The Ember Heir...

The great stone doors groaned open, ancient hinges echoing like the sound of thunder retreating through a canyon. Tian Qiren stepped forward, the soles of his sandals whispering over the polished volcanic stone floor. The chamber was vast but quiet, as if sound itself feared to linger here.

Flame-fed braziers burned low along the perimeter of the room, casting dancing amber light on soot-darkened walls. Carved into the stone were symbols unfamiliar to him—archaic calligraphy, roaring flame motifs, and interwoven sigils of power long forgotten by the outer world.

Before him stood four figures—three elders draped in layered robes of ash-grey and ember-red, and a woman he recognized.

Not Yan Yue.

No, this woman had spoken to him once—briefly, sharply, the day he had awoken. Older than him, but not aged. She had eyes like dying coals—dim, but still dangerous.

None of them smiled.

Elder Nianshu stood in the center, arms folded into his sleeves, face unreadable as ever. The others had the air of sages, but there was no peace in their expressions—only curiosity guarded by caution.

"You've been carrying a fire far older than you understand," Nianshu said without preamble.

Qiren hesitated, his heart thudding loud in his chest. "I… don't understand."

"No," the woman said flatly. "You don't. But you will."

She stepped forward, and for the first time, Qiren noticed the sigil etched into the clasp of her mantle. Three spiraling flames entwined like dragons chasing their own tails.

"The pendant," she said. "It bears the seal of the Crimson Luhuo Sect."

The name meant nothing to him. But the way she spoke it—quietly, reverently, with a touch of dread—set the hairs on his neck rising.

"We do not speak of them lightly," she continued. "Fifteen years ago, they ruled the Flame Region—not through diplomacy or tradition, but power. Flame-bending arts that could reduce valleys to glass. They had no equals. Only fear. And eventually... betrayal."

Qiren swallowed. "What happened to them?"

"They burned too brightly," Nianshu said, eyes fixed on him. "And like all fires left unchecked... they consumed themselves. Their sect was razed. Their legacy buried. Or so we believed."

He felt his pulse quicken. "I didn't know. I swear. That pendant—my mother gave it to me. It's all I have left of her."

The woman's gaze flickered. Not softened. But narrowed. "And yet, when you were found in the woods, nearly dead, it was not your wounds that drew us."

She turned to the elders.

"It was the surge."

Nianshu's voice lowered. "A firestorm that erupted without origin, without technique. It didn't answer your will, Qiren. It answered your blood."

Qiren stared down at the pendant against his chest. It sat quiet now, cold against his skin. But for a moment—back then—it had burned like a second sun.

"You think it's... that pendant?"

Nianshu did not answer.

Instead, one of the other elders stepped forward, a stooped man with eyes nearly shut behind thick lashes. His voice, though rough, carried weight.

"That relic cannot remain in untested hands. The Luhuo bloodline was eradicated for a reason."

"I'm not one of them," Qiren said quickly. "I don't even know what that pendant does."

"Exactly," the woman cut in. "And that makes it more dangerous."

There was silence. Heavy. Cold.

Then Nianshu spoke again, voice low and final.

"We cannot risk the unknown. So we offer you a choice."

Qiren felt his shoulders tense, breath shallow. His fingers curled tightly around the edge of his robe.

"You may surrender the pendant," Nianshu said. "It will be sealed and studied under watch. You may remain here, but under no illusions of freedom."

Qiren's heart sank.

"Or…" Nianshu continued, "...you may keep it. But your path within this sect will be limited. Every step you take will be watched. Every spark, recorded. You will remain among us—but always at the edge."

The woman looked him dead in the eyes. "Either way, your life is no longer your own. You walk with the shadow of a firestorm."

He looked at them—three faces carved from stone. No kindness. No hatred. Only calculation.

His hand tightened over the pendant.

It pulsed—faint, but sure. Not hot. Not burning. Just... alive.

He looked up, voice rough with disuse. "I didn't ask for any of this."

"No one ever does," Nianshu said.

And that was the end of mercy.

He looked from Nianshu to the others—no compassion. Only duty. And fear.