Chapter 169: Blood Library (2)

After reading the book about the secrets of Innate Talents, his curiosity, however, was directed toward another, similar area.

On a nearby shelf, a heavier and well-preserved book bore the title.

“The 1000 Classified Physiques.” Kyrian pulled it out.

In this book, the explanation was more systematic. The book explained the hierarchy of physiques, a term that denoted an exceptional bodily constitution, sometimes hereditary, sometimes not, which granted innate advantages on the path of cultivation.

Physiques were divided into ranks.

Elemental Physiques. Where natural affinity was reinforced with a specific element, whether fire, earth, water, lightning, etc. These physiques were relatively common and difficult to perceive, as their advantages were not very strong.

They were generally common in smaller forces and sects.

Then came the Spiritual Physiques. Bodies attuned to specific types of spiritual energy. Moon, shadow, poison, etc… a more advanced form of energy. They were rarer and more powerful.

Terrestrial Physiques. Constitutions linked to certain phenomena or powerful beasts. Such as the Mountain Physique or the Venomous Dragon Physique. Extremely rare and valued even in the greatest sects.

And finally, the Celestial Physiques. They were the known pinnacle of special physiques. Bodies that seemed attuned to the highest laws of heaven and earth. The book listed only twenty historical names, each associated with legendary feats. They were described as geniuses chosen by the heavens, destined to shake the greater forces of the continent.

They were the rarest but also the easiest to identify when they appeared. At the birth of every celestial physique, a gigantic phenomenon would appear at the place of birth, spreading for several kilometers.

Kyrian read the description of some celestial physiques. One born with “Eyes that seemed to see Destiny.”

Another with “A Sword Heart.” The scale of power and the treatment they received from birth were astronomical.

The world was, indeed, profoundly unjust. These people were born at the top of the ladder, while others crawled through the mud for a glimpse of power.

But a question persisted. Where did he, an innate talent, fit into this? The book did not say. Were they different categories? Which was more powerful? The implication was that they were equivalent, but the nature of the power was distinct.

Kyrian closed “The 1000 Classified Physiques,” his mind now filled not only with facts but with new questions.

He was building his foundation of knowledge, piece by piece. He still had not touched the subjects that burned most fiercely in his mind. The mark, the natural formations. But now he was interested and lost in other knowledge.

Kyrian’s mind, now filled with hierarchies of physiques and questions, felt a new pull of curiosity. Beside the shelf of physiques, a smaller and darker section was marked as.

“Bloodlines: Blood Legacy.”

He pulled out a heavy book. The book divided bloodline into two broad categories. Beast Bloodlines and Human Bloodlines.

Beast Bloodlines arose from ancestors who were sacred beasts or powerful demons that assumed human form, or from humans who, through forbidden techniques or some accident, fused their blood with that of legendary creatures.

Awakening a beast bloodline granted beast-like characteristics. Superhuman strength, heightened senses, elemental resistance, even partial transformations. But it came with risks. Bestial fury, loss of rationality, and a constant struggle for the supremacy of human consciousness over ancestral instinct.

Human Bloodlines were more subtle, but no less powerful. They were the legacy of human ancestors who reached such a high pinnacle in cultivation that they imprinted their mark upon the bloodline of their descendants.

Awakening a human bloodline could grant ancestral memories, intuitive comprehension of certain laws of the world, or specific aptitudes for a cultivation path. It was a refined power, but equally demanding.

The text emphasized that awakening a bloodline of any kind was an extremely rare event. It required a brutal external stimulus, such as being on the brink of death, or a deep spiritual compatibility with the ancestor and an unshakable willpower to assimilate the power without being consumed by it. It was as difficult as being born with a special physique.

A memory then surfaced in Kyrian’s mind, clear as lightning. The Blood Spear of the Inheritance. That dense and ancient blood, pulsing with an old and ferocious will. It was the blood of a beast. A beast of unimaginably high cultivation. He had used it as a crude weapon, just as its former bearer had. A projectile of pure violence.

But what if…?

The idea was dangerous, almost insane. The book in his hand detailed the horrors of those who failed to absorb beast blood. Bodies deformed into aberrations, minds reduced to animal instincts, death by spiritual combustion, among others. Wild energy was uncontrollable by conventional methods.

