The three massive armadas pressed forward, crossing the invisible gravitational boundary that marked the edge of Andromeda's territory.

Just as the ships nearly crossed the threshold into Andromeda's domain, a voice boomed out across the void.

"Don't you all know the basic courtesy of asking for permission before stepping into someone else's home?"

The sheer tranquility of the voice caused the commanders across all three fleets to flinch. In the command decks of the flagships, automated warning systems flared to life, but there was no energy signature to target.

"Halt the fleet," Elder Malakor commanded, his features tightening as he narrowed his eyes at the viewport.

In their respective flagships, Elder Voss and Elder Tyberius issued the exact same command. The massive engines of the three armadas powered down, leaving their ships drifting in the silent void, hovering just past Andromeda's border.

Ahead of them, a single figure materialized from the darkness.

He wore deep crimson robes that fluttered gently, entirely unaffected by the harsh vacuum of space. He stood completely alone, with no warships at his back. Yet, as he hovered there, his presence commanded the attention of three Major Sect armadas.

Malakor, Voss, and Tyberius watched through their feeds. They expected the boy to flare his authority, to display the Prime Arcane Concept of Causality, or to unleash the pressure of his consciousness in an attempt to deter them. Instead, Adrian slowly raised his hand.

With a casual, almost dismissive flick of his wrist, the ambient mana and stray stardust in the void gathered. Through a flawless, instantaneous manipulation of the Arcane Concepts of Wood, Earth, and Creation, the chaotic debris condensed and smoothed itself out. Within a fraction of a second, a perfectly carved wooden table materialized in the middle of the empty void, surrounded by four simple, elegant wooden chairs.

Adrian descended slowly, taking a seat at the head of the table. He crossed one leg over the other, rested his elbows on the wooden surface, and steepled his fingers while looking out toward the three fleets.

He merely sat there and waited.

The sheer audacity of the gesture hung in the void like a physical weight. Within their flagships, the three Astral Stage elders exchanged a glance through their shared holographic conference link. To create matter from raw mana was a trivial parlor trick for Rule Stage cultivators, but to do so in front of three invading armadas, to set up a meeting table in the intergalactic void as if inviting them to tea, was a psychological play that bordered on absolute madness.

"Arrogant brat," Voss grunted, though his scarred face twisted into a fierce, battle-hungry grin. "He actually thinks he can host us."

"Let us see what kind of game he believes he is playing," Tyberius whispered.

A moment later, space folded simultaneously in three different locations around the wooden table.

Malakor appeared in a flash of blinding starlight, his aristocratic posture radiating supreme diplomatic control and elegant superiority. Voss materialized with the heavy, crushing sound of localized gravity buckling under his massive cerulean-armored frame, his mere arrival causing faint cracks to spread through nearby space before sealing themselves shut. Tyberius simply seeped out of the ambient shadows, his gaunt figure wreathed in suffocating darkness.

The three ancient titans, beings who had ruled galaxies, dictated the fate of civilizations, and commanded billions, stepped forward and took their seats at the small wooden table in the middle of the void.

The moment they sat, the silent war began.

Without a single word spoken, Malakor, Tyberius, and Voss unleashed the invisible pressure of their consciousness. As Astral Stage beings, their willforce had been honed through millions of years of existence. They simply allowed the sheer, terrifying weight of their minds to press down upon Adrian.

It was a subtle, diplomatic execution, the kind of humiliation powerful envoys used when they wanted to crush a junior's arrogance without damaging the body they intended to recruit. They meant to remind him that despite his anomaly status, despite the Chime of Consciousness, despite the rumors of his impossible battle, he was merely a newly ascended junior sitting among gods.

The combined mental pressure of three Astral Stage elders converged upon Adrian like a collapsing star.

Adrian did not even blink.

Thanks to the Chime of Consciousness he had awakened upon ascension, and the unfathomable ocean of willforce he had accumulated from trillions of loyal connections across his home galaxy, the pressure felt like nothing more than a gentle breeze washing over a mountain.

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Adrian slowly unclasped his hands and gestured toward the empty space in the center of the table. "I would offer you tea," he said, his voice perfectly even, "but I assume you did not travel across galaxies for refreshments. So, speak."

Malakor's eyes narrowed imperceptibly. The fact that the boy had completely ignored their combined willforce pressure sent a faint ripple of alarm through his mind. He masked it instantly behind a smooth smile.

"I see the rumors of your extraordinary ascension were not exaggerated," Malakor began, his voice dripping with aristocratic grace. "I am Elder Malakor of the Starlight Sanctum. You are an anomaly, boy, a genius born in a stagnant pond. The Andromeda Galaxy is too small for you. I offer you the cosmos. Join the Starlight Sanctum, and you will be granted resources that minor sects cannot even dream of. Divine artifacts, untouched star systems, and the direct guidance of our oldest ancestors on mastery of consciousness. We will elevate you to the true apex."

