Dawn broke gently over the Wind-Crystal Valleys. Pale sunlight painted the mist in streaks of gold, and the world awoke with the chirping of birds and rustling leaves.

  Fenrir Bricks groaned.

  He lay face-down on a mossy stone, shirt drenched in sweat, body trembling. His arms felt like lead, his legs like broken branches.

  "You’re dying well," Joshua said calmly from a nearby boulder, sipping tea.

  Fenrir turned his head weakly. "This is... cultivation?"

  “No. This is the part before cultivation—called suffering.”

  ---

  Training Regimen: Day One

  Joshua believed that before one could cultivate the Dao, one had to reforge the vessel.

  Fenrir’s first task was physical foundation forging—running up and down the steep valley trails with weighted stones, breaking apart river rocks with a dull wooden sword, and balancing on narrow logs while reciting the Ashfire Sutra aloud.

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  Not once did Joshua intervene. He only observed. Quiet. Calculating.

  Fenrir fell. A lot.

  He cursed. He bled. He wept.

  But he never stopped.

  ---

  On the third day, something changed.

  During meditation, as Fenrir chanted the sixth verse of the Ashfire Sutra, he felt a slow, coiling warmth in his abdomen. It was no longer fleeting.

  He focused. Breath by breath. Verse by verse.

  Suddenly—snap.

  A rush of energy surged through him, spiraling down his limbs like golden thread. His bones hummed. His skin tingled.

  His first meridian had opened.

  He gasped aloud. "I—I felt it!"

  Joshua opened one eye. “Which verse?”

  “Sixth.”

  Joshua nodded. “It begins.”

  ---

  Understanding the Flame

  That night, Joshua lit a small fire and beckoned Fenrir to sit.

  "You have something rare," he began. "An Ash Flame root."

  Fenrir blinked. "I thought it was low grade."

  "It’s not about grades. It’s about resonance. Ash Flame cultivators grow through collapse and rebirth. You are like fire that survives ruin. Each time you fall, your strength will deepen. But you must choose to rise. Every time."

  Fenrir swallowed. “What if I fail to rise?”

  Joshua stirred the fire with a branch.

  “Then the flame dies. And so do you.”

  ---

  First Combat Lesson

  By the end of the week, Joshua handed Fenrir a short bronze dagger.

  "No more weighted sticks?"

  "You’ve learned balance. Now learn fear."

  Fenrir raised the dagger uncertainly. “Against who?”

  From the trees, a Windfang Wolf stepped out. Lean, fast, and hungry. Not a spirit beast—but not weak either.

  Fenrir panicked. “I—I’m not ready.”

  “You never are. Fight anyway.”

  The wolf lunged.

  Fenrir ducked. Slashed. Missed. His breathing ragged, his form sloppy—but the Sutra whispered in his veins. Each near-death breath stoked the ember inside him.

  Finally, the dagger struck true.

  The wolf fell.

  Fenrir knelt, panting.

  His hands were bloody.

  His heart, alight.

  Joshua stepped forward. “Good. Now bury it. With respect. We kill not to rule, but to survive.”