9 and a Half Years Later — Lóng Family Stronghold
Location: Southern Edge of the Molten Divide (熔缝界), Ignisyr Continent (焰熠洲)
The land where the Lóng Clan's stronghold stood was a realm of wrath and survival.
An empire of fire and ruin, where the very breath of the earth could scorch flesh and bone.
The Molten Divide—a titanic, jagged scar across the southern face of Ignisyr—was no place for the weak. Rivers of living magma carved paths like fiery serpents through broken stone. Geysers of burning air shot skyward without warning, searing anything that dared to trespass.
The ground itself seemed alive, trembling, growling, cracking underfoot with every pulse of the inner world's fury.
From the heavens above, ash fell endlessly—a snow of sorrow and destruction—turning the horizon a permanent shade of blood-red and smoke-gray, even at midday. The sun's light was choked, filtered through a sky painted in fire and mourning.
And amidst this wasteland, carved into obsidian ridges and standing proud as a living testament to endurance, rose the Lóng Stronghold.
A fortress not just built to withstand the Molten Divide—
—but to defy it.
The Stronghold's Defenses
Ashguard Walls: Towering barriers of blackened basalt, each block etched with deep crimson fire runes that pulsed like beating hearts. These sacred glyphs wove a shield against both physical assault and elemental fury, resisting even the fiercest magma storms.
Lava Traps: Hidden magma veins, laid carefully beneath the killing fields outside the walls, ready to erupt at the clan's command and turn the earth into a hellscape for any foolish attacker.
Watchtowers: High, spear-tipped structures crowned with flame-lamps, their eternal light fueled by spiritual firestones. From their heights, heat-sensor arrays and spiritual pulse-weavers scoured the horizon, alert for any sign of beast or invader.
The Lóng Family had not merely survived here.
They had thrived.
Inside the Crimson Tempest Courtyard Arena
The Crimson Tempest Courtyard—the Lóng Clan's heart of blood and honor—shuddered under the roars of training Beastpulse cultivators.
Here, the young blood of the clan fought and grew, testing themselves against each other and against the fiery pulse of the land itself.
The arena was vast: a bowl of scorched stone and ash-veined floors, surrounded by tiered platforms where the elders watched like eagles in the storm.
The clash of fists, the surge of elemental skills, and the roars of summoned beasts filled the air with the symphony of future warriors.
Many of the youths here had already risen to impressive heights: some flirting with the peak of Level 2, others touching the sacred fire of Level 3—a rare achievement for their age.
Then—
It happened.
The sound.
The feeling.
The... shift.
A sudden ripple through the courtyard—not from any attack, not from any elder's discipline.
A heatwave.
Not summoned by hands, but by presence alone.
Every disciple stopped mid-motion.
Every Beastpulse form stilled.
Even the air itself seemed to hush, as if the world were holding its breath.
All eyes turned.
And from the grand archway entrance, under the gaze of the ancient statues of the founding ancestors, one figure entered the arena.
The Youth Who Stirred the Flames – Lóng Yán (龙焱)
He walked forward—slowly, steadily—as if each step was a declaration.
As if the very stone beneath his feet recognized its heir and warmed to greet him.
He was no longer the small, sickly boy from ten years ago.
No longer the child who had once collapsed under the weight of the heavens.
He was taller now—shoulders broad with the promise of strength.
His every movement was refined, honed by years of silent struggle, silent war against weakness.
His eyes: molten cores of gold and scarlet, flickering like stars seen through a furnace.
His hair: black as volcanic glass, streaked through with veins of living flame that fluttered even without wind.
His skin: a soft pale bronze, as if kissed endlessly by the sun's fiercest fires, etched faintly with luminous qi-markings that pulsed in rhythm with his breath.
His body: lean and powerful—no wasted flesh, no hesitation in muscle or spirit.
He wore robes of dusk-flame and crimson dragon-thread, and around his chest and arms coiled a faint shimmer of dragon-shaped qi armor, almost invisible but undeniably there.
Wherever he passed, the ground warmed, the very air thickened, heavy as if it bore witness to an approaching storm that remembered it was once thunder.
And still—he said nothing.
He didn't need to.
Silence was his blade.
Presence was his roar.
The young disciples who once laughed at him—who whispered about the failure of the "Youngest Master"—now instinctively stepped aside, some too stunned to even blink.
