“Let the fire consume all, and from the last ember, truth will rise.”

  — Last Teachings of the Obsidian Flame

  — Prologue —

  The temple was dying.

  Not in ruin, not yet—but in silence. The kind that settles just before flame takes its last breath.

  She ran, feet raw against the stone, breath tearing through her chest. Behind her, the jungle screamed with imperial thunder—iron boots on roots, the clash of steel against warded gates, and the sudden hush that always followed it.

  She didn’t look back.

  The inner sanctum rose before her, shaped from jagged obsidian, its altar crowned with six black flame braziers. Five had gone out. Only the central flame remained, guttering violet and strange. It pulsed when she entered, as though it recognized her.

  So did Elder Meiyu.

  The old woman stood at the altar, robes torn, one arm hanging limp. Her remaining eye found Lian immediately—not with surprise, but with something worse.

  Acceptance.

  “You shouldn’t have come back,” Meiyu said.

  “I never left,” Lian whispered. Her voice cracked. “Where are the others?”

  A pause.

  “Gone.”

  Lian stepped forward. Her hands trembled. She didn’t want to see what Meiyu was holding, but she did.

  The shard.

  Warm as blood. Cold as guilt.

  It pulsed like a voice waiting to be heard.

  “There’s no one left to carry it,” Meiyu said. “But it must be buried. It must be remembered.”

  “I’m not strong enough.”

  “Then you’ll become someone who was.”

  They didn’t embrace. They didn’t cry. There wasn’t time for grief.

  The doors began to quake. Outside, a voice rang out—formal, practiced.

  “Surrender now. You will not be harmed.”

  Lian took the shard.

  Meiyu turned, raising her one good arm, flame rippling along her skin, her hair, her spine. The light cast her in silhouette—more spirit than woman now.

  “Go. Now.”

  Lian ran.

  Through half-collapsed tunnels slick with ash, down crumbling stairs once sacred, into the temple’s rootstone where the air smelled of old prayers and forgotten bones.

  Her head rang with voices—not the shard’s. Her own. The teachings. The songs. Her mother’s whisper before she took the oath.

  She found the hollow beneath the broken shrine.

  She placed the shard inside.

  And then she took out her blade, found a patch of stone unburnt, and carved something—a message, not for salvation, but remembrance. A sliver of truth that might survive what came next.

  The chamber shook.

  And when the soldiers breached the shrine, all they found was fire.

  — Liu —

  1,400 Years Later

  The sea mist parted like silk as the ferry glided into Chengtan Harbor.

  Liu Shen stood quietly at the rail, watching the coastline unfold. The wind smelled of salt, woodsmoke, and distant citrus groves. Morning light drifted through the fog, catching the tops of masts and rooftops, gilding the city in soft gold.

  This was his first time seeing Chengtan—not on a scroll, not in a story, but with his own eyes. And still, it felt familiar. Like a place he'd visited in dreams.

  Stone walls curved with the hills. Fishing boats bobbed like sleeping insects in the harbor. Layers of roofs climbed the cliffs in tiled steps, broken here and there by bell towers or garden pavilions. Banners rippled in the wind—some red-threaded, others painted with animals or clan marks. There were voices, too—hundreds of them, laughing, calling, singing—each one a thread in the tapestry of the city.

  Liu Shen took it all in without moving. He didn’t need to speak. The morning did it for him.

  The dock was warm beneath his boots.

  The crowd pushed forward in waves, but Liu stayed near the edge, walking at his own pace, hands tucked into the sleeves of his traveling cloak. He could hear gulls above, their cries sharp and strange, different from the ones back home. Somewhere, someone was roasting chestnuts; the scent drifted through the air and mixed with sea salt and lantern oil.

  He liked it.

  The city's pace was faster than Jiebing, but it wasn’t unfriendly. People moved with purpose, but not with malice. Even the soldiers seemed more bored than cruel.

  He followed the banners—red-threaded silk hanging from beams and lampposts, fluttering just enough to guide the way. They reminded him of the festival streamers his mother hung each spring, woven with coins and good wishes.

  As he climbed toward the upper roads, the sound of the harbor faded behind him. In its place came the hush of temple bells and the soft rustle of trees growing between stone courtyards. The air thinned slightly, the breeze cooler. A good place to breathe.

