Final Regression of The Legendary Swordmaster-Chapter 99

The study chamber was dim, lit only by three suspended mana lamps that floated silently near the ceiling. Their glow was soft and steady, casting pale light across stone walls carved with faint defensive inscriptions. Outside the narrow window, the night wind brushed against the Vistro manor, but inside the chamber there was only stillness.

Edward Vistro stood beside a long stone table.

Spread across its surface were documents from the White Tower, each page sealed with glowing mana signatures that pulsed faintly in silver light. The Atlantis Expedition Decree lay at the center. Around it were supplementary regulations, emergency protocols, guild classification charts, and transmission restrictions.

Rumors from Luminaries had traveled fast.

Illegitimate Marquis.

Patricide.

Duke killer.

Political exile in everything but name.

Edward read every document without expression.

He was no longer entering Atlantis under the Luminaries banner.

That privilege had been stripped from him the moment the royal court declared his ascension unlawful. Though no formal army marched against him, the message was clear. He would not represent their dignity. He would not carry their insignia into the ancient realm beneath the Northern Sea.

Private guild entry remained permitted under White Tower law.

But it came without advantages.

No instant teleportation tokens.

No emergency transmission arrays.

No priority extraction channels.

No guaranteed rescue.

If a private guild entered Atlantis and failed to exit before the three-hour gate closure, they would remain trapped permanently.

Edward traced his finger along the mana seal of the decree.

Restrictions were layered carefully. The White Tower always maintained the illusion of neutrality, but the structure favored kingdoms. Independent forces were tolerated, not supported.

He did not react.

He had entered Atlantis more than a thousand times.

The first few regressions had been reckless. He had entered under Luminaries, following their battalions into structured campaigns. Those attempts ended in betrayal or inefficiency. Large formations attracted conflict. Kingdom pride invited sabotage.

Later regressions had taught him the truth.

Solo entry was inefficient.

Alliances were unreliable.

Control required structure.

Edward moved to the side of the table where a blank registration slate waited. The stone was etched with a circular formation that would bind names to an official guild contract recognized by the White Tower.

He pressed his palm against it.

Mana flowed from his core, controlled and precise. The formation glowed in response.

Guild Name.

He paused only briefly.

Not something grand.

Not something loud.

Visibility invited attention.

He inscribed the name calmly.

Quiet Tide.

The characters glowed once, then settled into the stone.

Three members.

No more.

Large guilds required resources he did not intend to expend. Small teams moved faster, drew less attention, and could harvest efficiently.

Edward Vistro.

Early High Mage.

Mana signature recorded.

The slate hummed faintly as his cultivation level was verified.

Thaleia Puresteed.

Early True Mage.

Mana signature recorded.

Valerius Dorn.

Peak Adept.

Mana signature recorded.

Edward's gaze lingered briefly on Valerius's name.

In countless regressions, Valerius had failed to break through to True Mage. His talent plateaued at the hundred-circle threshold. His strength lay not in ascension, but in discipline and battlefield reliability. A Peak Adept with refined fundamentals was more useful than a newly unstable True Mage.

Three members.

Minimal.

Efficient.

Edward lifted the slate and sealed it with a final pulse of mana.

The registration process required physical confirmation at the White Tower's regional registrar outpost. Though Vaeloria was the seat of magical authority, smaller registrar chambers existed across the kingdoms for administrative purposes.

The next morning, Edward arrived at one such chamber located near the border between territories.

The building was plain stone, circular in design, with a single mana array rotating above its entrance. Guards stood outside, wearing neutral White Tower insignia rather than any kingdom colors.

Inside, the chamber was quiet.

A single clerk sat behind a raised counter formed from polished granite. He appeared middle-aged, robes trimmed in subtle silver thread that indicated administrative rank. Several mana orbs floated around him, recording and verifying signatures in real time.

The clerk looked up as Edward approached.

"Guild registration?" he asked calmly.

Edward placed the slate on the counter.

The clerk pressed both palms against it. The slate illuminated, projecting the guild name and member information into the air as floating script.

Quiet Tide.

The clerk's eyes flickered slightly at the name. Not flashy. Not ambitious. Practical.

He began the verification process.

Mana signatures were scanned.

Cultivation levels confirmed.

No Archmage presence.

All members within permitted range.

The clerk's gaze lifted slowly to Edward.

There was something unusual.

Not in the mana.

