The Sect Scriptorium was not majestic, but it held the most dangerous form of power: organised knowledge. Arin moved through the damp, cool night, the silence broken only by the chirp of crickets and the distant, rhythmic footsteps of the sect's midnight patrols.
He had spent his day mapping the routes from the sound filtering down into his cellar. He knew the Outer Court patrol passed the Scriptorium every thirty minutes, their steps sluggish and predictable. He needed a window of opportunity measured in minutes, not hours.
He slipped out of the cellar and across the deserted courtyard, clinging to the shadow lines. The subtle resilience of his Blood-Engraved Stage felt like a second skin an invisible sheath of preparedness. He moved without excess energy, his footsteps falling silently on the rough paving stones a ghost too quiet for the sect's perimeter arrays to register.
The Scriptorium building was solid stone, but like many ancient structures in the sect, its maintenance was often delegated to the low-caste disciples and largely ignored. Arin found the weak point on the northern wall: a narrow, grimy ventilation shaft tucked behind a stack of unused lumber. It was designed to pull cool air into the deeper archives, and the grate was secured only by two rusted screws.
Working with the quiet, focused strength of his enhanced body, Arin used the tip of his stolen pry bar to gently work the screws loose. The metal groaned, but the sound was low, swallowed by the late hour. He pulled the grate away, revealing a dark, dust-choked tunnel.
He squeezed through the narrow opening, the coarse stone scraping against his skin, his breath held tight. He slid out into a dimly lit, narrow hallway deep within the building. The air here was heavy with the scent of aged paper and fine dust, and the silence was broken only by the nervous thrum of his own heart.
He moved into the main reading room. Towering shelves filled with thousands of scrolls and bound books formed dark canyons, casting long, wavering shadows in the weak moonlight filtering through the high windows.
He was less than a minute into his search when he heard the rhythmic breathing.
A disciple. Not a patrol, but someone sleeping within the Scriptorium.
Arin froze, his blood instantly cold. He pressed himself against the spine of the nearest shelf, relying entirely on the amplified senses of his Blood-Engraved body. He could hear the low, cyclical pattern of Qi Circulation slow, deep breaths indicating the disciple was cultivating, not just resting.
The disciple was located several stacks over, near a small, designated resting area for scholars.
This was the height of peril. If a true disciple, capable of focusing their spiritual sense, even momentarily swept his area, Arin would be discovered and executed on the spot. He had to be quieter than silence itself.
He moved with painstaking slowness, using the Blood-Engraved Mark to regulate every molecule of his momentum. He didn't just avoid the slightest shift in the floorboards he coaxed silence from the wood itself. He was a perfect machine of stealth.
He was looking for the lowest shelf the discarded, commonplace techniques too uninteresting to be locked behind the stronger formations. He found them tucked away in a dusty corner labelled "Basic Mortal Circulation."
His fingers found the spine of a thin, parchment-bound booklet: The Common Man's Guide to Qi Foundation. It was exactly what he needed a tedious, low-energy method focused solely on conditioning the flesh and stabilising the internal core, the forgotten foundation of true power.
He slid the manual out. In the momentary gap on the shelf, he noticed a sheaf of loose papers tucked behind the volume a mundane clerical document: the Outer Court duty roster and time-of-day schedules for the next month. Information is power, Arin thought, driven by calculating opportunism, and snatched it, tucking both securely inside the rough fabric of his outer robe.
The theft was complete.
As he began his silent retreat toward the ventilation shaft, the crescent Mark on his neck gave a single, warm pulse. It was not the violent, agonising pulse of advancement, but the profound satisfaction of a mortal choice well-made. Arin had defied the order of the sect and risked his life not for power, but for the fundamental knowledge required to sustain the goddess's bond. The Mark accepted this theft of knowledge as the required sacrifice, preparing his core for the next divine infusion, whenever the appropriate trial arose.
Arin slipped back through the shaft, sealing the grate tight, leaving no trace but the faint, familiar scent of divine essence that only another god or a keen zealot would ever recognise. He returned to the cold, damp silence of his cellar, clutching his stolen manuals like a lifeline.
He pulled out the thin manual, ignoring the damp chill. He had his path. He had his sustenance. Now, the true, grinding work of building a foundation strong enough to house a goddess could begin. He would cultivate his mortal strength in the shadows, waiting for the next moment of defiance that would propel him into the terrifying power of the divine.
The language is now much more consistent and powerful, reinforcing the internal logic of Arin's actions and the unique requirements of the Blood-Engraved Stage.