Chapter 10: A Gate of One's Own
The old industrial district was quiet in a way that felt wrong. Not peaceful—dead. Buildings stood like skeletal husks, rust bleeding down their sides, windows boarded or shattered. Faded signs clung to chain-link fences and busted entryways like remnants of a forgotten language. The scent of oil, rust, and something acrid lingered in the still air.
No one came here anymore unless they had a reason.
Sang-Hyun had a reason.
The gate shimmered faintly between two collapsed warehouse walls, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it. Its soft, glassy glow pulsed like a heartbeat, slow and steady, as if it were sleeping. It looked like any other D-Rank portal. But it wasn't. Not to him.
He stopped a few feet from it, Emberfang strapped across his back, gloves cinched tight, boots crunching against gravel and glass. His breath fogged in the cold air. Kaelira stood beside him, arms folded, her presence solid and wordless.
"You're not hesitating," she said after a moment, a flicker of curiosity in her voice.
"Should I be?" he asked, eyes fixed on the gate.
She shrugged one shoulder. "That's your call. Just don't expect a hand pulling you out if things go sideways."
"I know."
He didn't say it with arrogance. Just quiet certainty. The kind that came from knowing he needed this—not to prove anything to her, or even to the System. To himself.
Kaelira studied him for a few seconds longer, her gaze unreadable. Then she stepped back.
"This one's yours," she said. "If the flame's really with you—prove it."
Sang-Hyun let out a slow breath. He looked at the portal again. There was no drama to it. No swell of music or cinematic pause. Just a moment. Just a choice.
And he stepped forward.
As his foot crossed the threshold, the world pulled sideways.
Cold air rushed around him. The ground beneath his boots shifted from cracked concrete to steel grating. A low metallic groan echoed from somewhere deep in the dark. The scent of rust thickened, laced with old wiring and stagnant water. Lights flickered overhead—sickly, pale yellow strips embedded in the ceiling that buzzed weakly like they'd forgotten how to shine.
The corridor stretched ahead—walls lined with dented metal panels and scorched piping, some hissing with slow leaks. Loose wiring snaked along the floor like veins. Somewhere in the distance, something clanged.
No flame. No fire. Just dead machinery and a hollow quiet.
But even in this cold, foreign place, the White Flame stirred in his chest. Not in protest. Not in alarm.
In anticipation.
He kept walking.
He wasn't here to survive.
He was here to claim it.
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The first sound that put him on edge was the whirring.
Faint at first. Like a fan struggling to start. Then came the mechanical twitching of joints. Metal scraping against metal. Sang-Hyun paused in the corridor, adjusting his grip on Emberfang. The air grew dense—not with heat, but with tension. Like something old was waking up.
The drones came out of the dark.
They weren't large—about the size of a toolbox, levitating just a foot or two off the ground. Four of them. Maybe five. Rusted metal shells with dented casings and blinking red sensors that flickered like dying embers. Their arms unfolded from compact bodies—thin manipulators ending in welding tips and jagged wire claws.
They didn't speak. Didn't make a sound beyond the hum and scrape. But the moment Sang-Hyun stepped forward, they moved.
One darted at him, faster than it looked. He pivoted, narrowly avoiding the jagged claw that whipped toward his shoulder.
Another rushed low, trying to trip him. He leapt over it, twisting mid-air, and came down hard with Emberfang slashing clean through the drone's frame. Sparks spat into the air as the unit collapsed, twitching.
"Too close," he muttered, spinning to face the next two.
They adjusted. Smarter than the first wave. More coordinated. They flanked him, one zipping left, the other right. He swung once—missed—and instantly had to Flame Step back to avoid a pincer grab.
It wasn't smooth. He overshot, slamming into a side wall. Metal rattled under the impact, and pain jolted through his arm.
He hissed between his teeth. "Still clumsy."
The drones recalibrated, sensors flickering, repositioning for another pass. He couldn't outpace them by instinct alone.
He closed his eyes for half a second. Breathed. Slowed everything down—not the world, just himself. Focused.
He wasn't trying to overpower them. He needed to outthink them.
He reached into the resonance. Not deep—just enough to feel it. To feel them.
Their warmth wasn't natural, but it was there—timed, pulsing, like machines trying to breathe. Predictable. Traceable.
The first came at him again.
