The Archives were cold, but to Azrakar, the chill was a welcome relief. After the training session with Jax and the other scouts, his body felt like a furnace. The bruises on his chest—while mostly superficial—were radiating a peculiar heat. It wasn't the heat of injury, but the heat of "unprocessed" energy.
He locked the heavy oak doors, the click of the iron bolt echoing through the silent, towering shelves of parchment. He didn't light a lamp. He didn't need one. His internal vision was far clearer than any flickering flame.
Azrakar sat on the cold stone floor, crossing his legs in the lotus position. He closed his eyes and sank his consciousness deep into his chest, where the Primal Spark pulsed with a steady, white light.
Now, let us see what the Vileth "Iron" rank has to offer, he thought.
Inside his veins, the Aura he had "absorbed" from Jax's strikes was swirling like angry, crimson hornets. It was raw, jagged, and chaotic. To a normal cultivator, this "foreign" energy would be a toxin, causing internal bleeding or meridian blockage. But Azrakar's Trinity Circuit was designed for this exact purpose.
"Analyze," he whispered.
He directed a stream of blue Mana from his heart to "envelope" the crimson Aura. The Mana acted as a coolant, smoothing out the jagged edges of the scout's energy. Simultaneously, he released a golden thread of Qi from his Dantian to "digest" it.
The process was slow. He could feel his muscles twitching as the energy was broken down and woven into his own fibers. This was the true secret of the Trinity Origin Scripture: it didn't just generate power; it could cannibalize the power of others.
In the silence of the night, Azrakar's body began to emit a low, rhythmic thrumming sound. If anyone had been standing outside the door, they would have thought a massive hive of bees was nesting within the Archive.
Jax's Aura was 70% physical friction and 30% spiritual intent, Azrakar noted, his mind working with the precision of an accountant. The physical part is excellent for bone density. The intent... it is garbage. Clumsy, arrogant, and shallow.
He "burned" the intent away, letting it evaporate through his pores in the form of a faint, acrid-smelling mist. What remained was the pure, kinetic essence of the Golden Era's atmosphere. As this essence fused with his bone marrow, he felt a sensation of immense weight. He was becoming "heavier" in a spiritual sense, even if his physical weight remained that of a ten-year-old.
By the time the third hour of the night had passed, the crimson hornets were gone. In their place, Azrakar's own Aura-veins had thickened significantly. They were no longer like fragile glass tubes; they were beginning to resemble tempered copper.
He opened his eyes. The white rings around his pupils flashed briefly before settling back into a deep, fathomless black.
"Twenty percent of the way to the Trinity Veins," he murmured. "At this rate, I will need more than just training accidents. I need a real battlefield."
He stood up, his movements fluid and silent. There was no stiffness, no pain. The bruises on his chest had vanished completely, replaced by skin that felt as tough as cured leather.
He walked to the window and looked out at the distant peaks of the Iron Crown Mountains. Somewhere beyond those peaks, the "Border-Baron Conflict" was brewing. It was a petty war over land and water rights, but to Azrakar, it was a banquet.
I must ensure I am part of the expeditionary force, he decided. The 'pitiable' act has worked on Harl, but my father, Varick, is a different matter. He doesn't look for secrets; he only looks for utility. I must show him that even a 'Bronze-rank' can be a useful tool on a battlefield.