High above, on the elder's platform, the seasoned cultivators felt his entrance as a living pulse against their spiritual senses.
They, too, fell silent.
One disciple, voice trembling on the edge of awe, whispered:
"Is that... Lóng Yán?"
And the wildfire of whispers spread—soft, sharp, unstoppable.
Like sparks catching in dry grass, the name rippled outward through the Crimson Tempest Courtyard, across the stunned faces of the gathered disciples, through the galleries where the elders sat cloaked in their silence.
It leapt from mouth to mouth—part reverence, part disbelief, part fear.
"The youngest son of the Patriarch…"
"The boy who returned from Kindleheart Shrine with nothing but empty hands…"
"I heard he lost his Star Vein Nexus. I heard he never even bonded to a Beastpulse."
"How is he standing there like... like that?"
The murmuring grew, some sharp with contempt, others hushed with something closer to awe.
And standing at the center of it all, Lóng Yán heard every word.
He did not flinch.
He did not bow.
He simply walked, step by measured step, across the cracked red stones of the courtyard, like a flame refusing to be snuffed out.
Whispered Words in the Crimson Tempest Courtyard
In the shadow of the great coliseum walls, two disciples huddled, voices low but urgent, as they watched the figure of Lóng Yán stride through the arena.
A young disciple—new to the stronghold, his robes still too crisp, his spirit still too green—leaned toward his senior, eyes wide, breath catching in his throat.
New Disciple (wide-eyed, whispering):
"H-Hey… is that really the Youngest Master of the Lóng Family? The one they said was born with blazing talent… but... but never awakened a Beastpulse?"
The older disciple—gruff, broad-shouldered, his face hardened by years of discipline—snorted quietly, glancing around before he spoke. His voice was rough, almost resentful, yet laced with something deeper: the haunted memory of the past.
Older Disciple (gruff, cautious):
"Be silent if you value your future here. Even walls have ears, and words... words carry weight in this house."
He shifted his gaze back to Lóng Yán, and for a heartbeat, his eyes softened, as if remembering something too painful to say aloud.
Older Disciple (lowering voice):
"None of us truly know what happened that day. Almost ten years ago… the signs were undeniable. The skies over the Kindleheart Shrine turned to fire. The elders fainted just from the energy. The Patriarch himself declared a prophecy fulfilled.
And then—"
The older disciple's voice faltered, the memory tightening his throat.
Older Disciple:
"And then he collapsed. Right there, before all of us. No beast. No Star Vein light. Nothing but... silence."
The new disciple stared at Lóng Yán, struggling to reconcile the broken legend he heard with the living flame standing before him now.
New Disciple (disbelieving):
"But… look at him. I can barely breathe. His aura… it's like standing in front of a burning mountain!"
The older disciple gave a heavy, hollow laugh.
Older Disciple (softly):
"That's not strength you're feeling. Not true strength. It's control. Depth. Flame Insight.
His understanding of fire… it's deeper than most elders. But without a Beastpulse, without a bonded Star Vein Nexus—his cultivation remains locked.
He's been stuck at Level 1, 9-stars for five years while others soared past him.
Even you, green as you are, might beat him in a straight contest."
The younger boy said nothing, only swallowed hard, eyes still locked on Lóng Yán.
And across the arena, whispers bloomed like ember flowers, like the same old doubts reborn anew:
"He's too late." "He lost his chance ten years ago." "What can he possibly do now?"
But amidst the sea of muttered pity and disdain, Lóng Yán kept walking.
Lóng Yán's Resolve – Registration for the Trial
He walked past the stares, the smirks, the sorrowful glances.
He carried them all on his back like a cloak of iron—and wore them without shame.
Toward the far end of the courtyard, under a flame-etched pavilion, sat the registrar's desk: an ancient stone table guarded by a single elder, his robe stitched with the sigil of the inner administration.
As Lóng Yán approached, the elder looked up, his bushy eyebrows arching in mild surprise.
Elder Registrar (curious):
"Lóng Yán? To what do we owe this rare visit?"
Lóng Yán bowed low, the movement precise, almost ceremonial.
When he rose, his voice was clear and calm.
Lóng Yán:
"Elder. I am here to register for this year's Blazewind Trial."
For a long second, the courtyard seemed to exhale.
The elder blinked once.
Twice.
Then leaned forward slightly, as if he had misheard.
