He came stumbling into the village at dusk.
Dust-caked.
Wounded.
Eyes distant.
He did not remember his name.
He did not remember what he had done.
He did not remember if he deserved to be saved.
But he walked.
And the villagers, uncertain, watched him pass.
Because behind him…
Fire followed.
Not wild.
Not blazing.
Not bright.
But steady.
Seven flames hovered in silence, half a step behind him.
Each one flickered differently—
one in rhythm,
one dim as coal,
one without shape at all.
None touched him.
Yet none left.
He collapsed near the well.
A farmer stepped forward, hesitant.
"Are you… a master?"
The man shook his head.
"I don't know."
"I don't remember anything."
The farmer glanced at the flames.
"Then why do they follow you?"
He looked over his shoulder.
The flames drifted, calm and waiting.
"Maybe because I don't ask them to."
That night, he was given food.
He ate in silence.
The children of the village gathered nearby, curious.
One asked:
"Did you save people?"
"Were you a sect leader?"
"Did you have a name?"
He shook his head.
"I don't know."
Then added, softly:
"But I'm still here."
The next morning, the flames were still with him.
One floated gently above his shoulder.
Another nestled near his walking staff.
A third hovered above his shadow—not bound.
Just present.
Back in the Soul Flame Archive, a ripple occurred.
Scrolls rolled open. Seals flickered. A report appeared:
🔹 Subject: Unknown Walker
🔹 Soulwheel: Erased / null
🔹 Path: None
🔹 Flame Presence: Multiple sparks in passive orbit
🔹 Classification: "The Forgotten Who Is Still Followed"
A remark followed:
"Flame follows not memory, not power, not merit."
"It follows those who do not demand to be remembered."
And deep within the old vault beneath the Ash Throne, an ancient seal crumbled.
Not from force.
From forgiveness.