Chapter 2:A dead man walks away

The Seven Flames Sect returned to its routine. The execution platform was cleaned, the elders withdrew, and the disciples resumed their training.

Yet, the unease did not fade.

That night, in the silent halls of the sect, doors creaked open on their own.

Candles flickered—then snuffed out.

Some disciples woke gasping, clutching their chests, a strange heat burning beneath their skin. They scrambled for water, for a source of fire—but there was none.

The Grand Elder meditated alone in his chamber, yet the shadows behind him stretched and twisted—just slightly, just enough for him to feel watched.

In the sect's forbidden archives, a single ember glowed faintly in the darkness.

Beyond the towering gates of the sect, far from the execution platform, the wind stirred the dust of the empty road.

A lone pair of footprints pressed into the cold earth—one step after another.

But there was no one there.

A dead man had walked away.

And the world did not remember his name.

The world had already forgotten him.

No songs would be sung, no whispers of his name would remain. His execution had been swift, absolute—the grand decree of a world that feared what it could not control. The flames had consumed him before countless witnesses, reducing him to nothing. And yet…

A shadow walked unseen through the wilderness, treading upon the cold earth as if it had never died.

Vorynxis felt the weight of existence pressing against him, his very being still unraveling at the edges. The fire that had erased him was no ordinary flame—it had burned away recognition itself, ensuring no one would remember he had ever existed. It was a punishment reserved for those deemed too dangerous to leave even a whisper behind.

And yet, he still walked.

His steps were slow, calculated. Every movement threatened to tear his fragile form apart, his connection to reality tenuous at best. The embers within him flickered weakly, desperately clawing for stability. His cultivation was in ruins, his body little more than an echo of what it once was. But he had survived.

For now, that was enough.

The forest stretched endlessly before him, ancient trees standing like silent sentinels. Darkness curled between their trunks, a stillness hanging in the air that should have felt tranquil—but instead, it pressed against him like a watchful gaze. He did not belong here. Something else did.

A place prepared long ago. A sanctuary, should the worst ever come. His mind, though hazy, clung to the remnants of foresight—he had always planned for betrayal.

Vorynxis pressed forward, every step feeling heavier than the last. His presence in the world was unsteady, and the effort of merely existing was a battle in itself. The cave was near. He could feel it, a distant ember in the depths of his fractured awareness.

Then, a breath.

Low. Deep. Ragged.

Something ancient stirred within the cave's depths. The weight of it pressed against him, vast and incomprehensible. His instincts screamed at him to stop, to turn away, but hesitation had never been in his nature.

If he was to survive, he would claim whatever lay within.

And so, he stepped into the darkness.

The cave was not silent.

It breathed.

The sound was deep, drawn, and ragged, as though the earth itself exhaled with labored effort. The air was thick—not with the dampness of stone, but with the weight of something far older.

Vorynxis stepped forward, his crimson eyes adjusting to the darkness. The ember within him flickered weakly, offering no warmth. His body was still unstable, his existence hanging by threads. And yet, his instincts screamed not of danger—but of reverence.