Embers of Destiny

Zhao Feng sat atop a broken wooden crate, his body still aching from the battle. His fingers absentmindedly traced the hilt of his borrowed blade, the faint grooves along the grip feeling foreign yet familiar. Though his body was weak, the muscle memory of war had not left him.

The bandit corpses had already begun to rot in the night air, their blood soaking into the earth. Some of the mercenaries were piling the bodies to burn them, while others tended to the wounded. The air was thick with the scent of charred flesh, sweat, and exhaustion.

He closed his eyes, inhaling slowly. He could still feel the threads of Qi pulsing through his body—faint, fragile, barely awakened. It frustrated him beyond words. A thousand years ago, a flick of his fingers would have turned this battlefield to dust. Now, he struggled to even influence the flow of his own Qi.

Still, there was progress. Subtle, but undeniable.

Raik approached, his boots crunching against the dirt. He carried a crude map in one hand, the parchment worn and smudged.

"You fought well," Raik said, watching Zhao Feng carefully. It wasn't just idle praise; it was an evaluation.

"I did what was necessary," Zhao Feng replied evenly.

Raik smirked. "That's what concerns me." He crouched down beside Zhao Feng, tapping the map with his finger. "You don't fight like someone without training. And you don't think like someone who's only ever wielded a blade for survival. You fight with calculation."

Zhao Feng remained silent.

Raik studied him for a long moment before shaking his head. "Doesn't matter to me. What does matter is that I need someone like you." He handed the map over. "A traveler came through earlier. He spoke of ruins—far east, beyond the ridge. Said there's power buried there. Maybe old treasures, maybe just stories. Either way, it's worth investigating."

Zhao Feng's eyes flicked over the crude sketches. The ruins were marked deep in the mountains, near the remnants of an ancient battlefield. A memory stirred in his mind—something from his past life. The name of that place was long forgotten by most, but he knew it well.

It was the site of an old war. A war between mortals and those who had transcended them.

A place where remnants of power still lingered.

His grip on the parchment tightened.

Raik leaned closer. "You're interested."

"That depends," Zhao Feng said. "Are you planning to claim whatever's there for yourself?"

Raik chuckled. "I'm a mercenary. If it's valuable, I'll take it. But I also know my limits. If there's something there that doesn't belong in my hands, I'm not foolish enough to grasp it."

Zhao Feng nodded. He had expected as much. Raik wasn't a man driven by blind greed—he was practical, which made him dangerous, but also predictable.

"How many are going?" Zhao Feng asked.

"A small group. No need to bring the whole company for a scouting trip. You're coming." It wasn't a question.

Zhao Feng exhaled slowly. He had planned to leave soon anyway. This only hastened his decision.

The ruins.

If what he remembered was true, then this was more than just a simple ruin. It was a place where the echoes of past battles still pulsed through the stone. A place where, if he was careful, he could find a way to truly begin his ascent once more.

For now, he remained still, staring at the flickering fire as the corpses burned.

A thousand years ago, he would have walked into those ruins as a sovereign.

Now, he would crawl.

But he would not remain on his knees for long.

---

The night stretched on, heavy with the aftermath of battle. The fire burned hot and bright, but the warmth did little to chase away the cold that had settled deep in Zhao Feng's bones.

He let out a slow breath and rose to his feet, rolling his shoulders. His muscles protested, stiff from exertion. He ignored the discomfort. Pain was an old companion.

A few mercenaries glanced at him as he moved. Most looked away quickly. They had seen him fight. Even with his apparent exhaustion, there was an edge to him that unsettled them.

Zhao Feng didn't care. Let them be wary.

He made his way toward a small stream just beyond the camp. The sound of rushing water filled the quiet night, its presence steady and unchanging. He knelt by the bank, cupping his hands to splash cold water over his face.

The shock of it sent a jolt through his body. He exhaled, staring at his reflection.

For a long moment, he simply studied himself.

This body was young, but it wasn't his. Not truly. It lacked the depth of his past—no scars from past wars, no weight of centuries in his eyes. It was still unfamiliar, no matter how much he moved, fought, or bled in it.

But it would have to do.

Closing his eyes, he focused inward.

His Qi was still weak, barely a flicker of what it had once been. But… it was there. And where there was even a spark, fire could follow.

