The wilderness beyond the sect's barrier was silent.
No wind stirred the blackened soil. No beast dared to roam near the charred trees that marked Joren's path. He'd walked for two days without food, without rest, the fire within his veins burning hotter than his body could endure.
When he finally stopped, it was in a ravine where the rocks were glassed smooth by ancient lightning. Steam rose from the cracks beneath his feet, and the smell of sulfur hung in the air.
"This will do," he murmured.
The serpent within him coiled lazily, its golden eyes flickering in the shadows of his mind. You run from your elders like a frightened child, it hissed.
"I'm not running." Joren knelt, laying his hands flat on the scorched ground. "I'm shedding the leash."
He inhaled deeply, feeling the pulse of spiritual veins far beneath the surface — faint, corrupted remnants of fire essence that no sane cultivator dared to touch. They were poisonous, unstable, and deadly to anyone who drew from them recklessly.
But Joren wasn't interested in safe power.
He reached inward, dragging at that forbidden current. It bit into his meridians like acid. His breath caught as his serpent roared inside his consciousness, thrashing against the intrusion.
You'll destroy us!
"Then burn with me," he spat.
The world seemed to ignite.
By dusk, the ravine was alive with fire.
Not the bright, clean flame of cultivation halls, but a molten storm that twisted and screamed. The rocks cracked, the air shimmered, and Joren stood at its heart, drenched in sweat and blood. His skin blistered, his robes clung to him in tatters, but his eyes were alive — feverish, unblinking, radiant with power that wasn't meant to be held.
When he finally collapsed, it wasn't from weakness. It was from revelation.
Because in the heart of the fire, he'd seen something.
A presence. A shape.
It wasn't his serpent.
It was a human figure, wreathed in flame, its outline blurred by heat. The moment their gazes met, Joren's mind split open — memories and whispers not his own poured in. A voice like crackling embers whispered:
The sect fears what it cannot bind. You already bear the mark of the Ancient Ember. Feed it. Let the world remember the first fire.
Then the vision was gone, leaving only ash and silence.
When Joren awoke, it was night. His body felt hollow, his Qi twisted and wild. The serpent within him was silent — no longer golden, no longer proud. It coiled around his core, pale and half-transparent, as though part of it had been consumed.
He tried to summon his flame. It came, but darker. Thicker.
It didn't burn red or gold — it burned crimson-black, a color that shouldn't exist in living flame.
He stared at it for a long moment, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths. "So this… is what they feared."
The flame pulsed in response, hungry.
He didn't stay still.
Over the next few days, Joren wandered deeper into the wilderness — further from the sect's reach, closer to the regions whispered about by older disciples. The Fell Scar, they called it — a wound in the earth where demonic Qi bled through from another realm.
No orthodox cultivator survived long there. But Joren wasn't orthodox anymore.
He trained by moonlight, pushing his new flame until his body screamed. He fought beasts drawn by its heat — massive, half-melted things with eyes like coals. Each one he killed only made the next stronger.
But something strange began happening.
The beasts he burned didn't just die. Their Qi lingered — not demonic, not human, something else entirely — and when he breathed it in, his own aura twisted further. His serpent regained some of its sheen, but the glow was now streaked with black veins of fire.
He began to hear whispers again.
Feed it.Prove them wrong.The sect forges obedience, not greatness.
He didn't know if they were the voice of the Ancient Ember or just echoes of his own pride, but he didn't care anymore.
On the seventh night, Joren reached the heart of the Fell Scar.
The land was hollowed out, like something massive had clawed at it from beneath. Rivers of half-frozen magma ran through broken trenches. Above, the sky glowed faintly red, as if reflecting the fires below.
He stood there, alone, and let the heat wash over him.
"Is this where they draw their lines?" he whispered. "Where the sect says power ends?"
No one answered. Only the wind, hot and sharp as knives.
Joren drew his blade and pressed it to his palm. Blood hissed as it met the air, droplets turning into tiny sparks. He let them fall, forming a circle on the ground.
"I don't care who watches," he said. "I'll take it all."
He knelt in the circle, channeled his Qi, and opened himself to the scar.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then the world cracked open.
Flames erupted from the fissures, swallowing the sky. His serpent screamed again — a sound both alive and dying — as demonic fire merged with the orthodox patterns of his cultivation. His meridians twisted, expanded, burned. His mind blurred into pain so deep it became silence.
And in that silence, the figure returned.
This time, it reached out a hand.
You've burned away your name, the voice said. Now burn the rest.
When Joren opened his eyes, his serpent was gone. In its place hovered a crimson silhouette — part beast, part man, its body flickering like an eternal flame. It looked down at him as though weighing his worth.
"Who are you?" Joren asked, voice barely a whisper.
I am what your sect buried.
The figure raised its hand, pressing a finger to his chest.
Pain exploded through him — but beneath it, a rush of exhilaration unlike anything he'd ever felt. The power poured in, unfiltered, molten and pure.
Rise, bearer of the Ember Vein.
By the time dawn came, Joren stood at the edge of the scar, cloak tattered, eyes burning faintly crimson. His serpent mark had vanished, replaced by the sigil of a flame coiled around his heart — the mark of something ancient and dangerous.
The air around him shimmered from residual heat, yet his body felt calm. Balanced.
But deep within, he could feel the change. His Qi no longer obeyed the strict pathways of the sect's teachings. It flowed like liquid fire, bending to his will alone.
He looked back toward the distant peaks of the sect, the faint spires glowing in the horizon light.
"They'll never accept this," he murmured. "They'll call it corruption. Blasphemy."
Then, quietly — almost smiling — he added, "Let them."
He turned and walked deeper into the wastes, crimson fire flickering at his heels, leaving only ash and heat in his wake.
The first sparks of rebellion had been lit.
And somewhere far away, as if sensing the shift, Kaelen paused in his meditation — eyes opening, a faint tremor in his Soul Palace.
The flame had changed.