Elder Registrar (careful):
"The... Blazewind Trial?"
His voice carried across the courtyard—and in an instant, the whispers ignited into open shock.
"He's insane!"
"Does he think he can fight against Level 2 or 3 cultivators like this?"
"Even Lóng Héngzūn—the top elite—is entering this year!"
The elder leaned closer, voice low but urgent.
Elder Registrar (gently):
"Lóng'er… Are you certain? The trial… it has no level restrictions, true. But most contenders are at least Level 2… some even Level 3.
Your own brother is already standing at Level 4."
There was a pause.
Heavy. Crushing.
But Lóng Yán did not falter.
Lóng Yán (firm):
"I have decided."
The elder stared at him for a long moment.
And then, slowly, with a sigh heavy as molten lead, he nodded.
Elder Registrar (quiet):
"Very well.
Go to the Patriarch. Confirm your intent. I will mark your name."
And with a single stroke of a blazing brush, he inscribed Lóng Yán's name upon the parchment of challengers.
A name few believed would last even the first round.
A name the winds would soon carry to every corner of the clan.
A name spoken not with certainty or hope—
—but with doubt, with pity, with the cold amusement of those who had long since forgotten what it meant to burn.
Yet Lóng Yán's steps did not waver.
He turned from the registration pavilion, the murmurs following him like shadows trying to pull him back.
But he did not look at them.
He did not look at anyone.
His flame was pointed forward—and forward he would go.
Scene: Main Hall – A Genius Appears
The path to the Main Hall of the Lóng Family was long and ceremonial, winding up polished obsidian steps carved into the mountain's spine.
Flame-crystal lanterns lined the ascent, their fires burning in unnatural hues—some blue, some silver, some blood-red—lit by the ancient wills of the ancestors.
With each step, the weight grew heavier.
Not from the climb—but from memory.
From expectation.
From the invisible chains of the past.
At the summit, framed by soaring red pillars and the roaring statue of the first Patriarch, stood the grand double doors of the Main Hall—doors that only opened for matters of blood, oath, or war.
Today, it would open for something rarer still:
—A silent defiance.
As Lóng Yán approached, the flame-etched runes recognized his blood and flared to life, casting golden light across his determined face.
The heavy doors rumbled open, revealing the chamber within.
Inside, the air was warm—thick with the scent of burning incense and ancient firewood.
The carved stone floor glowed faintly beneath transparent ember-veins, as if the heart of the mountain itself pulsed just below.
At the front of the hall, upon a dais framed by coiling dragons, sat the Patriarch and the five pillars of the clan's leadership:
Patriarch Lóng Tiānrán, the Inferno-Born Sovereign himself—
Broad-shouldered, flame-eyed, his very presence still enough to silence a battlefield.
His two elder sons:
Lóng Hǎoyán, the steadfast shield—calm, kind-eyed, his strength carved from earth and loyalty.
Lóng Jùnfēng, the storm-minded strategist—sharp, swift, with a voice like cutting winds.
And the three elder seats:
Elder Míngxiè — the scholar-fox, clever and courteous.
Elder Hányǔ — the silent glacier, serious and often too harsh.
Elder Xùntiān — the winter spear, proud and ever unsmiling.
The heavy aura of leadership filled the room like a molten sea.
It was not a place for hesitation.
Yet the doors opened wide—and through them, walked a single figure, unafraid.
Lóng Yán.
The hall quieted.
Even the flames seemed to lean forward to see.
Patriarch Tiānrán's golden eyes sharpened when he saw the youth.
At once, his expression softened—only a flicker, almost invisible—but there.
The tenderness of a father glimpsed beneath the iron of a ruler.
Patriarch Lóng Tiānrán (voice low, surprised):
"Yán'er? What brings you here, my son?"
From the side, Lóng Hǎoyán rose from his seat, his smile wide and warm.
Lóng Hǎoyán (grinning):
"Lóng'er, it's been too long. Finally emerged from your fortress of books, have you?"
And Lóng Jùnfēng laughed lightly, stepping closer, arms crossed casually.
Lóng Jùnfēng (teasing):
"And without a single scroll dragging behind you? Hah! It must be a sign of apocalypse."
A ripple of soft chuckles passed between the family, a rare lightness.
Even Elder Míngxiè and Elder Hányǔ nodded in acknowledgment—formal but not unkind.
