Nestled in the center was a tiny box. No larger than a matchbox—perhaps smaller.
It had no glowing runes, no shimmering gold trim, no aura of spiritual energy that most artifacts gave off.
It looked almost… forgotten. It was made of plain wood, dark and grainy, with corners that were uneven and slightly rough to the touch.
The edges were not symmetrical, and the entire thing bore the subtle marks of having been hand-carved, likely by someone using simple tools and unrefined techniques.
It was, by all appearances, a humble thing.
But humility, in the world of cultivators, was sometimes a disguise.
And Julius knew that better than most.
The moment his eyes landed on the box, his expression shifted in an instant.
Gone was the composed, regal patriarch who had just spoken with elegance and grace.
In his place stood a man stunned—momentarily stripped bare by shock.
His eyes widened.
His breath caught in his throat.
