In the West, fire is often a promise of rebirth—the Phoenix, rising from ashes, radiant, eternal.
But in the East, fire is neither mercy nor gift. It burns to remind, to purify, to awaken fear and respect.
In those times, there appeared Bi Fang, the Fire Bird. One-legged, feathers glowing like molten copper, it came not as punishment but as purpose. Wherever it landed, flames followed. Forests became crimson, smoke rose, and the wind carried the scent of transformation.
A young farmer, chasing rumors of fortune, saw the bird perched upon a charred pine. Its eye glowed like liquid flame. Thinking it a blessing, he followed. With a single cry—a note sharp as breaking glass—the forest ignited. He ran through smoke and shadow, but even as ash fell around him, green shoots began to pierce the ground.
Elders said: Bi Fang does not destroy out of anger. It reminds the world that fire and growth are inseparable, that endings and beginnings are one breath apart.
And so, on windy mountains, some claim to see a flash of copper wings in the smoke. They know it is Bi Fang, the Fire Bird—herald of endings, keeper of beginnings, forever walking the line between life and loss.