Only Elder Xùntiān kept his eyes narrowed, his mouth a thin, disapproving line.
But Lóng Yán did not come for pleasantries.
He walked to the center of the flame-sigiled floor, dropped to one knee, and bowed deeply.
When he rose, his voice rang clear—not loud, but strong enough to make even the pillars lean in to listen.
Lóng Yán (steady, respectful):
"Father. Elders. Brothers.
I have come to make a formal request."
The flames quivered slightly at the weight of his words.
The Patriarch's brow furrowed slightly.
He leaned forward.
Patriarch Tiānrán:
"Speak, Lóng'er."
Without hesitation, without trembling, Lóng Yán lifted his head and met their gaze.
Lóng Yán (unwavering):
"I wish to participate in this year's Blazewind Trial."
The Hall Reacts – Doubt and Defiance
A sharp silence tore through the hall, slicing away all levity in a single stroke.
The flames dimmed for a breath.
The scent of incense seemed to vanish.
The only sound was the faint crackle of ancient fire along the walls.
Patriarch Tiānrán sat back slowly, as if weighing the words not by their weight—but by their burden.
Patriarch Tiānrán (voice thick):
"Lóng'er… are you certain?"
Before Lóng Yán could answer, Elder Hányǔ leaned forward, his brows furrowed.
Elder Hányǔ (measured, stern):
"Child, the trial is no ceremony of passage. It is a forge of blood and spirit.
Those without strength are broken. Those without spirit are consumed."
Then Elder Míngxiè, ever the diplomat, added with a furrowed brow:
Elder Míngxiè (gentle but firm):
"It is a battlefield, not an exam of theory or will.
Are you prepared to bleed for this, Lóng Yán?"
At that, Lóng Hǎoyán left his seat, walking toward his younger brother.
His hand rested lightly on Lóng Yán's shoulder—heavy with worry.
Lóng Hǎoyán (quietly):
"Let us train first, Lóng'er.
Even a few weeks under our guidance—you would be sharper. Stronger. Safer."
Lóng Jùnfēng was at his side in a blink, nodding in firm agreement.
Lóng Jùnfēng (earnest):
"Don't rush into this alone, little brother. Let us stand with you."
But before Lóng Yán could answer—before even a breath could pass—
A cold, sharp voice cut through the hall like a blade drawn too fast:
Elder Xùntiān (disdainful, mocking):
"Enough.
Why waste words on a boy who failed his only destiny ten years ago?"
The words dropped like a slab of stone, cracking the air itself.
Even the ever-burning fires along the walls seemed to flicker lower, as if recoiling.
Lóng Yán stood there without flinching, without blinking, but the pressure gathering in the room was suffocating.
Elder Xùntiān rose from his seat in a whirl of crimson robes, his face carved into lines of disdain so deep they seemed permanent.
His voice grew sharper, louder, filled with the icy fire of contempt:
Elder Xùntiān (spitting each word):
"Was it not this very child who returned empty-handed from the Kindleheart Shrine?
Who collapsed before the altar of destiny?
Who failed to summon even a shadow of a Beastpulse, and broke the faith of an entire generation?"
His sleeve flared as he pointed a rigid, accusing finger directly at Lóng Yán.
Elder Xùntiān:
"A boy who rejected the path of warriors, who fled into the shadows of scrolls and cauldrons, hiding behind the excuse of alchemy—"
"—and now dares to stand here, before us, demanding the right to step into the Blazewind Trial?"
His voice thundered through the hall, sending a painful echo bouncing from wall to wall.
Several minor elders shifted uncomfortably in their seats.
Some lowered their eyes.
Others… nodded grimly.
The shame, the humiliation, the bitterness of ten years—it all churned now, boiling to the surface.
Elder Xùntiān (voice a dagger):
"Or is it theft you seek, boy?
To sneak into the Hall of Emberseals and steal treasures meant for real cultivators—those who earned their blood and flame?"
A Stillness Like Death
The hall froze.
No one moved.
No one dared breathe.
Even the kind-hearted Elder Hányǔ, who had once shielded Lóng Yán as a boy, lowered his gaze, heavy with sorrow.
Even Míngxiè, the clever elder, found no words.
Lóng Hǎoyán took an urgent step forward, his fist tightening so hard the veins stood out along his forearm.