  And somewhere beyond it all, waiting unseen: the Testing Grounds.

  He didn’t rush.

  By midmorning, the fog had lifted and the sun had settled into a gentle warmth.

  Liu walked without urgency, the strap of his pack snug across his chest, his feet guided more by instinct than direction. Stone streets curved gently between squat shops and old wooden homes, their roofs weathered and moss-lined. Flowering trees arched overhead in some places—small pink blossoms drifting like lazy snow when the wind passed.

  Stolen story; please report.

  He passed a pair of old men playing xiangqi outside a teahouse. One of them glanced up at Liu’s traveling cloak and said, “Another for the test, eh? Hope you brought your patience.”

  The other snorted, tapping his tile. “Hope he brought clean underclothes.”

  They both laughed, not unkindly. Liu offered a small nod and moved on.

  Everywhere he turned, there were people like him—young, nervous, excited, lost. Some walked in clusters, loudly recounting travel stories or family advice. Others, like him, moved alone, eyes wide and quiet. A girl by a fruit cart asked if he knew where the Testing Grounds were, and when he shook his head, she grinned. “Guess we’ll both follow the crowd.”

  Near a bridge shaded by red-lanterned trees, he stopped to eat—flatbread wrapped around roasted mushrooms, handed over by a vendor with silver rings in both ears and a crooked smile. “First time in Chengtan?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  Liu looked out at the water glinting below, the boats drifting past like petals. “Yes,” he said.

  He lingered longer than he meant to. A potter spun clay nearby, her wheel squeaking in rhythm with her soft humming. A child tried—and failed—to catch koi in a pond with a bamboo net. Bells rang faintly in the distance.

  No one rushed him.

  When the sun began its slow arc westward, Liu finally asked a cart-pusher for directions to the city’s lower quarter. “Looking for a bed?” the man asked, brushing flour from his sleeves. “Plenty of inns near the Garden Wall. Most of the outlanders gather there this time of year.”

  It wasn’t hard to find. The Garden Wall was overgrown and half-cracked, a relic from before the city’s last expansion, now wrapped in ivy and painted with hand-drawn signs pointing to places with names like The Whispering Cup, Moonstep Lodge, and Red Casket Inn.

  He picked the least crowded.

  The Lantern Rest was tucked between a weaver’s shop and a dried tea stall. Its sign was faded but clean, and the scent of stew drifted from the open windows.

  The innkeeper, a woman with soft features and a sharper voice, looked Liu over with a merchant’s eye. “Just you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Room’s two jin for the night. That includes bathwater and rice.”

  Liu glanced into his pouch—four coins, total. He gave her two.

  She handed him a brass key and nodded to the stairwell. “Up the ladder, second door on the left. And mind the floorboards—they bite.”

  He found the room simple but clean. A straw mat, a shuttered window, a small desk with one leg shorter than the others. He placed his pack beside the bed and sat cross-legged for a moment, letting his breath settle.

  Then he went back downstairs, ordered a bowl of rice with fish broth, and ate in the corner of the common room, surrounded by the low murmur of strangers.

  A girl was telling a story about how she almost drowned in a river on the way here. A tall boy from the mountains was arguing with someone about which element was “most glorious.” A pair of friends whispered about what the test would feel like.

  No one spoke to Liu.

  And he didn’t speak to them.

  But he listened.

  The sun was long gone by the time the last bowl was cleared from the common room.

  Outside, the street had quieted, save for the occasional shout from somewhere deeper in the quarter. A few guests lingered near the firepit, telling half-serious ghost stories while someone played a stringed instrument softly in the corner.

  Liu stayed seated by the wall, turning his empty cup slowly in his hand. He hadn't meant to sit for this long, but the warmth of the stew, the scent of sandalwood smoke, and the low drone of conversation made it hard to move.

  It reminded him, oddly, of winter evenings back home—when his grandfather would light the forge just to keep the workshop warm, and his mother would tell stories in the dark. Not just history or parables.

  Cultivator stories.

  How the heavens once spoke through flame. How warriors raised mountains with a shout. How an ancestor of theirs—great-uncle Shen Bo, or maybe someone older—once channeled earth through his bare hands and turned a crumbling pass into solid ground.