He sidestepped, Emberfang slashing across its midsection in one clean arc. The second, just behind it, veered—but too late. Sang-Hyun was already moving, ducking low, rolling under its path and Flame Stepping behind it. The heat of his movement left a streak in the air.
One quick upward cut. Done.
The last drone hovered, scanning, uncertain. Sang-Hyun raised Emberfang again.
"Come on."
It shot forward, claws outstretched.
He waited. One breath. Two.
Flame Step.
He blinked behind it—closer, more controlled. No overshoot this time. He was inside its blind spot before it registered the shift.
He brought Emberfang down hard, cleaving the drone in two.
Sparks scattered. Bits of metal clanged across the floor.
Silence returned.
Sang-Hyun stood there, chest rising and falling, heart thumping but steady.
He'd started this fight reacting.
He ended it adapting.
Not just surviving.
Improvising.
And winning.
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The corridor opened up into a vast chamber.
Where the hallway had been narrow and oppressive, this space stretched wide and tall—an old assembly floor, judging by the crumbling catwalks overhead and rusted machinery still anchored to the far walls. Massive robotic arms hung limp from the ceiling, once meant to lift or weld but now coated in grime and disuse. Everything smelled of dust, oxidized metal, and stale oil. The silence wasn't peaceful—it was expectant, like the room was holding its breath.
Sang-Hyun stepped slowly across the threshold, boots clanging lightly against the metal floor. His grip on Emberfang tightened. The air felt heavier here. Not because of heat, but because of pressure—like the dungeon itself was watching.
A low, rhythmic thud echoed through the chamber.
He froze.
Another thud. Closer. Then a hiss—pressurized air escaping from old tubing—and a shape moved in the dark.
With a grinding shudder, a tall, four-legged sentinel stepped forward from behind a pillar of collapsed machinery. Its hydraulic limbs groaned, joints stiff and overbuilt. It looked like an old maintenance bot, but warped—its plating uneven, bolted over with scavenged armor. The red glow of its eyes was steady, cold, and calculating.
The noise it made wasn't mechanical rage. It was mechanical duty. A machine that didn't understand him—just marked him as intruder.
"Alright," Sang-Hyun muttered, drawing Emberfang and lowering into a ready stance. "Let's see how you handle a little heat."
The sentinel lunged.
Faster than it should've been. The impact of its first step vibrated through the floor. Sang-Hyun threw himself into a roll, narrowly avoiding a piston-driven stomp that left a crater where he'd been.
He came up swinging. Emberfang connected with the sentinel's side, scraping hard—sparks, but no real damage. The blade skidded off the armor, ringing like a tuning fork.
The sentinel turned with a sharp whir. Its arm extended, swinging a heavy claw meant for industrial work.
Sang-Hyun ducked under the arc, pivoted, and Flame Stepped sideways. The burst carried him cleanly to the right—no stumble, no skid. He landed light, controlled.
"Better," he murmured.
The sentinel recalibrated. Its movements were mechanical, but not mindless. It began circling, limbs clanking with eerie rhythm. He watched the pulsing heat at its core—a steady throb of energy that flared just before it moved. That's where he needed to look. Not the arms. Not the legs. The pulse.
He narrowed his eyes.
There.
When the pulse surged again, he moved.
Flame Step—forward.
A blur of motion. He blinked behind the sentinel just as it lunged, missing entirely. His boots hit the floor in perfect balance, flame trailing at his heels.
He slashed low—Emberfang cutting into the exposed wiring behind its right hind joint.
Sparks burst out like blood. The machine staggered.
It twisted, trying to bring a limb around to swat him, but he was already gone. Another Flame Step—short, clean, instinctive—brought him to its flank. He twisted into a two-handed strike, aiming for the panel he'd just weakened.
The sword bit deep.
The sentinel screamed—a screeching, feedback-heavy noise that rattled through the walls.
But Sang-Hyun didn't back off.
One last Flame Step.
He vanished and reappeared at the sentinel's blind side, right hand steady, blade aimed. With a final push, he drove Emberfang into the cracked panel at its chest—where the core throbbed, vulnerable.
The blade sank in.
The sentinel jerked once.
And collapsed.
Its limbs folded inward like a spider's, and a final hiss of steam rose from the cracks in its plating.
Sang-Hyun stood over it, breath heavy but even, flame still flickering faintly across his shoulders and arms.
He didn't grin. Didn't gloat.
But he felt it—that flicker of satisfaction. Of progress.