Lóng Jùnfēng's teeth clenched audibly, his spirit force trembling around him.
But before either brother could speak—
Before the Patriarch could rise—
Lóng Yán did.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
One step forward.
The Voice of a Son — Calm and Unyielding
He faced Elder Xùntiān directly, his eyes clear, bright, and deeper than flame.
There was no anger.
No hatred.
Only something far more frightening:
An unbreakable will.
And when he spoke, his voice was quiet—yet it filled the hall as if the very stone listened.
Lóng Yán (calm, low):
"I am not here to argue."
He paused. The air itself seemed to lean toward him.
Lóng Yán:
"I am not here to steal.
I am not here to beg."
Another step forward, the embers along the walls shivering with every word.
Lóng Yán:
"The Blazewind Trial accepts any of Lóng blood.
That rule remains unchanged."
He placed his right fist against his heart and bowed—not deeply, but firmly, as a warrior saluting the world.
Lóng Yán:
"I, Lóng Yán, son of Tiānrán, descendant of the Flame Sovereign line,
request only this—
my rightful chance."
And as he straightened, his eyes burned brighter than the sun through ash.
He was not just a boy seeking permission.
He was a spark demanding to become a flame again.
The Room Trembles — The Patriarch's Struggle
On the throne, Patriarch Lóng Tiānrán closed his eyes for a long, heavy moment.
When he opened them, there was no mistaking it—
The agony.
The pride.
The fear.
All warring within a father's heart.
Patriarch Tiānrán (hoarse, almost whispering):
"Your strength… Lóng'er… Compared to the others…"
The words clung to the air, unwilling to leave.
Lóng Hǎoyán placed a hand once more on his brother's shoulder, voice shaking.
Lóng Hǎoyán (urgent, pleading):
"Train with us, little brother.
Even a month. A week.
Don't go alone."
Lóng Jùnfēng stepped closer too, his expression no longer playful—only afraid.
Lóng Jùnfēng:
"Let us stand with you, just this once. Please."
But Lóng Yán only smiled—small, heavy, beautiful.
And he spoke, his voice so soft yet cutting through the hall like the first crack of thunder:
Lóng Yán (whispering):
"Because this year...
marks ten years since I was carried back from the shrine."
Every word was a blade.
Every word tore open wounds long buried.
Lóng Yán:
"Ten years since I failed.
Ten years since... I lost her."
The hall shuddered.
Even the pillars seemed to bow under the weight of that grief.
Lóng Yán:
"I don't care if I fall.
I don't care if I bleed.
I just...
want Mother to see me—
standing once.
Fighting once.
Burning... even if it is only for a moment."
A Silence Deeper Than Death
No one spoke.
Not even Elder Xùntiān, who suddenly found himself unable to meet the boy's eyes.
The flames flickered along the walls—not with heat, but with sorrow.
A mourning fire.
And when the silence grew too long—
When the tension seemed to tear at the very air—
The Patriarch rose.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The hall trembled beneath his steps.
He descended the dais, one hand outstretched.
He stood before his son—this boy who bore the weight of a decade alone, who wore guilt like second skin, who should have fallen a thousand times but had not.
Lóng Tiānrán, Patriarch of Fire, placed a hand gently, reverently on his son's shoulder.
The Flame of a Father
Patriarch Lóng Tiānrán (soft, burning):
"If this is your wish…
then it shall be so."
The hall exhaled at last.
Patriarch Tiānrán (voice trembling):
"You are a son of this house.
You are your mother's fire.
You are my pride."
The brothers stepped back, shoulders shaking.
The elders bowed their heads.
Only one boy stood in the center—
A boy who had carried grief and silence for too long.
And now, at last, the dam cracked.
A single tear traced down Lóng Yán's cheek—falling like a star.
He bowed.
Low.
Deep.
Unshakable.
Lóng Yán (whispering):
"Thank you… Father.
Thank you, brothers.
Thank you… all."
And then he turned, swift and sure, robes snapping behind him, firelight catching the gleam of unshed tears.
He did not stay for more words.
He did not need to.
The flame had been lit.
It burned quietly—
not the roaring fire of arrogance,
nor the consuming blaze of rage—
but a steadfast, enduring fire, the kind that refuses to die even in the deepest winter.
And though no trumpet sounded, though no banner was raised,
every heart in that hall, from the proudest elder to the newest disciple,
felt it.
