That evening unfolded into a grand celebration in Misty Terrace Village, illuminated by the promise of an extraordinary feast.
The exceptional meat, generously distributed among the villagers, carried within it a miraculous boon.
Each delectable bite offered an astounding gift: a bounty of two additional centuries of life for those who partook, while those well-versed in the arts of cultivation could anticipate an instantaneous leap forward in their practice.
This unparalleled offering bore the mark of Lucas Frost's specialized culinary craft, a secret technique honed to perfection, a gift imparted from his own expertise.
The meat, sourced from a creature entrenched in the Foundation Establishment realm, bore such unfathomable potential that any ordinary mortal consuming it would meet a grisly end—blood and flesh scattered as an ominous warning.
Yet, despite the initial disbelief and apprehension among some, the overwhelming majority embraced the boon with tears of elation amidst their feast, basking in the dawn of unforeseen prosperity.
"Your generosity knows no bounds, Lucas. With this gift, our rent and food in this village are secured for decades to come," our protagonist remarked amidst the jubilant atmosphere, acknowledging the profound impact of this benevolence.
"It's a small token for their unwavering service," Lucas responded, his gaze reflecting a sense of pride at the impact of his gesture.
"Though I must admit, your guise as a humble beggar had a certain charm. Now, it's a bit... ostentatious," our protagonist mused, casting a glance at the strikingly lifelike giant horse head parked by Lucas's abode.
Its eerily realistic appearance occasionally startled children, its eyes glinting open to dissuade any venturesome touches.
"Ah... those were aimless days. Now, I'm invested in witnessing your grand ambitions before even considering of returning to that state once more," Lucas grinned, the curve of his lips faltering slightly in surprise as our op mc continued.
"The path ahead seems clear-cut. It won't even take me a trillion years, that's for certain," our protagonist stated casually, outlining his ambitious timeline for gathering a hundred wives—a seemingly simple endeavor against a timeframe defying the immensity of eternity.
The proclamation lingered, hinting at a remarkable journey with a timeline far shorter than the vast expanse of time itself.
"Less than a trillion years," murmured Lucas Frost, his eyes dancing with a crazed hint of excitement, a fervor that had been absent for countless eons.
Moments later, laughter bubbled forth as he joyously downed cup after cup of wine, the elixir of jubilation fueling his ancient soul.
* * *
"Are we entirely certain about this, Master?" Rowan's voice wavered with uncertainty as he peered at the substantial chunk of meat adorning his plate.
He harbored a reluctance to depend on another's generosity, fearing it might turn sour instead of being a boon.
"Yes, I've scrutinized its effects thoroughly. It's perfectly safe," reassured the fallen immortal, Liara Bloodflame, her demeanor unwavering and assured.
"Thank you, Master," replied Rowan, poised to indulge voraciously until his gaze drifted toward the horizon.
His sister, accompanied by companions, meandered among mortals and those devoid of cultivation talent, patiently waiting their turn.
His yearning was palpable, an indelible blend of love and desire for his sister.
"You must steer clear of that girl, Rowan. She's a harbinger of trouble. Once you attain mastery in your cultivation, a multitude of goddesses will vie for your attention," cautioned Liara Bloodflame.
In her immortal perspective, Willow might possess beauty, but the cosmos boasted women far surpassing her allure.
"You don't understand, Master. She's all I desire," protested Rowan, his frustration and sense of impotence laid bare. His unrequited first love wielded an unwavering hold over him.
"You cannot pursue her. Not now, not ever. Especially now that that man has set his sights on her. He could obliterate me without lifting a finger, even if I regained my former might," Liara Bloodflame warned, urgently imploring her disciple to comprehend the perilous stakes involved.
"I refuse to accept that. I can't," Rowan ground his teeth, a blazing determination reflected in his hunger-filled eyes.
Though his voice remained hushed, the unwavering resolve in his quiet tone only fueled the intensity of his will.
"Then you embark on a futile endeavor, Rowan," sighed Liara Bloodflame. Recognizing the senselessness of further opposition, she chose silence, aware that her words wouldn't sway him.
"I don't care." Rowan ate in anger. He could feel the qi quickly rising inside his body. Once his meal was done, he broke through indeed. But alas, no joy was seen in his handsome young face.
Resigned to the situation in front of her unlucky disicple, Liara could do naught but acknowledge the reality as it stood, offering her meager blessing in acknowledgment.
Invariably, every pursuit against that man culminated in the stark choices of either succumbing to death or enduring the bitter taste of defeat, leaving her in a perpetual quandary about which outcome held the faintest semblance of solace.
Memories haunted her, moments when she fervently wished she had met the same fate as her friends in the bygone days, believing that such an end would have offered respite from the relentless anguish she now suffer.
The passage of time hadn't dulled the ache of unfulfilled retribution; it only deepened the anguish, highlighting the cruel irony of being unable to grasp vengeance even as years slipped away.
Even now, with her greatest enemy tantalizingly close, the possibility of reaching and ending him remained infuriatingly impossible.
Once more, the fallen immortal sighed, lamenting how fate had twisted her entire life into a tragic comedy.
* * *
A day passed, and emissaries representing various rival villages in the vicinity gathered, driven by curiosity about recent occurrences.
Each delegation arrived bearing humble items and gifts, their intentions veiled behind a subtle desire to seek an audience with an aged, tall figure known as Lucas Frost.
However, Lucas was not one to grant easy access to his presence. Aware of Lucas's reclusiveness, the leaders of these neighboring villages had foreseen this challenge.
They strategically issued decrees within their own territories, emphasizing a commitment to sidestep potential conflicts with Misty Terrace Village.
Instead, they opted for a proactive approach, intending to forge amicable relationships and establish ties of camaraderie with Misty Terrace and its inhabitants.
Understanding the importance of diplomacy and seeking to avoid any further tension, the emissaries and village leaders orchestrated their visits meticulously.
Their aim was not merely to gather information about recent events but also to extend olive branches, fostering goodwill and mutual understanding.
The prospect of building bridges and cultivating friendships with Misty Terrace Village loomed large in their diplomatic endeavors, overshadowing any inclination toward discord or rivalry.
This much they understood, realizing that failure to do so would expose them to the overwhelming might of an adversary they had no hope of ever defeating.