First Flame, First Clash

Chase stared at the figure lounging on the second bed of his new room like he owned it. Or worse like he was renting it out by the hour. The boy was long-limbed, with a jagged streak of purple hair and a lazy smirk plastered across his face. He had one leg hanging off the side, the other bouncing to some beat only he could hear.

"You must be the dual affinity freak everyone's whispering about," the boy said, not bothering to sit up. "I was wondering how long they'd make me wait before throwing a firecracker into the room."

"I'm not a firecracker," Chase muttered, dropping his pack by the bed opposite.

"Right, sorry. More like a lightning bomb with a pinch of depression and unresolved trauma."

Chase raised a brow. "Do you want to keep your nose?"

"Tempting offer. But I need it for dramatic sighs."

The boy sat up finally, grinning as if they'd been friends for years. "Name's Zephyr. Don't ask if it's my real name. It's not. But it sounds cooler than Wendell."

Chase stared. "…Zephyr it is."

"Welcome to Celestial Forge, Room 7-C. No snoring, no hogging the spiritual incense, and if you're going to have nightmares, at least make them entertaining."

"I don't have nightmares."

Zephyr's grin widened. "You do now."

The room was simple—two beds, a wooden desk, a small spirit lantern, and a round window overlooking the lower terraces of the sect. Outside, moonlight bathed the mountaintop in soft glow, catching the peaks and spires in gentle silver. Chase unpacked in silence, ignoring Zephyr's whistling rendition of a song that sounded vaguely like something one would hear in a brothel.

"So," Zephyr said, flipping onto his stomach, "why'd you come here? Seeking truth? Enlightenment? Running from your tragic past?"

Chase glanced over. "Yes."

Zephyr blinked. "Oh. I was joking."

"I wasn't."

There was a long pause. Then Zephyr rolled over with a dramatic groan. "Why is everyone here emotionally damaged?"

"Because normal people don't survive long enough to make it into sects like this."

"…Fair."

There was a knock at the door. A scroll floated in through the gap, glowing faintly before landing at Chase's feet. He unrolled it. Their orientation began at dawn—first lessons, first duels, first chance to bleed in front of a crowd.

Zephyr peeked over. "Ah. Trial by humiliation. Classic sect welcome."

Chase studied the names. Their cohort was large—around a hundred new disciples. Divided into smaller groups. He was in Team Four. Paired with two others: someone named Ryn, and a girl named Talya.

No sign of Elara.

Good. And… not good.

He folded the scroll and set it aside. Zephyr was already balancing a spoon on his nose while lying on the floor.

"You're not worried?" Chase asked.

"About what? Getting my face smashed in by people who were bottle-fed beast cores since birth? Nah. I've got my own strategy."

"Which is?"

"Be unpredictable. Be annoying. And if all else fails… fake a medical emergency."

Chase rubbed his temples.

Outside, he could hear muffled sounds—laughter, sparring, and the occasional explosive whoosh of energy. This place pulsed with pressure, but also possibility. Even the air tasted sharper.

Zephyr kicked his feet. "Hey, did anyone ever tell you your cat looks like it could eat me and then use my bones as toothpicks?"

Milo, curled under Chase's bed, opened one eye. Lightning flickered faintly in his fur.

"He doesn't like being called a cat," Chase said.

"What is he then?"

"Trouble."

"I like him already."

Zephyr flopped back onto his bed, groaning. "Tomorrow's going to be rough. Hope you're ready to show off your freak powers."

Chase lay down without responding. He wasn't here to show off. He was here to grow stronger, and to leave the weak version of himself in the dust.

Still… a small part of him itched with excitement.

Tomorrow, everything began...for real this time.