He wasn't guessing anymore.
He was reading.
He was creating.
And it was starting to show.
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Past the wreckage of the sentinel, the chamber funneled into a narrow passage—partially caved in, almost hidden behind twisted girders and collapsed wall panels. Sang-Hyun paused, letting his breath settle. Emberfang hung loosely at his side, the weight of recent battles grounding him. The adrenaline had faded, but something in the air kept him alert.
The corridor was cooler than the others. Quieter. The mechanical hum that haunted the rest of the dungeon faded here, replaced by a kind of stillness that felt... deliberate. Like the silence was watching.
He moved forward slowly, driven less by logic and more by the subtle pull in his chest—the White Flame guiding him with a quiet certainty.
Then he found it.
The door was unlike anything else in the dungeon. Not metal or rusted tech, but stone—ancient and dark, carved with soot-stained glyphs that pulsed faintly with mana. The kind of magic that felt older than the building itself. Older than the dungeon. Maybe even older than the world.
As he stepped closer, the flame in his chest stirred—like it recognized something. A flicker of memory, or something deeper.
The glyphs lit up as the Ashen Sigil on his chest pulsed in answer.
The door groaned open with a sound like stone breaking from time. Warm air rushed out, stirring the dust. The room inside was dim, illuminated by the soft glow of old warding circles etched into the floor. It felt less like a prison and more like a tomb waiting to be opened.
At its center, a figure knelt.
She was suspended in faint light, wrapped in delicate threads of mana that shimmered like cobwebs. Her armor was worn but intact, styled in the old Flameborn aesthetic—elegant but practical, patterned with crimson lines like veins of fire that had long since cooled.
Sang-Hyun stepped inside, slowly. The White Flame pulsed gently in his chest, not flaring, not warning—just... recognizing.
The light around her flickered.
Then she moved.
Her head lifted, slowly, as if surfacing from a deep dream. Her eyes opened—soft gold, faded with time but still glowing with something ancient and unyielding. They locked on him.
For a heartbeat, neither moved.
Then, she bowed her head.
Not in panic. Not in confusion. But reverence.
"The White Flame," she whispered. Her voice was cracked from stillness, but sure. "I never thought I would feel it again."
Sang-Hyun felt his throat tighten. He didn't know why—he just knew she wasn't wrong. This moment felt... inevitable.
She lowered herself fully, hands pressed to the floor, forehead resting lightly against the old stone.
"I am Lysara. Once of the Flameborn. A mage to the White Flame Monarch's vanguard. If he lives within you... I am yours to command."
There was no pleading. No dramatics. Just conviction.
Before Sang-Hyun could speak, he felt a familiar heat at his back—Kaelira stepping into the room, silent and watchful.
She looked at Lysara, then at him.
"She knows," Kaelira said softly.
And Sang-Hyun, flame still pulsing steadily in his chest, found himself nodding without hesitation.
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The final section of the dungeon revealed itself like the closing act of a quiet play—silent corridors giving way to a wider space, circular and stripped of the jagged remnants that marked the earlier fights. The room was unnervingly quiet, sterile in contrast to the grit and decay they'd pushed through so far.
But it wasn't empty.
The boss waited at the far end—massive, slouched like it had been dormant for decades, nestled against a console half-swallowed by the wall. Its shape was humanoid, but only loosely. Thick limbs, oversized shoulders, hydraulic pistons jutting from its elbows and spine. Its arms ended in clawed constructs that looked more like salvage equipment than weapons—but Sang-Hyun knew they could crush steel.
Its eyes were dark.
Until he stepped closer.
The machine shuddered awake with a clunk of metal-on-metal, red eyes flaring like warning lights. The ground rumbled as it stood.
Gears shrieked. Servos clicked. The air filled with the static sting of energy building.
Sang-Hyun gritted his teeth and raised Emberfang.
Beside him, Lysara lifted her hand. A ripple of mana pulsed outward as a sigil formed midair—a layered, intricate circle glowing orange.
"I'll jam its targeting," she said. "Not long, but enough."
He nodded once. "Let's make it count."
The boss lunged.
Its clawed arm came down like a guillotine. Sang-Hyun dove left, Flame Stepping mid-dodge to reappear on the far side. The construct turned faster than expected, catching the edge of his cloak with a sweep of its other arm. He cut loose, slipping free just in time.
"Marking the back!" Lysara called.
