The Media district greeted Song with its tranquil courtyards, their cobblestone paths lined with blooming jasmine that filled the air with a sweet, fleeting scent. The morning sun cast long shadows, painting the wooden doors of single-room homes with golden hues. Song's hands, still tender from the fire, throbbed faintly, but the Overlord tattoo's healing had worked wonders. His heart, though, was heavy with doubt. The Fiery Immortal Technique demanded more than he could give—endurance, strength, and a fire essence he couldn't afford. The library's assistant had guided him, but had it led him to power or ruin?
He pushed the thought aside, focusing on his goal: a room of his own. The district was a stark contrast to the sixth barrack's chaos, its silence a balm to his weary soul. He checked doors, finding one without a nameplate. Inside, the room was small but clean, with a wooden bed, a table, and a single window overlooking a garden. It was more than he'd ever had. Setting his sack down, he felt a flicker of pride—this was his first step toward freedom.
But the Fiery Immortal Technique loomed. Returning to his glade, he rebuilt the fire, its flames crackling under the midday sun. The thorny bushes and stone wall shielded him from prying eyes, the distant hum of the city a faint reminder of his servitude. Sitting on the fallen log, he unfurled the scroll again, his Perception diving into its secrets. The method's first revolution required forging his body into an elemental vessel, but without fire essence, pain was his only path.
Song's jaw clenched. He'd endured worse in the Twilight Overlord sect—whips, chains, despair. Pain was just another obstacle. He practiced the breathing technique, each inhale steadying his resolve. Visualizing the barrier around his hands, he prepared to plunge them into the fire again. This time, he'd hold longer, grasp the fire's essence deeper.
"Ha!" he shouted, thrusting his hands into the flames.
The pain was immediate, a white-hot surge that clawed at his mind. He gritted his teeth, focusing on the fire's rhythm—its flicker, its hunger, its life. His hands burned, skin blistering, but he held on, counting seconds. Ten, twenty, thirty—his vision blurred, but he refused to yield. At forty seconds, he collapsed, gasping, hands charred black.
The Overlord tattoo pulsed, soothing the agony. Song sat in lotus pose, replaying the fire's dance in his mind, seeking its laws. The glade's silence enveloped him, the fire's crackle his only guide. Hours passed, the sun dipping low, painting the sky crimson. His hands healed slowly, the tattoo's energy knitting flesh, but the pain lingered in his memory, a teacher as cruel as any sect elder.
He turned to Sword Flash, its scroll promising a technique to match his fire affinity. Without a sword, he practiced the forms in the air, mimicking the five rapid strikes of level one. His movements were clumsy, his body unaccustomed to swordplay, but his high Perception caught every flaw—his stance too wide, his arms too tense. He adjusted, repeating the forms until sweat beaded on his brow, the glade's cool air a relief against his exertion.
The scroll's fire law method was simpler than the Fiery Immortal Technique's but still demanded focus. Song sat by the fire, observing its dance, letting its warmth seep into his soul. He visualized flames coursing through his veins, igniting his strikes. The glade became his dojo, the fire his master. Each practice session sharpened his senses, his Perception catching the fire's subtle shifts—how it flared with a gust, dimmed with damp wood.
Night fell, stars piercing the sky like distant promises. Song's hands, nearly healed, ached faintly as he prepared another fire. He needed to master the fire law's basics before the Fiery Immortal Technique's first revolution. The scroll warned of its demands—endurance and strength he barely possessed. Failure could cripple him, but success could forge him into something greater.
As he breathed, readying for another plunge into the flames, a voice broke the silence. "Persistent, aren't you?"
Song's head snapped up. A figure stood at the glade's edge, cloaked in shadow, eyes glinting like the fire. Not a servant—too poised, too dangerous.
"Who are you?" Song demanded, hand inching toward his sack, where a dagger lay hidden.
The figure stepped closer, revealing a scarred face and a smirk. "Someone who knows a slave with ambition when he sees one. Keep burning yourself, kid, and you'll attract more than fire."
Song's heart raced. Friend or foe, this stranger knew too much, and the glade was no longer safe.