The night bled red.
Not from the moon, nor from any man-made fire — but from the heat that rolled off Joren's body like waves from a dying sun. The air itself seemed to bend around him, trembling under the weight of something that should not exist in the mortal realm.
He stood at the mouth of the crater he had carved days ago. The land was still molten in patches, streaks of glowing stone snaking across the ground like veins of blood. The few surviving trees nearby had turned to charcoal silhouettes, brittle enough to crumble if the wind dared to touch them.
And in that dead world, Joren exhaled.
The fire within him pulsed once — violently — then subsided, shrinking back into a quiet, simmering glow beneath his skin. He knelt, pressing a hand to his chest. The heat there was alive. Too alive.
It didn't just burn — it watched.
For days now, Joren had ignored the signs. The flickers of thought that weren't his own. The phantom heartbeats that echoed a second after his. The feeling that every time he drew on his power, something else was drawing deeper, taking more.
But tonight, even he couldn't pretend anymore.
The ground around him was littered with bones — beasts, disciples, even the stray wanderers who'd stumbled too close to the growing wasteland. They were fuel. His cultivation rose with each soul he devoured, the Crimson Scripture feeding him like a mother feeding her child — tender, unrelenting, possessive.
He had reached what the sect called the Flame Vein Core, a level that should've taken decades. Yet he'd done it in weeks.
And still, the whispers came.
"More. The flame starves. You starve."
He clenched his jaw and forced the voice away. "No," he muttered, voice cracking with both exhaustion and defiance. "I control you."
But when he said it aloud, he heard laughter — faint, dry, like kindling catching fire.
The flames around him swelled in response.
By dawn, Joren had moved deeper into the mountains — far beyond where the sect's patrols ventured. He had found an ancient ruin buried beneath a collapsed cliffside, the stone blackened and etched with runes he didn't understand.
Here, the fire whispered louder.
When he reached the center of the ruins, the carvings flared red — not from his will, but from recognition. The Crimson Scripture resonated, responding to something buried beneath the stone.
The whispers became words.
"You carry my seed.""My child burns bright."
Joren staggered back, blood trickling from his nose. "Who—?"
The air shimmered.
A silhouette formed before him — vast, inhuman, cloaked in fire. Its shape flickered between a man and something far older, serpentine and divine. The scent of scorched air thickened, and Joren fell to one knee, unable to breathe.
"You took my scripture," the being said, voice echoing like molten bells. "You spoke my words, but not my name. Do you know what you have done?"
Joren forced his head up. "I… I sought power. To surpass my limits."
The being leaned forward, its burning face hollow.
"You surpassed your limits, yes. But not as a man. You have become a vessel."
Joren's chest ignited — literally. The skin split open, revealing molten veins coiling around his ribs like serpents. He screamed, clutching at the wound, but there was no blood — only fire, twisting, feeding.
"A flame without a master burns everything — even itself."
The voice faded, but the power did not.
Joren collapsed, trembling, his skin still glowing in patches. When he looked down, he saw his reflection in the molten pool beside him — and for the first time, he didn't recognize it.
His eyes were no longer red. They had turned black, ringed with embers. The mark of the Crimson Sovereign's possession.
He punched the ground, roaring in fury, sending a wave of fire that shattered the ruin walls. But when the dust settled, the voice laughed again — softer this time, but inside his mind.
"Run, little flame. Burn what you wish. You'll find there's no end to hunger."
And beneath that mocking tone, a truth slithered into his thoughts: the more he fought it, the deeper it rooted itself.
For the first time since his exile, Joren felt fear.
Far away, under the quiet canopy of the sect's forested valley, flames flickered briefly in the night — faint and distant, like a heartbeat pulsing from miles away.
Kaelen Stormveil opened his eyes from meditation. His serpent spirit stirred restlessly within his soul sea, agitated by something unseen.
He frowned, glancing toward the southern peaks — the direction Joren had vanished to.
The faint echo of fire brushed against his senses, and something in him went still.
"Joren…" he murmured under his breath. "What have you done?"
The forest wind carried the heat away, leaving only silence — but somewhere deep within that silence, something ancient had awakened.
And the sect had no idea that its brightest flame was about to set the entire mountain ablaze.