He drew a slow breath, feeling the faint pulse of energy deep within his core. It was like trying to grasp mist—elusive, barely tangible. But he had wielded forces far greater than this before. He knew the path.

It would simply take time.

The ruins would be his first step.

Rising to his feet, he turned back toward the camp. Raik and his chosen group would leave at dawn. If these ruins held even a fraction of what he suspected, then his journey was finally beginning in earnest.

His fingers curled into a fist.

No matter how long it took, no matter how much he had to endure—

He would rise.

It was only a matter of time.

---

The first light of dawn stretched thin across the horizon, casting pale gold over the camp. The fires from the night before had long burned out, leaving behind the charred remains of bandits in smoldering piles. Ash drifted in the air, carried on the morning breeze, the scent still clinging to the damp earth.

Zhao Feng sat quietly at the edge of the camp, sharpening a dagger he had taken from one of the fallen enemies. The blade was of poor craftsmanship, its edge slightly chipped, but it would serve for now. Each slow, deliberate scrape of the whetstone against steel filled the silence around him.

He wasn't the only one awake.

Raik stood near the remnants of the fire, arms crossed, observing the men who had volunteered for the ruins expedition. Five in total. Hardened fighters, their weapons and armor bearing the scars of countless battles. Unlike the scattered and disorganized bandits they had faced the night before, these men were experienced killers.

And they would need to be.

Zhao Feng knew better than anyone that ruins from the past often held more than just crumbling stone and forgotten history. If these were truly the remains of the battlefield he remembered, there would be remnants of power—perhaps even ancient formations still clinging to life.

It was dangerous.

But danger, in the right hands, could be opportunity.

Raik caught Zhao Feng's gaze and gave a slight nod. It was time.

They left the camp behind before the sun had fully risen, moving eastward toward the mountains. The terrain grew rough quickly, the packed dirt roads giving way to uneven, rocky paths. The trees thinned as they climbed higher, twisted by wind and time, their roots gripping the earth like skeletal fingers.

The silence between the mercenaries was thick.

Zhao Feng preferred it that way.

He walked near the back of the group, eyes sharp, scanning the landscape. He could sense something—something distant, just beyond the range of his weakened perception. It was faint, like a whisper at the edge of his awareness.

Residual energy.

This place is old. Older than they realize.

Raik eventually slowed his pace, falling back to walk beside Zhao Feng.

"You seem comfortable with ruins," Raik said, voice low enough that only Zhao Feng could hear. "Most men would be wary."

Zhao Feng smirked slightly. "I find history interesting."

Raik gave him a look, one that said he wasn't entirely convinced. "History has a way of getting men killed."

"Only if they don't understand it," Zhao Feng replied.

Raik chuckled, shaking his head. "That's what concerns me about you."

They walked in silence after that, the mountains growing steeper with every step. The ruins were still a ways off, but already, the air felt heavier.

There is something here.

Not just echoes of battle. Not just lingering Qi.

Something else.

By midday, they reached a plateau overlooking a valley. Far below, half-buried in the earth, were the ruins. Crumbling walls jutted out like the bones of some long-dead beast, covered in moss and vines. Towering monoliths, their surfaces etched with faded carvings, stood in defiance of time.

And at the center, a massive stone gate.

Zhao Feng's breath slowed.

That gate…

He knew it.

It had once been part of a stronghold—a place where warriors had made their last stand against the cultivators of the old era.

A place where countless had perished.

One of the mercenaries let out a low whistle. "Looks abandoned."

Zhao Feng remained silent. Looks can be deceiving.

Raik motioned for the group to move. They descended into the valley cautiously, stepping over twisted roots and loose rocks. The further they went, the heavier the air became.

And then Zhao Feng saw it.

Faint, almost imperceptible.

A mark carved into one of the stone pillars.

A sigil.

Ancient. Powerful.

Still active.

His stomach tightened.

A formation seal.

He had assumed any lingering formations here would have faded with time. He had assumed wrong.

And if the seal was still intact…

That meant something was still inside.

Raik signaled for the group to halt just outside the entrance. The stone gate loomed before them, its carvings long eroded, but the presence it exuded was unmistakable.

"This place... doesn't feel right," one of the mercenaries muttered. His knuckles were white around the hilt of his sword.

Zhao Feng barely heard him. His focus was elsewhere—on the faint pulse of Qi embedded in the stone. It was old, ancient even, but not dead. Something lingered here, slumbering. Watching.

