Pillar of Yita

Rolin coughed as he put down the doll in his hand, it was pitch black, with flame-like wings extended, covering its delicate body.

The doll girl was nearly perfect, the structure comprising her body showed no defect at all; her face of silver casting appeared smooth and flat; and the crystal at her core bore no impurity.

Its craftsmanship could be said to stand at the peak of this era, in the same level under the same craftsmanship conditions, no one could surpass it.

However, Rolin soon clenched his hand into a fist beside his lips, breaking out into a fit of violent coughing, nearly bending over, an unusual flush appearing on his pale face. He released his hand, palm stained crimson, but his eyes were almost hollow, indifferent and calm, as he casually put down his hand.

He stood up straight, quietly waiting for admiration.

Yet there was no expectation in his expression, rather a certain nonchalance.

But the competition field remained somewhat quiet.

It was only within Rolin’s empty gaze that a hint of confusion showed, as he slowly turned back along the direction of the audience’s gaze.

There, he met the somewhat stunned gaze of Count Westwood Sibika.

Sometimes, it’s truly hard for people to describe what they’ve actually seen—it’s quite a novel sensation, as if time were quietly slipping away like water.

And within the silence, a brand-new world gradually unfolded before people’s eyes—

It was a light pulse woven back and forth like a silver shuttle.

Two hands extended parallel to each other, one large, one small.

Light connected between the two hands, interlacing successively through the fingertips of the index, middle, and ring fingers, forming a shimmering, flowing web of light.

Standing opposite each other, one tall, one short, Fang Hong silently observed each movement of Miss Dragon Soul’s hands, his expression attentive and meticulous, while Tata looked upwards calm and serene.

She raised her hand, extending slender fingers.

A silver thread streamed out through her fingertips, like a gentle river of stars flowing through the boundless star sky.

And those stars, symbolizing the Holy Sanctuary of craftsmen.

The light pulse formed a connection between the two, composing this glorious starry tableau.

And each time it traversed, it passed through a silver wing. When countless threads connected, the wing collapsed into a blaze of silver fire.

That was merely a wing as thin as a cicada’s.

Without needing to speak, Fang Hong extended his right hand, precisely catching the light thread with his index finger. The light crossed a halo-shaped array on his hand, transmitting to his left hand. Then once again forming a light stream from his left fingertips.

The light stream once again traversed the wing, returning to Tata’s hand.

Like threading a needle, the two said nothing, yet maintained their tacit understanding.

But in others’ eyes, this scene was entirely different—

What people saw seemed much less like the creation of a doll.

That was more like a silent theatrical performance.

Countless silver threads extended from Fang Hong’s hands, yet the other end in the void remained unseen. But countless threads manipulated in his hands only connected each part of the doll within the array.

Each time the light traversed, it appeared to connect bodies with souls, granting life to the doll, slowly awakening it.

That was like a budding flower, unfurling.

It seemed to slowly grow a torso, left hand, right hand, beautiful eyes, and a head of silvery long hair. Fang Hong gently raised his right hand, and the doll girl stood up, at that moment silver wings layer upon layer converged into a flame-like long skirt.

And two pairs of thin wings folded behind her.

Then one after another golden flame array appeared in the void, unfolding beside the doll, imprinting mysterious magical lines on her limbs and chest. Those emerged like quenching gold edges, fading their lingering warmth.

Afterward, everything was successfully completed.

The little doll did not seem to be crafted, but rather like the magic of forging a Life Contract.

Fang Hong lowered his hand, she gently landed.

Like a father and daughter, but even performances must have a curtain call, the doll girl held her skirt of interlaced silver leaves and gave a light bow to everyone.

Tata also halted.

Staring at the doll girl taller by half a body, her emerald gaze seemed to reflect a long-gone vision. Those were truly from a long time ago, she remembered craftsmen she watched within the crystal.

So they created life.

They called the Dragon Soul life.

Only then did Fang Hong raise his head, the faint silver light in his eyes slowly dissipated, he looked calmly at those on the square.

The emotion within was somewhat indescribable for a moment.

It’s rare for anyone not to be charmed by such beauty. For those times, the work people engaged in could also be called a kind of art.

That was exactly what Alchemists pursued throughout their lives.

The beauty stemming from creation—

The square remained silent.

People didn’t dare believe they would witness such alchemy within their lifetime.

It seemed like a poem, a dreamscape, the skills they’d seen before paled by comparison. No, it should be said that existing fairy skills appeared like children’s doodles compared to it.

Pah, pah, pah—

The square suddenly echoed with abrupt applause.

Fang Hong looked unexpectedly in that direction, only to see his teacher—Mr. Ande—with a gratified smile, applauding him one clap at a time. It was as if he needed no agreement from others, his applause echoed clearly and strongly across the square.