100% DROP RATE : Why is My Inventory Always so Full? - Chapter 267

Chapter 267: Chapter 267 – Relics
For a moment, nothing happened.

Then the chamber responded.

Light rippled across the exposed floor. Lines emerged where crystal had once been piled, revealing a vast magic circle etched directly into the floor.

But… it was not a single circle.

It was a system.

The circles unfolded in concentric arrays, stacked upon one another like strata of time itself. Some were simple enough for even less smart people to recognize.

“Preservation,” one whispered.

“Stasis reinforcement,” another added.

“Entropy suppression…”

But those were only the outermost layers.

Beneath them pulsed geometries that bent logic, symbols that refused to be fully perceived unless stared at indirectly.

Arctyx’s voice was tight.

“This isn’t a simple vault spell,” he said slowly. “It’s an engine.”

Realization spread.

The Spirit Crystals hadn’t been the treasure.

They had been the fuel.

Billions upon billions of condensed essence… fed the array continuously for over ten thousand years.

To preserve an era.

Decay had been denied here. Time had been held at bay. Everything placed within this chamber had been kept at the exact moment it was sealed.

Someone exhaled shakily.

“This was never meant to be looted,” the Starforge prodigy muttered. “It was meant to survive.”

And only now with the fuel removed had the chamber finally allowed itself to be seen.

They looked down.

And the weight of history struck them all at once.

The floor was no longer bare stone.

It was a landscape of relics.

Not scattered chaotically but arranged.

Closest to the outer ring were artifacts.

Ancient weapons rested in shallow cradles of force.

There were blades whose edges shimmered without moving, staves wrapped in dormant constellations, and armor segments that radiated presence even while inert.

Discs hovered above engraved plinths. Legacy records, memory constructs etched with histories that predated modern nations. One Lunareth disciple nearly wept upon recognizing a sigil from a lost calendar cycle.

“Those are doctrinal discs,” she whispered. “Original laws. Unaltered.”

Others paled.

Some artifacts were sealed behind secondary fields.

Dangerous ones. Relics that bent causality. Items marked with warning runes rather than names.

No one dared touch those.

Deeper in the chamber, the tone changed.

These were not artifacts.

They were devices.

They are monuments of function rather than form. They are vast mechanisms fused seamlessly into the floor and walls, too large and too integrated to ever be removed.

Starforge engineers froze where they stood.

“…These are war-platforms.”

One structure dominated the central axis of the chamber.

A vast circular array of silver-black stone, its surface engraved with lunar geometry and solar harmonics. Even dormant, it bent light subtly around itself.

Lucien felt his breath catch.

He stared at the runes beneath the structure.

His memories from the Mural World stirred.

“…The Eclipse Array,” he said quietly.

Lucien remembered.

In the Mural World, an eclipse erased an entire front. Millions of monsters.

He stared at the array.

‘So this is how it was done. There’s actually a device that can control heavenly bodies and use it to kill?’

He shivered.

It aligned the sun and moon through forced astral synchronization, collapsing shadow and light into a single annihilating phase. It was an art developed by the Eternal of Stillness.

And it was bound to this place.

Nearby, other devices revealed themselves as the light stabilized.

Each was formidable in its own right.

Lucien’s gaze locked onto one immediately.

A Chronal Anchor.

Chains of frozen time looped endlessly around its core. Its function was terrifyingly clear. It could pin an entire battlefield into a fixed moment, severing causality itself. No reinforcement could arrive. No retreat could occur. The fight would not end until time itself was paid back.

Beside it stood the Soul Resonance Loom. It’s a lattice of crystal threads humming softly. It could amplify, suppress, or rewrite racial traits. Beastman berserk states could be forced into permanence. Bloodlines could be muted. Armies could be rewritten mid-conflict.

Further back lay a collapsed Dimensional Gate, its frame cracked but unmistakably intact. Whatever destination it once connected to had not been erased… only sealed. And if such a gate had been abandoned rather than destroyed…

Then wherever it led was not a place meant to be remembered.

Each device was not just treasure. It was a solution to disasters so catastrophic that history itself had chosen to forget them.

Greed stirred. And then died.

Across the chamber, storage rings glowed weakly.

Every single one was full.

