The training continued for hours. As the scouts grew tired and their blindfolds were removed, the session shifted to "Impact Tolerance." This was a brutal Vileth tradition where the higher-ranked soldiers would strike the lower-ranked ones with Aura-infused palms to "harden" their meridians.
"Stand straight," the lead scout Jax commanded. "This will sting, whelp. Try not to piss yourself."
Jax pulled back his hand. A dull, crimson glow emanated from his palm—the hallmark of Iron-rank Aura. He struck Azrakar squarely in the chest.
THUD.
To the onlookers, Azrakar flew backward five feet, sliding through the dirt and gasping for air. It looked like a devastating blow for a ten-year-old.
But inside Azrakar's body, a different story was unfolding.
The moment Jax's palm made contact, Azrakar had activated the Trinity Circuit in a localized "Sponge" formation. The "Primal Spark" at his core didn't resist the Aura; it invited it in. He used his Mana to coat the inner lining of his ribs, preventing the bone from snapping. He used his Qi to "wrap" Jax's kinetic energy and pull it deep into his veins.
He wasn't being hurt. He was being fed.
The raw, aggressive Aura of the scout was being broken down by the Trinity Circuit and converted into "Nutrient-Energy" for his own cells. Each strike from Jax was like a hammer hitting a piece of hot steel—it was forging Azrakar, making his body denser, tougher, and more resilient.
More, Azrakar thought, even as he coughed up a bit of "theatrical" saliva. Give me more of your mediocre power. It's the perfect fuel for my foundation.
"He's tougher than he looks," Jax remarked, wiping sweat from his brow. "Most Bronze-ranks would have passed out by the third hit. This kid just keeps getting back up."
"He's stubborn," Harl observed, his arms crossed. "Stubbornness is the only thing the Vileth bloodline has left these days."
Azrakar stood up again, his legs shaking—mostly by design. His chest was bruised purple, a surface-level injury that he allowed to happen to keep up appearances.
"Again," Azrakar whispered, looking at Jax with a look of "desperate" determination.
Jax laughed. "Alright, kid. Let's see how many more you can take before you break."
Over the next thirty strikes, Azrakar's internal landscape underwent a subtle, profound change. The "Dross" that he hadn't been able to extract during his solitary meditation was being shaken loose by the scout's physical blows. The Aura friction acted like a sandpaper on his meridians, smoothing out the rough edges of his Trinity Circuit.
By the time the moon was high in the sky, Jax was exhausted, his Aura reserves depleted. Azrakar, meanwhile, was internally vibrating with a refined, potent energy. He felt as though his muscles were made of braided silk and steel.
"Enough," Harl called out. "Jax, go rest. Azrakar, go back to the Archives. Clean yourself up. You look like a corpse."
"Yes... Captain," Azrakar panted, hunching his shoulders to hide the fact that his posture had actually improved.
As he walked back toward the dark silhouette of the Archives, his mind was already calculating the gains.
Thirty-two strikes of Iron-rank Aura. Equivalent to three nights of Star-Silt refinement. My physical density has increased by 4%. My Trinity Circuit is now 15% more efficient at handling external friction.
He reached the heavy doors of the Archive and slipped inside, the shadows swallowing him whole. The moment the door clicked shut, the "stuttering" child vanished. He stood tall, his breathing instantly becoming deep and silent.
He looked at his bruised chest. He placed a hand over the purple skin and pulsed a tiny amount of Mana. The bruise began to fade at a visible rate as the stagnant blood was reabsorbed and purified.
I must be careful with Harl, he reminded himself. He is beginning to associate my 'stubbornness' with potential. Potential brings scrutiny. Scrutiny brings the Elders. I need a way to look like I'm trying, while failing just enough to stay in the shadows.
He sat at his desk and pulled out a map of the Iron Crown Kingdom. His eyes drifted toward the "Southern Magocracy" border.
The Golden Era is a time of heroes and legends, he thought, his finger tracing the mountain ranges. But legends are loud. Legends are targets. I will be the silence that follows the storm.
He picked up a pen and began to write a list of materials he would need for the Second Level: The Trinity Veins. To reach it, he needed something more than just Star-Silt and Moon-Vine. He needed a "Catalyst of Conflict"—something that could only be found in a place where blood was actively being spilled.
"The War of the Border-Barons is scheduled to begin in three months," he murmured, his memory of history serving him as a prophet's vision. "A minor conflict. Perfect for a Bronze-rank guard to get 'lost' in the chaos."
He closed his eyes, the Primal Spark glowing steadily in the dark. The slow burn was continuing, and the fire was getting hotter.