The mana was controlled, dense, and refined, but not abnormal for an Early High Mage.

It was the stillness.

Most High Mages carried subtle pressure, even when suppressing their aura. Edward's presence was quiet, almost too quiet. His spiritual signature felt deep, layered, like sediment built over long years.

"Have you entered Atlantis before?" the clerk asked casually, while the arrays continued scanning.

Edward met his gaze without hesitation. "No."

It was not entirely untrue.

Not in this lifetime.

The clerk studied him for a moment longer. Then he nodded and continued processing.

The White Tower prided itself on neutrality. Suspicion without evidence was irrelevant.

The arrays flashed green.

"Guild Quiet Tide is officially recognized for private entry into Atlantis," the clerk said. "You will receive standard gate access. No priority positioning. No emergency recall privileges. No external reinforcement support."

"I understand," Edward replied.

The clerk hesitated briefly before adding, "Private guilds suffer high mortality rates."

Edward did not blink. "Mortality is inefficient."

The clerk could not determine whether that was arrogance or indifference.

He finalized the registration with a seal of mana that embedded the guild's existence into White Tower records.

Edward retrieved the slate.

Outside the registrar chamber, Thaleia waited beneath a bare tree whose leaves had already begun to thin in preparation for winter. She wore dark traveling attire reinforced with subtle mana-thread lining. Her posture was composed, but her eyes revealed lingering tension.

"Is it done?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," Edward replied.

Valerius stood several paces behind her, arms folded across his chest. His armor was practical rather than decorative, reinforced leather layered over chain mesh. He gave Edward a firm nod.

"Three members only," Valerius said. "Other guilds are registering with seven or more."

"Seven invites conflict," Edward responded. "Three invites oversight."

Valerius accepted that answer without further question.

They began walking back toward the Vistro carriage.

Thaleia's voice lowered. "Without teleportation tokens, we will have no rapid extraction."

"Yes."

"No emergency transmission arrays."

"Yes."

"If we are cornered—"

"We will not be," Edward said calmly.

His tone was not dismissive. It was factual.

As they traveled back toward the manor, Edward's thoughts remained ordered.

Kingdom forces would clash at the outer regions.

Pride would drive early confrontations.

Treasures discovered near entry points would become bait.

Private guilds would be ignored initially, dismissed as opportunists.

That window was sufficient.

He had learned through repetition.

Outer treasures were distractions.

Mid-region relics carried value.

Inner sanctum artifacts altered futures.

The Heavenly Trident.

A weapon capable of evolving his Leviathan elemental summon.

In previous regressions, acquiring it had required calculated betrayal and near-fatal combat.

This time, he would optimize.

Back in his study chamber that evening, Edward arranged a simplified map of Atlantis reconstructed from past memory. No official record fully captured its shifting geography, but patterns existed.

Gate convergence zones.

High-density monster regions.

Collapsed ruin sectors.

He marked three locations with precise ink strokes.

"We will enter at the northeastern gate," he said quietly as Thaleia and Valerius stood across from him. "Kingdom forces will prioritize central convergence points."

Valerius frowned slightly. "Avoiding the center means fewer early relics."

"Correct," Edward said.

Thaleia studied the markings. "And the deeper sectors?"

"Unlocked after the first hour," Edward replied. "Most forces will exhaust resources by then."

Silence settled in the chamber.

Valerius exhaled slowly. "We are not competing."

Edward looked up at him.

"We will not compete," he said calmly.

Thaleia's gaze sharpened as she understood.

"We will harvest," she finished quietly.

Edward nodded once.

There was no ambition in his expression.

No hunger.

Only calculation.

Political exile had removed his banner.

It had removed his privileges.

It had removed kingdom protection.

But it had also removed expectations.

He was no longer bound to Luminaries' pride.

No longer required to uphold appearances.

No longer obligated to coordinate with flawed commanders.

Private guild.

Minimal visibility.

Maximum efficiency.

The night deepened around the manor.

Far to the north, beyond mountains and forest, beyond kingdoms sharpening their champions and igniting their pride, the sea churned with ancient restlessness.

The gates would open soon.

Edward extinguished the mana lamps one by one, each light fading softly until the study was swallowed in shadow. The last glow lingered for a brief moment before disappearing completely, leaving the chamber silent and still.

In the darkness, his eyes remained steady and unshaken.

Atlantis was not a battlefield to him.

It was a field of resources waiting to be claimed.

And he fully intended to harvest it.