  He’d asked once if the stories were true. His mother had smiled, as if to say “They’re true enough.”

  He looked now at his palms—scarred, calloused, strong. He’d earned them honestly. Not from scrolls, but from hammering iron, carrying crates, tending to flame that had no spirit.

  Still… he wondered.

  It would be perfect if I have Earth affinity, he thought. Not because it was the strongest. Not because of the stories.

  Because Earth felt like something he understood.

  Stillness. Weight. Patience.

  But he’d never felt a pull. Not once. No spark, no vision, no flicker in the corner of his mind.

  Just… breath.

  Maybe that was enough.

  At some point, the music stopped. The fire burned low. A gentle hush fell over the room, like the city itself had exhaled.

  Liu stood and made his way upstairs. The wood creaked underfoot, as the innkeeper had warned, but it creaked like old friends do—familiar, harmless. In his room, he opened the window just a crack. Enough to let in the night air.

  Chengtan was quiet now. The rooftops stretched like scales beneath a starlit sky, soft lights flickering in the distance. Somewhere far above, the Temple of the Elements glowed faintly on the cliffside. And beyond it… the Testing Grounds.

  He sat on the mat, cross-legged, hands resting on his knees.

  And he breathed.

  Not to calm himself. Not to prepare. Just because it felt right.

  When sleep came, it did so gently.

  He woke before the sun.

  No dreams. No dread. Just the gentle call of morning birds outside the window, and the soft ache in his shoulders from travel and sleep. Liu sat up slowly, rolling one shoulder, then the other. His breath came steady.

  The room was still shadowed. Pale light seeped in through the window slats, not yet gold. He folded his mat, tied his cloak, and reached for the dark iron shape in his pack.

  He turned it in his hand—just once—before setting it back inside.

  Outside, Chengtan was hushed.

  The upper streets were nearly empty, save for early vendors sweeping storefronts and lighting lanterns for tea stalls. Mist clung low along the alleys, curling through courtyard gates and over old stone bridges. The scent of warm rice, spring leaves, and faint incense drifted like a trail through the city.

  Liu followed it.

  The red-threaded banners were gone. In their place stood Imperial lanterns—tall, gold-framed, and marked with six intersecting rings. The Empire’s sign of elemental balance. A seventh symbol—a circle left blank—hovered faintly in the center. Undefined. Waiting.

  The road toward the Testing Grounds climbed in gentle curves, passing under tall willows and old walls carved with weathered maxims:

  “Will tempers the element.”

  “Service before self.”

  “The Empire binds the storm.”

  He passed other travelers along the way—some he recognized from the inn, others fresh from hidden districts and outlying roads. None spoke. Some walked alone. Some in quiet groups. A few whispered prayers.

  When they reached the final rise, the Testing Grounds came into view.

  It was not what Liu expected.

  Not a palace. Not a shrine. Not a grand hall with floating stones and lightning in the air.

  It was a courtyard.

  Vast, flat, and walled on three sides by high stone engraved with elemental sigils. To the east, a tall tower overlooked the grounds, flanked by guards in blue-and-gold. Beneath it stood a row of Elemental Order examiners, robed in dark gray with white sashes. They carried no weapons. They didn’t need them.

  There were already hundreds of youths gathered in orderly rows.

  Liu was directed wordlessly by a soldier—Room Nine, Barracks B. His group. He stood at the edge of the sixth row and adjusted the strap of his cloak, planting his feet. Not with defiance. Just balance.

  To his left, a tall boy with sun-reddened cheeks exhaled loudly. “D’you think it hurts?” he muttered.

  To Liu’s right, a girl clutched a charm in her palm, whispering something under her breath with each breath.

  No one knew.

  That was the point.

  A horn sounded once—deep and low, echoing through the stone.

  An examiner stepped forward. She was older than most, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, holding a scroll bound in iron thread. Her voice, when it came, was not loud—but it carried.

  “You stand in the sight of the Empire. You were summoned not for glory, nor punishment, but balance. Today, the elements will look into you.”

  “Not all will resonate. Not all will awaken. Those who do will be claimed. Those who do not will return.”

  “Let your will be clear. Let your mind be still.”

  She lowered the scroll.

  Then came the second horn, and the gates behind her opened.