Some practitioners hesitated… then grimaced. They clenched their teeth as they began releasing Spirit Crystals back onto the floor. They fell like luminous snow, clattering softly as value was traded for opportunity.

Quality over quantity.

Others couldn’t do it.

They stood frozen, staring.

Because even emptied rings would not be enough.

Most of these treasures were not objects meant to be hoarded. They were burdens meant to be understood.

Instinctively, everyone avoided stepping closer to the inner layers of the magic circle. The sigils there were denser, older, and layered in ways no one present could fully read.

The Celestial Race proxies stepped forward.

For the first time since the battle, their expressions hardened.

“Those devices,” one said calmly, “will not be claimed.”

No one protested.

“They are bound to this place for a reason. Removing them would destabilize more than you comprehend.”

His gaze shifted to the outer perimeter where relics, discs, and weapons lay dormant.

“These may be taken. Catalogued. Distributed under witness.”

A pause.

“The rest remains sealed.”

Relief and disappointment mingled in equal measure.

But no outrage followed.

Because deep down—

They all knew it was right.

And so it began.

People moved toward the outer layers cautiously now.

One practitioner reached for a relic—

Ching!

His hand rebounded as if struck by invisible steel.

“What—?”

“These artifacts—!”

“They’re rejecting us!”

The realization spread like wildfire.

These were not spoils. They were judges.

They were not meant to be taken. They were meant to choose.

Lucien understood at once.

These artifacts weren’t merely enchanted objects.

They possessed Soul Cores. Each one carried will, memory, and the potential to grow alongside its wielder.

They weren’t tools to be mastered. They were partners to be acknowledged.

That was why they chose. And why rejection stung more than failure.

Lucien felt no pull toward them.

He already had Morphis, bearing the Soul Core of an ancient dragon.

It was not yet fully awakened.

But Lucien was patient.

Some things were not meant to be rushed.

Time, he knew, would awaken it when both wielder and soul were ready.

One by one, the artifacts responded.

Light flared.

A crystal fan drifted free from its pedestal and hovered before Arctyx. Its surface shimmered with runes of airflow and probability. It’s an artifact designed not for attack, but for battlefield control. With a single sweep, it could redirect spell trajectories, fracture formations, and manipulate momentum itself.

Arctyx froze.

Then the fan settled into his grasp.

Elsewhere, the ground trembled as a massive forging hammer tore itself free from its resting place and drifted toward Lilith. Runes ignited along its haft. They were runes of compression, density, and star-metal shaping. A hammer that could forge weapons meant to wound beings like the Red Dragon.

Lilith’s breath caught.

The hammer lowered itself into her hands.

Acceptance.

Around them, gasps erupted as others were chosen. Blades, armors, discs etched with lost techniques, relics bound to singular purposes, and many more.

Those who were chosen stood stunned.

Those who weren’t—

Felt it.

The rejection.

Their hands brushed cold metal that would not respond. Artifacts dimmed in their presence. Some stared in disbelief. Others clenched their fists, faces flushing with anger and shame.

And then—

Someone stepped forward.

Too far.

Into the inner layer of the magic circle.

There was no warning, not even a buildup.

The magic circles reacted instantly.

Light snapped inward.

The man convulsed as lightning-like energy surged through his body. His scream never fully formed. His form unraveled, disintegrating into ash before it hit the ground.

Gone.

Silence crashed down. No one moved.

They understood now.

This place did not punish greed. It erased it.

They swallowed. Hands withdrew. Eyes lowered.

They would take only what was offered.

And nothing more.

…

The artifacts continued to choose.

Light flared, dimmed, then settled.

Voices rose and fell as relics bound themselves to new hands. Rejection humbled some and elevation stunned others. The chamber remained alive with awe but Lucien felt it fade into the background.

Because something else had caught his eye.

Far beyond the outer rings, past the artifacts, past the sealed devices, past even the inner layers of the magic circle… there was a place the light seemed to avoid.

Lucien’s gaze narrowed.

Eirene noticed at the same moment.

She stepped beside him. Her expression tightened as she followed his line of sight.

At the farthest edge of the chamber, half-hidden by residual energy haze, stood a small altar.

It was not grand. It was not imposing.

And yet, every instinct Lucien possessed told him it mattered more than everything else in this place.

The altar was simple stone, unadorned.

At its center stood a frame.

Inside it—

Was a portrait.