Chapter 11: The Order

The wind had changed.

Elian felt it the moment he crossed the ridge into the broken highlands that marked the edge of the realm. It wasn't the cold that unsettled him, nor the silence that followed his steps—it was the weight. The sense that he was being watched. Not by beasts or men.

But by something older.

Ashbound remained sheathed at his side, but its pulse had quickened, the blade responding to an unseen threat. He'd learned to trust it. And so, when the sky darkened without clouds, and the earth whispered beneath his boots, he stopped.

He wasn't alone.

A figure emerged from the mist ahead.

Robed in black. No footsteps. No sound.

Then another. And another.

Five in total. They surrounded him in a perfect circle. Their faces were hidden beneath hoods stitched with ancient runes, their hands gloved in silver. None of them spoke.

But Elian could feel it.

Their essence was wrong.

Cold. Hollow. Like fire that burned backwards.

"The Ashbound has awakened," one of them finally said, voice like dry paper.

"You stand in violation of the Flame Pact," said another.

Elian kept his posture relaxed, but his heart pounded.

He'd never fought someone at this level. Never faced cultivators who felt like walking voids.

"I reclaimed what was mine," Elian said.

"You inherited what should have been buried," said the first. "We are the Order. We protect balance. You are an anomaly."

Elian's grip tightened around Ashbound's hilt. "Then maybe balance needs to be broken."

The Order didn't flinch.

The five moved at once.

No signals. No telegraph.

Just motion—fluid and terrifying.

Elian unsheathed Ashbound. The moment it cleared its scabbard, the earth split beneath his feet, flame roaring outward like a shockwave. One of the robed figures vanished instantly—consumed in a swirl of crimson fire.

But it wasn't enough.

The others pressed forward.

One reached out with a hand, summoning chains of ash that tried to bind Elian's limbs. Another unleashed spikes of obsidian essence that rained from the sky.

Elian ducked, rolled, countered with a flaming arc.

Ashbound danced in his grip, alive with fury. Every slash ignited the air, turning the battlefield into a whirlwind of embers and screams.

But the Order didn't die easily.

They reformed. Reassembled from shadows.

"They're not human," Elian muttered.

And they weren't.

They were constructs. Echoes of a deeper force.

And that force was coming.

He had to escape.

He slammed Ashbound into the ground, channeling everything he had. A ring of flame exploded outward, forcing the Order to retreat for a breath. That was all he needed.

He ran.

Through the ash. Over shattered stone.

The Order followed, but they didn't give chase in haste. They watched.

Observed.

Learning.

He made it to the cliffs before he collapsed. Ashbound's glow had dimmed, the sword no longer humming. He'd pushed too far. Burned too bright.

He fell to one knee, panting, the flames inside him flickering like a dying star.

"Rest," said a voice behind him.

He spun, ready to strike—

But it was an old woman.

Hunched, wrapped in animal furs, her eyes burning with golden light.

"You wield Ashbound poorly," she said, unfazed by his stance. "But better than most would."

"Who are you?" Elian demanded.

She knelt beside him, touching two fingers to his chest. Warmth surged through him. His breath steadied. His essence flowed again.

"I am Keeper Ilara," she said. "Last guardian of the Ashblood line. And I've been waiting for you."

Inside her cave, Ilara told him what the Order never would.

"They were not always shadows," she said. "Once, they were monks. Guardians of the First Flame. But when the Flameborn Pact was shattered, they chose balance over mercy. They became hunters."

"And me?" Elian asked. "What am I?"

Ilara looked at him for a long time. "You are what they fear most. A true successor. Someone who can wield the Twelve Conduits without falling to madness."

Elian hesitated. "They said I was an anomaly."

"You are," she said. "But anomalies shape the future. The question is—will you be its savior or its destroyer?"

That night, Elian meditated near the fire.

The Order had nearly killed him. His power wasn't enough.

Not yet.

But now he had a mentor.

A guide.

Ilara promised to teach him the Ashbound Arts—a forbidden style that drew from the deepest veins of flame and soul.

It would not be easy.

It would hurt.

But Elian had never feared pain.

Only weakness.

He opened his eyes.

The Order would come again.

And next time…

He would be ready.