Something had shifted.
A spark that had been buried for nearly a decade...
was rising again.
The Weight of Eyes – A Clan Awakens
As Lóng Yán crossed back through the corridors of the stronghold, his every step left ripples in the spiritual air.
He was silent.
But the stronghold was no longer.
Word had already spread like wildfire through the clan's veins.
Disciples whispered behind stone pillars.
Servants paused in their duties to glance sideways, barely daring to breathe.
Elders in their private chambers leaned toward enchanted mirrors, feeling the pulse of change.
Even the old spirit-beasts chained in the deeper vaults lifted their heads and growled low, sensing a forgotten fire stirring.
For so long, he had been a ghost—a rumor—
The boy who walked with his head lowered, shoulders heavy with unseen chains.
The boy who lived not among his clan, but in the shadow of his mother's death.
And now—
They saw not a ghost,
but a boy walking into battle.
A boy who would rather burn in truth than live in silent shame.
The Heart of Ashmere – Among the People
The heavy iron-forged gates of the Lóng Family Stronghold groaned open as he passed through.
Beyond them lay the outer village of Ashmere—the heart that fed the bloodline, the place where warriors were born and where memories never truly died.
Here, life persisted stubbornly against the choking ash and endless fire.
Children with soot-smudged faces played among the lava-stone streets.
Merchants hawked their goods—bundles of ashroot vegetables, fire-peppered meats, fruits that glowed faintly under the twilight sky.
The air was thick with the scent of roasted emberfish, smoked flamechilies, and iron-scorched bread.
As he walked, the people noticed him—first in glances, then in murmurs.
An old vendor, stacking flamepears at her stall, looked up—and her eyes widened.
Old Vendor Woman (smiling in surprise):
"Ah! Young Master Lóng Yán?
Is that truly you?"
Her voice was warm, touched with the disbelief of someone seeing a long-lost relative return from exile.
A little boy nearby tugged at his father's sleeve, pointing with an open grin.
Boy (laughing):
"Look! Look! It's the Young Master! He came outside!"
The village stirred.
Like a dormant ember catching its first breath of air in years.
Another voice called out from across the cobbled path—a young mother, a basket of ashbread cradled in her arms:
Young Mother (beaming):
"He's grown tall, hasn't he?
Looks just like his mother did—proud and strong."
Lóng Yán answered them with only a slight nod, a small, ghostlike smile curving at the corner of his lips.
It was not the arrogant smile of a young master above his people.
It was something humbler.
Gentler.
A flame offered, not demanded.
And when a passing vendor lost grip of her overloaded basket, spilling a cascade of ember-apples onto the ground—
He was there instantly, kneeling, helping her gather them without a word.
No audience. No pride.
Just kindness.
The old woman clutched his hands afterward, eyes wet with gratitude.
Fruit Vendor (bowing low):
"Thank you, Young Master.
You're kind—kind like your mother was."
The words struck deeper than any blade.
He bowed his head slightly, hiding the flicker of pain in his golden eyes, and moved on.
The Child Who Wept – A Glimpse of the Past
He had not gone far before a small weight crashed into his side.
Startled, Lóng Yán looked down to find a little girl—no more than six—crying uncontrollably, her tiny fists pressed to her face.
She hadn't even seen him—just stumbled blindly, lost in her grief.
He knelt immediately, lowering himself to her level, his hands gentle on her trembling shoulders.
Lóng Yán (soft, steady):
"Careful, little one...
It's all right. You're safe."
But the girl only sobbed harder, her tiny voice breaking between hiccups:
Little Girl (crying):
"I... I lost my mama... I can't find her...!"
The old ache twisted deep inside him, sharper than any knife.
He knew this fear.
He knew the feeling of losing the one anchor that held your whole world together.
Slowly, he rested his hand atop her messy hair, smoothing it gently.
Lóng Yán (whispering like a prayer):
"You didn't lose her.
She's out there, looking for you right now.
You just wandered a little ahead... that's all."
From the pouch at his belt, he pulled a small red-wrapped candy—molded into the shape of a flame lotus.
A simple thing. But it gleamed like treasure in the ash-thick light.
He held it out.
Lóng Yán (smiling gently):
"Here. Take this.
It's sweet. Helps with tears."
The little girl blinked through her sobs, her tiny hands hesitating before she took it.
