The sun dipped low beyond the Firebone Mountains, casting long shadows over the ravaged den. Lin Xun stood silent, clutching the medallion tightly in his hand as the crimson twilight washed over him. The warmth of his father's voice still echoed faintly in his heart—familiar, yet distant, like a memory clawing to return.
But there was no time to bask in the afterglow of victory.
He descended from the mountains with steady steps, carrying the box, the scroll, and a fresh sense of purpose. Each footfall felt heavier—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of destiny pressing down on his shoulders.
A storm was brewing.
When he returned to the edge of the village, cloaked in the dying light, he noticed it at once.
Smoke.
Not from a cooking fire.
From destruction.
He sprinted the rest of the way, heart pounding. The closer he got, the clearer it became. Houses burned. The scent of blood clung to the air like a curse. Cries and steel clashed in the distance.
Enemies had come.
The Crimson Dagger Bandits.
He burst through the main street to find villagers fighting desperately—poorly armed, overpowered, outmatched. And standing at the center, draped in a tattered red cloak and bearing a cruel smirk, was Wei Shen—the traitor who had once called himself Lin Xun's brother.
"Still alive?" Wei Shen sneered as he spotted Lin Xun. "I thought the mountains would've devoured you by now."
Lin Xun didn't speak.
Not yet.
Wei Shen stepped forward, tossing a bloodied dagger from hand to hand. "What's that in your hand, brother? A souvenir from the dead?"
Lin Xun's eyes narrowed.
He slowly unwrapped the jade box and raised the medallion for all to see.
The villagers gasped.
Wei Shen froze, smile faltering.
"That... that's impossible," he hissed.
"It was never yours to take," Lin Xun said, voice low but steady. "You betrayed our clan. You sold us to the Crimson Daggers. And now you're going to pay."
Wei Shen laughed bitterly. "You're still clinging to that ancient blood oath? The clan is dead, Lin Xun. Burned to ash. Your honor won't bring them back."
"No," Lin Xun replied. "But it'll ensure your ashes join them."
The air pulsed.
Without another word, Lin Xun unleashed a wave of flame, forcing the crowd to scatter. Bandits screamed and scrambled as a blazing trail carved through the battlefield, forcing a ring around Wei Shen and Lin Xun.
A duel.
The villagers watched in stunned silence.
Wei Shen drew two crimson daggers, cursed with dark Qi. "You've improved," he muttered. "But not enough."
He lunged—fast, deadly.
Lin Xun blocked with a wall of fire, but Wei Shen was no ordinary fighter. He slipped through gaps, cut through flames like water, and slashed at Lin Xun's side.
Blood sprayed.
Lin Xun grunted but didn't back down. His own flames surged in response, dancing like a wrathful spirit. He struck low, then high—forcing Wei Shen onto the defensive.
"I'll burn every lie you ever told," Lin Xun growled.
Their blades and fire clashed in bursts of light and heat, until the ground beneath them scorched black and the wind carried embers like falling stars.
Then, Lin Xun saw it.
An opening.
He roared and summoned the flame from deep within.
"Scorching Flame Palm!"
His strike hit center mass—Wei Shen's chest exploded in fire and force, sending him flying back through a ruined building wall.
Silence again.
Lin Xun staggered forward, blood dripping from his wound, as the villagers rushed out of hiding.
Wei Shen coughed from beneath the rubble, burnt and broken, but alive.
Lin Xun stood over him.
"I should end it," he said.
Wei Shen laughed weakly. "Then do it, brother."
But Lin Xun turned his back.
"You're not worth my flame."
He walked away as the villagers stared in awe. The medallion in his hand glowed faintly—recognition, perhaps, from the ancestors who
once ruled here.
But Lin Xun wasn't seeking recognition.
He was seeking answers.
And revenge.