Raik turned to the group. "We move in pairs. No straying. If something moves and it's not one of us, you cut it down."

No one argued. They had all felt it the moment they arrived—the weight in the air, the unnatural silence. Whatever lay inside was not something to be taken lightly.

With a nod, Raik stepped forward, and the rest followed. Zhao Feng was the last to enter, his body tensed like a coiled spring.

The moment they crossed the threshold, the world changed.

The air inside was thick, almost oppressive. The walls, once mere crumbling stone, now pulsed faintly, as if something beneath their surface was alive. Dust swirled unnaturally, drawn toward the center of the chamber where a massive altar stood, cracked but still intact.

Zhao Feng's breath slowed. His eyes traced the symbols carved into the altar—runes of sealing, not worship. This wasn't a temple. It was a prison.

Raik raised a fist, signaling another halt. He scanned the chamber, his grip tightening on his axe. "Stay sharp."

The mercenaries fanned out cautiously. Zhao Feng stayed near the back, eyes flicking between the altar and the deep shadows lining the chamber.

Then, the silence broke.

A low, guttural wail slithered through the air, neither fully human nor beast. It sent a shiver up Zhao Feng's spine.

A mercenary cursed under his breath, raising his weapon. "What was that?"

Zhao Feng didn't answer. His eyes were locked onto the altar. The runes were shifting, their glow intensifying.

We triggered something.

Before he could warn the others, the shadows moved.

From the dark recesses of the chamber, figures emerged. Twisted, half-decayed forms draped in remnants of ancient armor. Their eyes burned with a dull, hateful light. Not quite living. Not quite dead.

Zhao Feng's heart clenched.

Wraith-bound warriors.

Creatures shackled to a place by the remnants of powerful Qi. They weren't ghosts. They weren't mindless. They were trapped, and they wanted out.

The first mercenary barely had time to react before a clawed hand ripped through his throat. Blood sprayed across the stone as his body crumpled.

That was all it took.

The chamber erupted into chaos.

Raik roared, swinging his axe in a wide arc, cleaving one of the creatures in two. But it didn't fall like a normal man—it twisted, as if trying to reassemble itself before the weight of the blow finally forced it to collapse.

The other mercenaries fought instinctively, blades flashing, but Zhao Feng could already see it—they were outmatched. These things weren't invincible, but they didn't fight like mortals. They didn't hesitate. They didn't fear.

Zhao Feng sidestepped an incoming strike, his movements fluid. His dagger lashed out, severing a wraith's fingers before it could grab him. It didn't even flinch.

This isn't working.

His eyes flicked toward the altar. The runes were pulsing in sync with the creatures' movements.

His mind raced.

They're linked to the formation. It's controlling them.

He had no time to explain. No time to convince the others.

He ran.

A wraith lunged, claws aiming for his spine. Zhao Feng rolled, barely avoiding the strike. His body was too slow, too weak, but his mind was sharper than ever.

The altar was just ahead.

A final wraith blocked his path. This one was larger, its body wrapped in heavier remnants of armor. A commander.

Zhao Feng didn't hesitate.

He threw himself forward.

The wraith's glaive sang through the air, grazing his shoulder. Pain flared, but he was past it now, within reach of the altar.

His palm slammed onto the runes.

For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then, the world erupted.

A wave of energy surged through his body, scorching his veins like fire. His vision blurred, and suddenly, he wasn't in the ruins anymore.

He was somewhere else.

Memories—ancient, distant—flooded his mind.

A battle fought long ago. Warriors clad in golden armor, standing against an enemy that should not exist. A dark tide, swallowing the land. Screams. Fire.

Then—

Oblivion.

Zhao Feng gasped, yanked back into the present. The crystal beneath his hand shattered, fragments dissolving into nothingness.

The wraiths froze.

Then, one by one, they began to crumble. Whatever had bound them here was now gone.

The chamber fell silent once more.

Zhao Feng staggered, his breath ragged. His body felt like it had been ripped apart and put back together.

The mercenaries stood around him, staring in stunned silence.

Raik was the first to move. He stepped forward, his expression unreadable. "What the hell did you just do?"

Zhao Feng exhaled slowly. His hands still trembled, his veins still burned with remnants of something.

He met Raik's gaze.

"...I ended it."