And then, miraculously, the shaking in her shoulders eased.
Before more could be said, a distant voice cried out desperately:
Distant Woman (panicked):
"Qīng'ē! Where are you?!"
The girl's head snapped up, eyes wide.
Little Girl (brightening):
"Mama!"
She turned and bolted toward the sound, her small legs flying faster than fear could catch her.
Moments later, her mother swept her into a fierce embrace, tears streaking both their faces.
The woman turned and spotted Lóng Yán—and seeing the candy still clutched in her daughter's hand, she understood at once.
She bowed low. Deep. Grateful beyond words.
Mother (tearful):
"Thank you... thank you, Young Master."
Lóng Yán only nodded—no words needed—and turned away before his own heart cracked open too wide.
The Path of Memories – The Shrine Road
The streets gave way to open stone paths, winding between ridges of red basalt and forests of lava-barked trees.
He didn't choose the path consciously.
His feet simply knew the way.
Guided by something older than memory.
Before he realized it, he stood once more before the Shrine Road—
the ancient path that led up into the hills,
toward the Kindleheart Shrine,
where ten years ago,
everything had begun—and everything had ended.
The air was colder here.
Sharper.
The ash was thicker, falling in slow, mournful curtains.
And as he stood there, alone against the blood-colored sky,
memories stirred.
[Memory Begins]
A soft voice.
So clear, so close, he could almost feel her hand brushing his hair.
Mother (whispering):
"Wake up, Yán'er..."
He was five again, clutching a battered wooden dragon doll against his tiny chest, eyes fluttering open to her smile.
She sat beside him, her robes the color of early flame, her hair tied back with a ribbon of sun-yellow silk.
Her laughter—
soft, warm, endless—
wrapped around him like a second skin.
Mother (laughing quietly):
"Today is your big day, little spark.
Come on. Up you go."
She tied his sash, straightened his robe, fixed the crooked fire-dragon pin at his ear.
He beamed up at her, face full of reckless wonder.
Young Lóng Yán (excited):
"I'll awaken the strongest Beastpulse!
The fiercest one! Like the heroes in the old songs!"
She laughed, bending down to pinch his cheek.
Mother (whispering):
"Even if you awaken smoke or silence...
Even if you find nothing at all...
You will always be my pride."
He had hugged her then, fiercely, the way only a child can—with all his heart and no hesitation.
Young Lóng Yán:
"I'll make you proud, Mom! I promise!"
And he had run down this very road, legs pumping with childish certainty, never once looking back.
Behind him, her voice had chased him like a blessing on the wind:
Mother (whispering):
"You already have."
[Memory Ends]
The vision faded like mist under rising sun.
Lóng Yán stood alone once more,
older now,
worn by time,
but still carrying that small, stubborn spark in his chest.
Without thinking, his hand slipped into his sleeve.
There, tied around his wrist since he was a boy, was a small wooden pendant.
Rough. Worn smooth by countless fingers.
Carved with the simplest of marks: the character for Fire (炎).
He hadn't realized he had clutched it so tightly—until he felt the wetness on his hand.
A tear.
Falling onto the cracked ashstone at his feet.
He didn't wipe it away.
He simply stood there—
trembling, breathing, burning.
The world around him faded into a haze of ash and memory.
There was no stronghold.
No clan.
No elders judging from high thrones.
No brothers offering shields of comfort.
No mother reaching out with a hand too far to touch.
There was only this boy—
this broken, burning boy—
standing alone on the old shrine road,
carrying a fire that refused to die even when no one else could see it anymore.
Embercliff Horizon – The Edge of the Heart
His legs moved without thought, driven by something older than will—
by the memory of promises made long ago.
Through the winding paths of ash and stone he walked,
past charred trees that whispered in the wind,
past cracked statues of forgotten heroes half-buried by centuries of falling soot.
And at last, the world opened up before him—
a jagged cliffside where the earth simply ended,
overlooking a vast, molten valley far, far below.
The Embercliff Horizon.
Here, the land dropped away like the broken rim of a shattered bowl,
revealing the endless rivers of lava that carved glowing scars into the land.
Here, the ash clouds parted just enough to show distant shapes—
the faint green blur of the Verdelight Canopy, a paradise said to be unreachable, where fire met forest in eternal battle and bloom.
He had come here often as a child.
When fear swallowed his dreams.
When the shame of failure knotted in his throat.
