The Hall of Knowledge did not merely house books; it housed a hunger. 

For seven days, I existed within the hallowed depths of the Hall of Knowledge. I spent this time trying to find the elusive truth to anchor my logic with ancient grimoire titled The Art of Blood Mana.

Many magical books and grimoires, once out of reach, my parents the ones directing my course of study. Now the laid open before me, and I had been taught by my mother I sorted them according to my needs. Not aimlessly taking it all. Each I took, I scavenged through, devouring their essence. The thrill of discovery growing more with each one. 

​The Hallmaster, that formidable guardian of this sanctum, proved to be far kinder than his intimidating presence suggested. He would occasionally walk around the hall guiding celestials who found it difficult to comprehend the books. But he never came to me. Perhaps it was because of my reluctance to ask, since it didn't prove difficult for me.

​I was constantly taken aback by the sheer diversity of the hall's inhabitants. It was a small world of Enora itself. I saw Sols, Vulcans and my fellow Lamians, turn pages with delicacy, all of us unified by the silent pursuit for enlightenment. There were those whose faces lingered, etched into my memory.

​Among them, I frequently spotted Ariadne. To my surprise and hidden relief, the glacier of the dining hall had retreated. Within these walls, she made no effort to disturb me or challenge my beliefs. She was surprisingly quiet, her aggressive frost aura nowhere to be felt. If anything, I was the one monitoring her.

She moved through the aisles of the hall calmly, her brow furrowed in a concentration so intense it seemed to physically weigh her down. I watched sometimes from the corner of my eye. She would struggle with a complex theorem, her fingers tightening on her pen until her knuckles turned white, but she never made a nuisance of herself. If she reached a point of absolute confusion, she simply closed the book and left the hall, only to come back another day. Ariadne was very down to earth, she would definitely meet someone for help. 

We were two different kinds in this room, both of us humbled by the sheer scale of what we didn't know.

​Thankfully, I was not entirely alone in my immersion. Proteus provided a comfort I hadn't realized I needed. His steady, silent presence was a balm. He would sit a few paces behind me, his little ears twitching at every turned page. Sometimes, when the silence grew too heavy, he would share storied of his former master, a lamian who had succumbed to the ravages of the mana-shift. Proteus spoke of him not with bitterness, but with sorrow. It was then, I reaffirmed I would not be another tragedy in the Drunt's chronicle.

​The grimoires themselves were masterpieces that offered a different pedagogy to learning magic. Unlike the complicated inscriptions on the citadel's outer walls that required a leap of faith to even decipher, the grimoires were designed to teach. They were generous. Each page offered a theory, followed by a well structured explanation that broke the mystery into digestible and logical fragments.

​As I read The Art of Blood Mana, I felt the what I would call a "pseudo-enlightenment" take hold. It was the intellectual click one needed to gain full insight. I spent the first three days mastering the basics of blood mana, the way it interacted with the physical body, and the complex relationship between the heart's rhythm and the mana-cycle.

​The book explained that blood mana was unique. I learned how a Lamian could command the elements in their blood to coagulate into a density that rivaled steel. But the most profound realization came on the fourth day. It was the understanding that blood contains life as an essence, but it is not life itself. This essence is what makes our magic so versatile. It gives our spells a form and a memory, but it is limited by the fact that it cannot be given a soul. It is a tool of the living, not a creator of life.

​By the seventh day, the fervor of my reading had finally taken its toll. The weight of all that knowledge bore heavily upon me. A physical pressure that made my head throb and my limbs feel like heavy metal. I had pushed my mind further than it had ever gone, and now, my body was demanding its tribute.

​Reluctantly, I gathered my notes, stacks of parchment covered in my own cramped, frantic handwriting, and tucked them away into my leather bag. The drunts of the hall moved swiftly as they began to return the borrowed books that still lay scattered across different tables.

​Only when I stepped out of the Hall of Knowledge and the heavy oak doors sighed shut behind me did my body finally yield. The exhaustion arrived creeping into my being. My vision blurred, and the grand corridors of the citadel seemed to tilt and sway.

​I held firm, leaning heavily on Proteus as we began the long walk back to my quarters. The Drunt was surprisingly strong for his size, his small frame acting an anchor against the rising tide of my fatigue. Even in my dazed state, my mind couldn't resist the allure of the citadel itself. As we passed, I saw ancient inscriptions etched into the stone walls. The ones that spoke of the first Monarch and the founding of Stygia. Deciphering them was a goal for another day. For now, my focus was rebuilding the very foundation of my magic, strengthened by the wealth of knowledge I had amassed in this first, grueling phase.

​Damon had previously informed me of a shorter route, a high balcony passage that skirted the outer rim of the citadel's central tower. As Proteus steered me onto the balcony, the evening air hit me as cold splash of water.

​It was dusk. The horizon away from the city gate was breathtaking. Below us, the dome-shaped buildings of the citadel were already beginning to shimmer, their light-artifacts shining adding to the beauty of the citadel.

​I stopped, leaning against the cold stone railing, my breath hitching in my chest. High above in the darkening sky, I saw the other youthful Celestials. They banked and dived atop their bounded mana-beasts. I watched a group of Sols racing on their fire-maned steeds, their laughter carried to my ears by a stray gust of wind. 

​The sight filled me with a complex blend of envy and determination. They had been taught to fly before they could walk, while I had been taught to hide before I could run. Bloodville was in lower plains with little reason for flying lessons.

​"Master Kalon," Proteus urged, his voice a soft tug on my sleeve. "Night approaches, and your mana pool is dangerously low. We must reach your quarters."

​I nodded, tearing my gaze away from the soaring youth. I let Proteus lead me back into the residential corridors. My mind was a whirlwind of the theories I had learned. The nature of blood, the essence of life, the limitations of the soul.

​When we finally reached the sanctuary of my room, I was beyond the point of hunger or hygiene. There was no desire for food. I didn't even have the strength for the cleansing relief of a batg. Instead, I sank into the warm, inviting embrace of the bed. 

​I slept a sleep of very deeply. There were no dreams of my parents, no visions of fire. There was only the rebuilding of a broken boy.

​When I finally woke up, I felt reborn. My sleep was ebbing away, and I sat up. The thread of fatigue had been unspooled from my muscles and woven into a new, stronger cord of vitality. I felt the mana in my room with a fresh clarity.

​To ensure I wasn't deprived of the rest I truly needed, I reached for the time tracking artifact on the bedside table. Only a single day had passed. It was more than enough to restore my strength and prepare me for the next phase.

​I took my time preparing, indulging in the quiet and solitary solace of cleaning up. I washed the ink from my fingers.

​It was time to move beyond the books. It was time to awaken the new abilities that lay dormant. I neededto go beyond pseudo-enlightenment. I walked to the entrance, where Proteus had already laid out everything. A simple woven mat was spread across the ground, surrounded by kindled, scented candles. Their light flickered in rhythm.

​"Master Kalon," Proteus said, his voice laced with a concern that he couldn't hide. He stood by the candles, his hands clasped tightly. "Your health... Perhaps it is still too early to step into the astral realm. The mind can be a treacherous place when it is newly filled with so much power."

​I understood the drunt. The memory of his former master's failure was haunting. He was afraid that I, too, would meet such an end. That my ambition would outpace my endurance, and that my failure would bring him a punishment he didn't deserve.

​I dismissed the thought with a sharp, internal flick. I was not that Lamian. I was the son of scholars who dared to find the truth. I would not meet such an end.

​I sat on the mat, closing my eyes in meditation. I was leaving the world of paper and ink behind. 

I was going to achieve enlightenment.