Kai spent the next two days lurking behind the wooden fences of the district's only public artisan workshop
—a low-tier facility run by the Yunlan Trade Hall. It was said to be a place for apprentices and civic outreach.
They let commoners see the basics to stir desire in the poor, to fish for unexpected talent. It was far from
sacred, and none of the techniques displayed there were high-tier.
But to Kai, it was a goldmine.
He watched how low-level arrayists etched talisman frames. He memorized the gestures blacksmiths used
when layering spiritual resonance into the iron. When one master turned away, Kai stole a glimpse of an old
blueprint nailed to the wall.
He scratched diagrams into his shack's dirt floor with a nail. Guessed, failed, corrected. Starved and
persisted.
Then he returned to the fragment.
His tools: a rusted dagger, a half-shattered stylus, and his fingernails.
He held his breath and began to etch. Wrong. It snapped. He cursed, found another sharp stone, tried
again.
He failed thirty-nine times.
On the fortieth, something clicked. A line connected. A pulse shimmered.
[Spiritual Flow Detected. Progress: 45%]
He almost cried.