The celestial furnace had vanished.
All that remained was a field of white ash stretching endlessly in every direction. Zhao Lianxu stood at its center, surrounded by the echoes of countless wars and sacrifices, of ambitions once ablaze now long extinguished. His heart, once divided between ice and flame, pulsed with a steady, unified rhythm. He had been reforged—not merely in body, but in soul, in truth.
But the world was not still.
As the ashes swirled at his feet, a single red petal fell from above.
He caught it gently.
Its texture was impossibly soft, yet within it surged power—ancient, mournful, carrying the weight of destinies never fulfilled. As he focused on it, the air around him began to ripple, space folding inwards until a gate revealed itself. Unlike the fierce trials before, this gate bore no grandeur or challenge. It was a simple wooden arch, entwined with ivy, floating in the white void like a forgotten memory.
A whisper rode the winds, older than stars:
"Beyond this gate lies no trial. Only truth."
Zhao stepped through.
Darkness welcomed him—not the suffocating chaos of corrupted realms, but a tranquil shadow, like the stillness of dusk after a storm. Shapes emerged slowly: stone steps, cracked marble pillars, faded murals. A long-forgotten palace buried in the folds of space, cloaked in serenity and remembrance. He walked with caution, his instincts alert. Yet there was no malice here—only memory, only silence.
He came upon a great hall.
There, seven thrones stood in a crescent arc, each sculpted from a different element: flame, water, wood, metal, earth, wind, and void. They were not empty.
Seven figures sat upon them.
Not alive, but not dead either—spiritual echoes, preserved by will and power, their presence still anchoring the room. Their forms shimmered like starlight, their eyes closed in meditation. And in the center of them, upon a pedestal, floated a crystal orb, pulsing faintly like a dormant heartbeat.
Zhao approached.
As he drew near, the orb shimmered and flickered—then a voice echoed in his mind, calm yet weighty.
"We are the Seven Thrones of Harmony—the founders of the ancient path. We once ruled not with power, but with balance. And we died for it."
Zhao bowed slightly, not out of submission, but respect. "Then this is no trial?"
"No. This is a memory you were never meant to see."
He stepped closer, gazing into the orb. Inside, he saw a city—magnificent and radiant—floating above an ocean of stars. Towers of jade and gold pierced the clouds, celestial beasts flew freely, and cultivators walked with the grace of gods. But then the sky darkened. War erupted. A shadow descended, consuming all light.
"We tried to stop the rise of the One Law—the doctrine of supremacy, where balance was weakness and dominance was truth. We failed. Our disciples were scattered. Our legacy buried. Until you."
Zhao remained silent.
"You, Zhao Lianxu, are the inheritor of our will—not by birthright, but by choice. You chose harmony when you could have chosen rage. You chose balance when the world pushed you to extremes."
The orb dimmed. And the seven figures stirred, their eyes opening slowly. The first—an elderly man of stone skin—spoke, his voice deep and solemn.
"But harmony is not peace, child. It is struggle. The world will hate you for your balance. Sects will fear you. Empires will hunt you. Even your loved ones may not understand."
The second figure—a woman with eyes like hurricanes—added, "But if you endure, your fire will not consume—it will illuminate. Your ice will not isolate—it will preserve. Your darkness will not corrupt—it will shield."
Zhao clenched his fists. "Then let the world hate. I will not bend."
The third—a childlike boy made of crystal—smiled. "Good. Then receive our final gift."
From the orb, seven streams of light burst forth, each entering Zhao's chest. His body convulsed, soul trembling. Visions flooded him—ancient techniques lost to time, philosophies etched in the bones of stars, truths too profound for words. He saw the birth of realms, the fall of immortals, the betrayal of gods. He felt every fracture in the multiverse like a crack within himself.
And one image lingered: a throne—not of gold, but of shadowed wood—atop a mountain of corpses, and upon it sat a woman in crimson robes.
Yu Qianhua.
Crowned. Alone. Watching the multiverse in silence.
"She bears your pain," said the seventh figure, a faceless wraith cloaked in void. "But her path diverged. Love did not leave her—it destroyed her."
Zhao fell to his knees, breath shaking.
"I must face her again."
"You will. But not yet. There are realms yet unaware of your awakening. There are enemies yet to rise. The balance must be restored—and you must choose what to preserve and what to break."
As the orb shattered into dust, the palace began to dissolve.
The seven thrones crumbled. One by one, the figures bowed their heads and faded, entrusting their legacy to a single soul.
And Zhao awoke.
He was lying in a grove of black blossoms under a twilight sky. The Flame Graveyard, now dormant, had given way to peace. The Frostpiercer stood beside him, its form subtly changed—the head of the spear was now tipped with a small golden flame, eternally alight. The wind whispered differently now, not as a test, but as an ally.
He rose.
Above him, constellations he had never seen began to glow. A message etched into the stars.
"Ascend the Tower of Echoes."
He understood.
The Flame Trial was not the final gate—it was only the crucible. The true path, the one buried by time and blood, now called to him. And it was far beyond this realm. He was not simply reborn; he was now the answer to a question asked millennia ago: can balance endure?
But as he prepared to depart, a ripple in space formed behind him.
He turned swiftly.
A girl emerged.
She wore no armor. Her robes were simple white, embroidered with starlight. Her hair was silver, her eyes the color of ancient glass—transparent, reflective. Yet they held lifetimes of stories.
He recognized her.
"Mu Shilan," he whispered. "The Seer of the Starwell Sect."
She bowed slightly. "Your awakening disturbed the heavens. I was sent to observe. But I came... because I dreamed of you."
Zhao's stance tensed.
"I'm no longer the man I was."
She smiled faintly. "No one ever is."
He studied her closely. There was no deceit in her aura, only sorrow. The kind that did not scream, but settled like dust over a grave.
"What did you see in your dream?"
She looked past him, to the void beyond the trees.
"You stood upon a throne of mirrors. And around you, the faces of every person you had ever saved… and every one you failed to. All watching. None speaking."
Zhao was quiet. Then: "What do you want?"
"I want to walk with you. For a time. Until your silence becomes unbearable."
He blinked. "You'll find me disappointing."
"And yet, here I am."
A long silence followed.
Then Zhao nodded once. "Then come."
As they stepped through the flame-scorched grove, the path ahead shimmered. The Trial Realms were behind him. Now began a journey through the fractured outer worlds—realms ruled not by elements, but by ideologies, tyrants, memories, and gods. Realms where power meant belief, and truth was a weapon.
He would not walk it alone.
And the multiverse, in all its infinite layers, would soon learn:
Zhao Lianxu had not returned as a broken prince or a vengeful heir.
He had returned as a whisper of balance, an echo of the seven thrones.
He had returned… as the Reforged Flame.