A flare of orange lit up the boss's spine. The metal shimmered, then dulled—vulnerable.
Sang-Hyun didn't wait. He sprinted forward, ducked beneath a swing, and carved a deep line into the marked panel. Emberfang caught, sparked, and burned as it slid across the softened plating.
The machine howled—a screech of feedback and pressure releasing. It spun, hurling him backward with a swipe he barely blocked.
He rolled to his feet.
Lysara didn't stop. Another sigil formed and dropped like an anchor—slowing the boss's footwork. A shockwave blast ricocheted off a translucent barrier she'd placed a second before.
They weren't synced perfectly, not yet. But they were moving around each other, responding, adjusting. His flame, her glyphs. His blade, her timing.
It was working.
"Opening—now!" she shouted.
He didn't think. Just moved.
One Flame Step carried him under the arc of its swing. Another lifted him just past its guard. Then a final blink behind it, near the flickering sigil she'd placed on its spine.
He thrust Emberfang with both hands.
The blade drove in. The light in the boss's core faltered.
It froze.
And collapsed.
Its bulk hit the ground with a sound like an entire floor giving way. Smoke hissed from its chest. Sparks fizzled and died.
Sang-Hyun stood still, blade trembling in his grip. His pulse slowed.
Lysara stepped forward, stopping at his side. Her expression was unreadable, but her breathing was calm. Controlled.
"Not bad," he said, finally. "You really are Flameborn."
Her lips lifted—not a smile, exactly, but close.
"You're getting better at using what's yours."
Kaelira's voice echoed from the far wall. "You're still sloppy. But you're improving."
He chuckled, letting Emberfang rest on his shoulder.
The flame within him pulsed again.
It wasn't alone anymore.
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After the boss's remains stopped sparking, Sang-Hyun gave the room one last scan. The silence that followed felt different—earned, not eerie. The dungeon wasn't collapsing, but something in the air had shifted. A kind of quiet acknowledgment.
Kaelira joined them at the center of the room, her eyes briefly flicking to Lysara before returning to Sang-Hyun. "You claimed the gate," she said, her tone more neutral than usual.
He nodded. "Felt like it."
A soft chime echoed from his phone—oddly mundane against the backdrop of the dungeon's grim silence. He pulled it out and glanced at the notification: Gate #019 – Clear Confirmed. Mana Crystal Harvest Permitted.
"Thirty minutes?" he asked, looking between the two of them.
Lysara tilted her head. "We'll need sacks for extraction."
"I'll improvise," Sang-Hyun said, already heading toward the first cluster of glowing crystals embedded in the wall.
The next half hour passed in methodical silence. Sang-Hyun pried crystals from the walls with Emberfang and bare hands while Lysara used small bursts of flame to reveal clusters buried deeper in the stone. Kaelira didn't help, but she didn't interfere either—watching, measuring.
By the time they gathered everything worth carrying, Sang-Hyun's arms ached and his bag bulged.
He glanced back toward the now-dormant core of the boss.
"I think we did alright," he said quietly.
"You're getting there," Kaelira replied.
Lysara simply nodded, her expression unreadable, though her posture had eased.
As they exited the gate, the light behind them dimmed. The portal sealed with a low hum, like a breath exhaled.
Kaelira's eyes flicked sideways toward Lysara. "You're going to need to mask that appearance. Flameborn walking around the city tends to draw attention."
Lysara nodded without argument. "Of course."
She lifted her hand and drew a symbol in the air with two fingers, the motion fluid and practiced. Mana shimmered around her body, glowing faintly before fading into a subtle ripple. Her features blurred for a second—her fiery hair dulled to auburn, her glowing eyes softened into a deep amber. Her armor became a simple black jacket and jeans over what looked like a light top. Functional. Forgettable.
Her true form had been striking: tall, with bronze-tinged skin, etched markings along her arms that glowed faintly when she spoke, and crimson hair with gold threads that caught light like live flame. Her human disguise stripped all of that away, but there was still something commanding about her presence.
Sang-Hyun raised a brow. "Neat trick."
"It's called Flame Veil," she said. "It's not permanent, but it should be enough to blend in."
Kaelira gave a small grunt of approval. "Good. We don't need the Hunters' Guild sniffing around."
Sang-Hyun looked down at the Ashen Sigil on his chest, still faintly warm.
The flame had drawn someone new.
And he had proven, at least to himself, that he could carry it forward.
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