"Resources are the bait of the weak," Voss's voice boomed like a war drum, shaking the very wood of the table they sat at. He leaned his massive frame forward, "Boy, you wielded mortal foundations to humiliate those who relied on authority. You are a god of war. The Cerulean Spear Sect offers you something better than trinkets and polished cages. We offer you infinite battlefields. Join us, and you will never be chained by politics. You will forge your path in blood and triumph alongside warriors who actually understand your worth!"

"Fools, both of you," Elder Tyberius said at last. "Wealth and war mean nothing if you do not live to enjoy them. You are a newly ascended anomaly with a Prime Arcane Concept. The entire universe will soon hunt you. The Veiled Horizon Sect offers you the one thing you actually need: absolute security. Join us, and not only will you be our Sect Successor, but we will place our eternal protection over your Crimson Vital Sect."

With their grand pitches delivered, the three elders sat back. They watched Adrian, fully expecting the boy to weigh impossible wealth, glorious combat, or the desperate need for survival. They expected him to negotiate, to ask for assurances, to display ambition or fear, or at the very least to show the cautious hesitation of someone who had finally realized how vast the universe truly was.

Each of their offers was something countless minor sect leaders would have killed their own disciples to receive. Each path represented a future beyond anything Andromeda could provide.

Adrian sat in silence for a long moment. He looked at Malakor, then at Voss, and finally at Tyberius.

Then he let out a soft, echoing chuckle.

"You three seem to be suffering from a fundamental misunderstanding," Adrian said, leaning back in his wooden chair and resting his hands casually on his lap. "You came here, parked your little fleets at my border, and sat at my table, completely convinced that you are the ones conducting an interview."

Malakor's smile faltered. "Excuse me?"

Adrian's eyes locked onto the Starlight Sanctum elder. "You offer me resources, Malakor. You offer me wealth and the guidance of your ancestors. But wealth from a Major Sect comes with leashes. You do not want to elevate me. You want to buy a weapon and keep it locked in your armory so no one else can use it. I did not break the chains of this galaxy just to willingly put on your golden collar."

Malakor's face tightened, a cold glint entering his eyes.

Adrian did not wait for his response. He turned his gaze to Voss. "And you. Infinite battlefields? You think I fight for the sheer amusement of slaughter? A battlefield where I bleed for your sect's glory is not freedom, Voss. It is merely being combat slave. I fight my own wars, for my own people. I do not need your battlefields to prove my strength."

Voss's battle-hungry grin vanished, replaced by a dangerous, heavy scowl. His massive hands gripped the edge of the table, the wood groaning under his strength.

Finally, Adrian looked at Tyberius, his expression turning utterly flat. "And then there is you. Protection. Absolute security for my sect." Adrian let out a quiet breath, his gaze turning cold. "Tell me, Tyberius, protection from whom? The only immediate threats to my sect right now are the three fleets idling at my border."

Adrian leaned forward, closing the distance slightly, his voice dropping into a chilling calm. "And honestly, looking at the three of you sitting here, trying to crush my mind with parlor tricks… I do not find you particularly threatening."

The void around the table seemed to freeze.

The disrespect in Adrian's words struck the three ancient beings like a physical blow. For millions of years, they had been envoys of Major Sects, titans who dictated the fate of entire galactic regions. Minor sect leaders knelt before them, empires dissolved at their command, and newly ascended juniors begged for favorable terms. Yet here, a kid who had crossed into the Astral Stage mere days ago was looking them in the eye and casually dismantling their pride as if he were reviewing poor trade proposals.

"You speak very boldly for someone who has barely stepped out of his cradle," Malakor said, his voice dropping its warmth entirely, replaced by the freezing, oppressive weight of an Astral Stage sovereign. "Do you truly understand who you are speaking to, kid? We offered you a choice out of courtesy. Do not force us to remind you of the reality of this universe."

"The reality of the universe," Adrian repeated softly, "Yes. The strong dictate terms to the weak. That is the only law you understand."

Tyberius's shadows flared violently, "If you understand that law, then you should understand that refusing us leaves you with nothing but death. Your anomaly status will not save you from three Major Sect armadas."

"That is exactly my point," Adrian replied, his eyes sweeping over them. "You came here to recruit me, but I am not here to be recruited."

Adrian tapped his finger against the wooden table. The sharp clack echoed unnaturally loud in the vacuum of space.

"I called you down to this table for an interview," Adrian stated, "But you are not interviewing me. I am interviewing you."

Voss's aura erupted. "Arrogant brat," he roared, his fury shaking the space around them. "I will tear your limbs off and drag you to the Vanguard Galaxy myself!"

Malakor and Tyberius did not stop him, nor did they join him in his fury.

Malakor merely adjusted his robes, leaning back into his wooden chair with a faint, chilling smile. His eyes gleamed with cold calculation.

"Let the brute swing first," Malakor thought. "The boy is arrogant because he has never faced the true wrath of an Astral stage being. Let Voss humble him. When his pride is fractured, and he is backed into a corner, I will step in and stay Voss's hand. He will learn the hard way that the Starlight Sanctum's protection is the only thing keeping him alive."

Across the table, Tyberius too had no intention of intervening.

They both sat in silence, fully expecting Voss to teach the insolent junior a brutal, unforgettable lesson.