Here, where no eyes judged him,
where only the breath of the world remained,
he could be nothing but himself.
At the very edge of the cliff,
against a wind that smelled of cinders and the memory of rain,
stood a tree.
The only living tree for a hundred miles.
Its roots clawed into the broken stone like fingers refusing to release the world.
Its bark was blackened, its leaves a fierce, stubborn green—defying the fires, the ash, the sky itself.
The Miracle Tree.
His mother had called it that once.
Mother (laughing, in memory):
"A miracle of roots and will, Yán'er.
If it can live here… so can you."
Beneath the Miracle Tree
Lóng Yán walked forward until the toes of his boots kissed the cliff's edge.
The wind battered him, hot and sharp, tearing at his hair, tugging at the edges of his flame-colored robes.
He stood there for a long time.
Minutes.
Hours.
It did not matter.
He stared out over the sea of molten light,
at the faint green dreams beyond the fires,
and finally—
he spoke.
Not loudly.
Not to the world.
Not even to the heavens.
Just… to her.
Lóng Yán (voice breaking, whispered):
"Mom... I'm so weak."
The words tumbled from his lips like stones dropped into a bottomless gorge.
Lóng Yán:
"I know I won't win the Blazewind Trial.
I know I'm not like them.
Not like Father.
Not like Brother Hǎoyán.
Not like Brother Jùnfēng.
I… I just wanted—"
His hands tightened into fists until his knuckles went white, trembling.
Lóng Yán (barely breathing):
"I just wanted to be your pride... at least once."
The shame he had carried for ten years burst open inside him, raw and unfiltered.
Lóng Yán (choking):
"I'm sorry, Mom.
I'm sorry I couldn't do what I promised."
And at last—
at long, long last—
he broke.
He sank to his knees beneath the old miracle tree,
his body folding in on itself like a crumpled banner left too long in the storm.
He wept.
Not the quiet tears of polite grief.
But the open, ugly sobs of a boy who had carried too much for too long,
who had bled in silence,
who had smiled through shame,
who had worn his scars like armor until the weight became too much.
The molten rivers far below rumbled faintly.
The wind howled through the bones of the land.
The miracle tree's leaves shivered.
And still he wept.
The Answer in the Silence
But after a long, long time—
when the last sobs had hollowed him out,
when only the shivering breath of a boy and the pulsing heartbeat of a distant star remained—
he lifted his head.
Tears still streaked his face.
His body still shook.
But in the ashes of sorrow, something flickered.
A breath.
A spark.
A beginning.
The wind brushed against his face—
not cold now, but gentle.
Almost like a hand.
And in the corner of his mind,
clearer than any memory,
he heard her voice once more.
Mother (warm, tender, eternal):
"You already have, my little spark."
A breath escaped him—half sob, half laugh.
He pressed the wooden pendant to his forehead, eyes closing tight.
Then, slowly, painfully, he rose to his feet.
A Flame Rekindled
He stood beneath the miracle tree,
under a sky torn between fire and twilight,
above a land that burned and bled and refused to die.
The boy who had fallen at the Kindleheart Shrine
was gone.
And in his place—
rose something else.
Not a hero.
Not yet.
But a boy with ashes in his lungs and fire in his blood.
A boy with grief for armor and hope for a sword.
A boy who had already lost everything he feared to lose—
—and who now had nothing left to fear but standing still.
Lóng Yán turned his gaze east.
Toward the Verdelight Canopy.
Toward the distant dreams beyond the flames.
And somewhere deep within him,
the pulse of something ancient,
something buried,
something still sleeping—
stirred.
He spoke to the world itself, voice soft but sure:
Lóng Yán (whispering):
"Six months."
Lóng Yán:
"I'll train where no one can see me.
I'll sharpen my fire.
I'll forge myself anew."
Lóng Yán (low, fierce):
"When I return…"
The wind carried his words across the burning cliffs.
Lóng Yán (promising the sky, the land, the mother he lost):
"I will not be a whisper."
Lóng Yán:
"I will be the flame that none can smother."
And with that,
without another word,
he turned his back on the stronghold,
on the judgment,
on the chains of the past—
—and walked into the ashstorm,
toward the path that only the desperate or the daring ever dared take.
Toward the unknown.
Toward destiny.
[End of Chapter IV: The Spark Beneath the Ash]