The interior of the hut was larger than it appeared from the outside—a simple spatial folding trick that would have required a High Mage in the future, but here was likely just a mundane enchantment.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars of preserved eyes, glowing moss, and jars of humming insects. In the center of the room was a small stone hearth where a fire burned with a green flame.
"Sit," the old man commanded, gesturing to a stool made of a giant tortoise shell. "I am Malakor. Though the world has likely forgotten that name."
"Names are just labels for things that eventually rot," Azrakar said, taking his seat. He pulled a small pouch of the refined violet Star-Silt from his cloak and placed it on the table.
Malakor's milky eyes drifted to the pouch. He reached out with a trembling hand, opened it, and sniffed. His expression changed instantly. The mocking smile vanished, replaced by a look of intense, scholarly focus.
"This... this is not 'raw' silt," Malakor whispered. "The impurities have been stripped. The stellar alignment is perfect. No Knight could do this. No Wizard could do this without tainting it with Mana."
He looked at Azrakar, his gaze piercing through the "Bronze" facade. "Who refined this?"
"I did," Azrakar said.
"Impossible. You are ten. Your Dantian is barely formed."
"The size of the furnace doesn't matter if you know how to control the flame," Azrakar countered. "I am not here for a lecture, Malakor. I am here for the Moon-Vine. Specifically, the roots that have soaked in the lake for at least a decade."
Malakor leaned back, his fingers drumming on the tortoise shell. "You are a strange creature, Azrakar Vileth. You speak like a man who has died and found the world wanting. You possess a technique that shouldn't exist. Tell me... what do you see when you look at the sky?"
Azrakar paused. He looked toward the small window. "I see a clock. And I see that the hands are moving toward midnight, even if the sun is currently at its zenith."
A heavy silence filled the hut. The green fire crackled.
"The Great Decay," Malakor breathed. "You know of it. You feel the friction of the Three Paths."
"I see the waste," Azrakar said. "The Knights burn Aura for pride. The Wizards hoard Mana for secrets. The Cultivators seek Qi for longevity. None of them see that they are drinking from a well that is not infinite."
Malakor stood up and walked to a dark corner of the hut. He returned carrying a wooden box wrapped in cold iron chains. He placed it on the table.
"I have lived here for two hundred years," the hermit said. "I was a Master of the Seventh Circle in the Southern Magocracy before I realized the same truth. I have been trying to fuse the energies. I have failed every time. My heart is scarred, my veins are brittle, and my Dantian is a ruin."
He opened the box. Inside, resting on a bed of damp moss, was a thick, glowing root that pulsed with a soft, silver light. It looked like a living nervous system.
"The Moon-Vine," Malakor said. "It is yours. But not for the Star-Silt."
Azrakar narrowed his eyes. "Then what is the price?"
"A promise," Malakor said, his voice turning deadly serious. "When you find the way—and I think you will—you will return here. You will show me that it was possible. You will show me that my two hundred years of exile were not in pursuit of a ghost."
Azrakar looked at the root, then at the broken old man. He felt a rare flicker of something resembling empathy—not for the man's suffering, but for his wasted potential.
"I accept," Azrakar said. He reached out and took the Moon-Vine. "But I warn you, Malakor. The truth I find may not be the one you want. The Three Paths are not meant to be fused; they are meant to be subjugated."
"Subjugated," Malakor whispered, the word tasting of heresy. "Yes... perhaps that is the piece I was missing."