his allegiance lay elsewhere.

Crossing certain boundaries was out of the question; Braydon was acutely aware of what was and wasn’t permissible.

If the rising star of Hansworth were to align with foreign races while bearing the Great Hansworth Seal, it would forever tarnish Hansworth’s legacy, becoming an indelible stain upon Hansworth.

Some actions were irredeemable, their consequences everlasting.

Amidst their conversation, the meal arrived, accompanied by wine.

Suddenly, a frosty voice pierced the air from guest room number six.

“Get lost! I demand to know who dares to occupy my room.”

The sweating young attendant outside attempted to explain to a distinguished guest, but his pleas fell on deaf ears.

Guest room number six was his private room. Just because he had not come the day before, someone else actually took his room.

He was inexplicably furious.

With a resounding crash, the door collapsed, shrouding the room in dust.

Zetsa observed impassively as Braydon calmly regarded the intruder.

Interrupted mid-meal, Braydon faced the arrogant young man who now stood before them in the dining room.

“What’s this? You’re the ones who took over my guest room?” he sneered.

“Leave within three seconds, and you may possibly live,” Braydon remarked casually.

In the Donta Imperial City, encounters with aborigines often involved martial artists from other races.

As long as they didn’t provoke Braydon, they were generally safe.

However, anyone who dared to provoke them would meet a swift demise.

For the outsiders, each kill meant one fewer enemy for the Northern Army in the future.

“No one has ever dared to address me in such a manner in the Donta Imperial City,” the noble youth retorted, seething with anger.

Ignoring the youth’s outburst, Braydon remained impassive.

Three seconds.

It was Ghali Finca’s final opportunity.

Departing would ensure his survival; staying would seal his fate.

Accustomed to arrogance from a young age, Ghali had relied on his influential background to navigate the Donta Imperial City with impunity.

Yet, in the presence of truly formidable individuals, such as Braydon, his status held little weight.

However, as a wealthy scion, most smaller families wouldn’t dare offend him, allowing him to retain his position.

Ghali wasn’t foolish enough to antagonize those with powerful backgrounds, lest he accumulate enemies.

Yet, today, a couple had brazenly occupied his usual guest room, a clear indication that they didn’t regard him with respect.

As the brief window of opportunity elapsed, Braydon cast a fleeting glance at the haughty youth.

In an instant, an invisible mental pressure descended upon Ghali, compelling him to his knees.

A look of terror washed over him as a bloody scar materialized between his brows.

It was a mental assault.

Braydon’s cultivation had ascended to the quasi-emperor realm.

How terrifying was mental power?

The mental power of a quasi-emperor could materialize from nothingness to substance with a mere thought.

In an instant, Ghali’s life was extinguished as Braydon’s mental power transformed into a steel needle, piercing his brain and ending his existence on the spot.

The quick-witted young man’s face drained of color as he hoarsely announced, “Young Master Finca is dead… he’s dead!”

Overwhelmed, he nearly fainted, his mind reeling with the realization that something monumental had occurred.

Trouble had once again befallen the Lagos Marriott Hotel.

The death of the Donta Inner City’s Young Master Finca within the confines of the Lagos Marriott Hotel spelled inevitable repercussions from the Finca family.

How could they allow such an affront to go unanswered?

“It seems our meal plans are foiled,” Braydon remarked softly, casting a glance at Zetsa.

“In the Donta Imperial City, aside from the descendants of the gods, everyone else is inconsequential,” she asserted, bolstering Braydon’s resolve.

The Oracle Palace’s denizens were revered as gods, while those yet to ascend were considered their descendants.

Outsiders were deemed insignificant ants.

Commanding the fate of all living beings was no trifling matter.

“We should depart,” Zetsa urged.

Rising to his feet, Braydon tossed down ten spirit crystals.

“You two cannot leave!” the young man interjected, blocking their path.

“You’ve killed the Finca family’s young master. If you flee, what will become of me?”

Maintaining his composure, Braydon calmly responded, “An arrogant child surely hails from a prominent lineage. If anyone seeks retribution, direct them to the Oracle Palace to confront me. The one responsible for the demise of the Finca family’s young master goes by the name Braydon Neal.”

With that declaration, Braydon and Zetsa departed, leaving the young man stunned and shaken to his core.

He stood there in disbelief, utterly shocked by the events that had transpired.

These two individuals hailed from the Oracle Palace.

Were they truly divine beings?

The young man trembled, his eyes betraying a mix of fear and trepidation.

On their way back to the Oracle Palace, Braydon’s gaze inadvertently fell upon a modest shop nestled along the main street: Shop 112.

Occupying a modest space of 70 to 80 square meters, the shop didn’t stand out among its surroundings.

However, one item displayed within caught Braydon’s attention—a sword.

While it was commonplace for shops to retail weapons, this sword was different.

It exuded an aura of coldness, unmistakably the Northern Army Sword.

How had this sword, typically exclusive to the Northern Army, found its way into such an inconspicuous establishment in the Donta Imperial City?

Coming to a halt in front of the shop, Braydon pondered the anomaly.

“What is it?” Zetsa inquired, puzzled by Braydon’s sudden halt.

“I’ve been secluded for too long. Just felt like taking a peek outside,” Braydon replied smoothly.

“You’ve spent a year in seclusion at the Oracle Palace,” Zetsa chuckled. “That’s the longest stint you’ve had since childhood, isn’t it?”

Braydon offered a slight nod in agreement, acknowledging the truth of Zetsa’s observation.

Unperturbed by the peculiarities, Zetsa followed Braydon into the shop.

Serene as ever, she remained unfazed by the trinkets on display.

Aware of the boundless treasures at the Oracle Palace’s disposal, she recognized the insignificance of the shop’s offerings.

To her, everything within was but mere trifles.

Yet, Zetsa understood that Braydon sought not material wealth but respite.

His desire to spend a day leisurely exploring after a year of seclusion was entirely reasonable.

It underscored his cautious nature and meticulous planning.

Approaching the counter, Braydon addressed the young man engrossed in his tasks.

Startled by Braydon’s presence, the young man looked up, his enthusiasm evident.

“What type of sword are you interested in, Young Master?” he inquired eagerly.