“But I am not conventional.” Kyrian thought as he brought his hand to one of his eyes.

In his mind, the thought arose, his eyes purified the dirty Qi of spirit stones. Could they not absorb and purify that ancient blood as well?

The temptation was great. That blood was a treasure of dormant power, far beyond the spirit stones he consumed frequently. But the risk might be worth taking. He filed the thought away for a future moment when he was stronger, more prepared. The idea, however, had planted a seed in his mind.

Determined to understand more about the nature of blood itself, he spent hours scouring sections of advanced physiology, hematic alchemy, and others.

He found a dark book titled “The Forbidden Art: Fusion with Beasts.” The process described was horrific, involving rituals of torture and the will to subdue the beast’s spirit. The success rate was below one percent. Kyrian closed the book with disdain. That was not the path.

His eyes were the path. If it were possible, it would be through them. He stored that conclusion.

The hunger for knowledge, however, had no end. Leaving the questions of blood for later, he moved to a new section.

“Formations and Runes.”

It was here that he had his greatest revelation since entering the library.

Upon opening a heavy compendium on fundamental runes, his eyes landed on a page filled with interwoven symbols that made him stop for a second.

He knew those symbols. Not from memory, but from possession. They were the same ancient symbols, the same angular lines and fluid curves that filled the pages of the mysterious books he had found in the Country of Lines, in the ruins of that underground structure.

Books that had seemed useless for being written in a dead language.

Now, they were no longer dead.

A surge of interest rose in Kyrian, rare for him. He devoured the guidebook. He learned that it was not a common language but a language of pure runic intent.

Each rune was a concept, a verb. “Protect,” “Cut,” “Burn,” “Flow,” “Contain.”

Combining them into formation patterns was like writing a sentence of power that forced the world to obey.

Kyrian plunged in headfirst. He forgot hunger, fatigue, and the passage of time. The formations section was vast, and he traversed it like a deluge.

He learned about hexagonal defensive structures that dispersed energy, about spiral offensive patterns that concentrated force at a single point, and about complex circular seals that could imprison souls or drain Qi for centuries.

His mind, already accustomed to patterns through his eyes, absorbed the underlying logic with terrifying ease. In one day, he became extremely fluent in the “language” of ancient formations.

At the end of the section, a small and unassuming book, bound in fossilized tree bark, caught his attention.

“Natural Formations.”

Kyrian opened it calmly, his face composed. The text was sparse, almost evasive, as if the author feared writing too much. It confirmed what he already suspected. Natural formations were “wounds” in the fabric of the world, catastrophic imbalances of energy. The book said they were untreatable disasters to be avoided.

But then, a single final line, almost hidden, appeared with words that seemed to be fading.

“There are records that in the central region mention a force, whose name I do not know, that claims the ability to correct such anomalies.”

This echoed in Kyrian’s mind, linking directly to the mark on his hand and the pull he felt near natural formations.

Someone, somewhere in the central region of this colossal world, might know what such a mark was. Or, at the very least, they would know how to deal with the same phenomenon as him.

“Will I have to go to the Central Region to learn more about this?” he murmured to the silent shelves.

The answer was obvious, but the distance was abysmal. The Blood Court, a 4° level force, was a small fish in the far north. The Central Region was the ocean where true monsters swam. It was a goal for the future, when his strength would allow him not to be crushed simply by stepping on the periphery of that land.

In the following days, Kyrian continued his immersion. He read about spiritual metals, their properties, and where they were found.

He studied the fundamentals of professions, such as alchemy, with its crucibles and energetic fusions. Forging, where will and fire shaped metal. Artifact creation, a fusion of all the arts to create tools of power. Each piece of knowledge was archived, potentially useful, another instrument in his mental arsenal.

But behind everything, one truth remained clear. These professions, these arts, were tools. Powerful tools, yes, but tools to reach what truly mattered.

True strength. Strength that came from within, from cultivation, from mastery over oneself and over the laws of the world. Strength that, relying only on his eyes, he was destined to attain.

Kyrian closed the last book on advanced mineralogy. The light of the red crystals remained constant, but his body felt the fatigue of days of absolute mental immersion. He had transformed the intimidating vastness of the Blood Library into an organized mental map.

He stood up, his joints cracking softly. It was time to leave that world of ink and parchment.

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