A week passed. Azrakar's routine was a masterpiece of deception. By day, he performed his duties in the Archives, occasionally "struggling" with a wooden sword in the courtyard to keep appearances. By night, he consumed the refined Star-Silt and pushed the Trinity Circuit to its limits.
But he had run into a problem. The Star-Silt provided the "fuel," but his meridians were reaching their physical limit. To progress to the next stage—the Integration of the First Ring—he needed a biological stabilizer. He needed Moon-Vine.
Moon-Vine only grew in places where Mana and Qi converged in perfect equilibrium. In the Iron Crown Kingdom, there was only one such place within walking distance: The Black Lake.
Under the guise of a "perimeter patrol," Azrakar left the Vileth estate and headed north.
As he crossed the boundary of the clan's lands, the terrain changed. The manicured fields and managed forests gave way to a primordial wilderness. This was the "Golden Era" in its rawest form. The trees were massive, their bark shimmering with silver lichen. Birds with wingspans of six feet soared overhead, their feathers humming with ambient Aura.
"Beautiful," Azrakar remarked, though there was no wonder in his voice, only a cold appreciation for the resource density.
He moved with caution. He knew that in this era, the "wild" was not just a place, but a predator. He felt the presence of Aura-Beasts in the underbrush—creatures that had evolved to use energy just as cultivators did.
A few miles in, the air grew heavy and damp. The sound of the forest muffled, replaced by a low, rhythmic thrumming.
The Black Lake appeared through the mist.
It wasn't black because of the water, but because of the sand. The entire shoreline was composed of obsidian-like grains that absorbed all light. The water itself was unnaturally still, reflecting the sky like a polished mirror of lead.
At the center of the lake sat a small, craggy island. And on that island stood a hut made of whitened bone and driftwood.
Azrakar stopped at the water's edge. He didn't see the Moon-Vine yet, but he felt it. It was nearby, hidden beneath the surface of the black sand. But more importantly, he felt a gaze.
From the doorway of the bone-hut, an old man emerged. He was dressed in rags that seemed to be woven from spider silk. His hair was a wild thicket of white, and his skin was the color of old parchment. He didn't look like a powerful cultivator; he looked like a corpse that had forgotten to lie down.
The man didn't speak. He simply picked up a long wooden pole and began to push a small raft toward the shore.
Azrakar waited. He didn't reach for his dagger. He didn't prime his Trinity Circuit. He simply stood with his hands behind his back, a ten-year-old child facing a ghost.
As the raft hit the shore, the old man looked up. His eyes were cataracts of milky white, but he stared directly at Azrakar's chest—not his face, but his heart.
"You have a very busy heart, little Vileth," the old man said. His voice sounded like grinding stones.
"And you have a very quiet soul, Elder," Azrakar replied.
The old man tilted his head. "Quiet? Or empty? There is a difference."
"To the world, they look the same," Azrakar said. "I am looking for Moon-Vine. I was told you have no use for company, but a great use for Star-Silt."
The old man let out a dry, wheezing cackle. "Star-Silt? In this age? Everyone throws it away. Only the mad and the ancient know its value. Why does a child of the Sword-Clan want the vine of the Moon?"
"Because the sword is too heavy for me," Azrakar lied smoothly. "I want to make a tea to help me sleep."
The old man's smile widened, revealing yellowed teeth. "A tea. Yes. A tea to sleep through a thousand years, perhaps? Come, little liar. Let us see if your pockets are as deep as your eyes."