The wind howled through the outer mountains of the Crimson Lotus Sect, its breath sharp and cold like knives against skin. Snow clung to the rocky ledges and coiled around pine trunks, while a faint crimson hue colored the mist—an unnatural glow that never seemed to fade from these lands. Somewhere deep within the sect, bells chimed, their sound distant and indifferent.
Long Xiyue knelt alone beneath a gnarled plum tree in the servant's quarter, fingers raw and red from scrubbing the temple brazier. The scent of burnt sandalwood still clung to her sleeves, but beneath it lingered something else—coppery, metallic. Faint traces of blood, scrubbed into the stone and buried beneath her nails. The others had long since finished their tasks, chattering about the Immortal Selection that would take place on the next full moon. They giggled about outer disciples with sharp jaws and cold eyes, about breaking free of their servitude.
But Xiyue remained. Not because she hoped. She knew better.
No one chose the ash-born.
She wrung out her cloth in silence, gazing not at the temple walls or the dying light above but inward, as though searching a deep well. Her thoughts were not of cultivation, nor of selection ceremonies. They hovered over a face long lost to memory—a mother with eyes like firelight, whispering lullabies in a forgotten dialect. And of flames. So many flames.
A tremor stirred within her chest. Not emotion. Something older. Heavier.
Her hand paused.
Below her breastbone, a warmth pulsed—a single beat, deep and resonant, like a drum echoing through a cavern of bone. She stiffened, breath caught in her throat. It had happened before. In dreams. In fleeting moments when the world fell quiet. But this time, it did not fade.
Instead, it grew.
A low hum vibrated through the air. Birds scattered. The brazier beside her, long cooled, shimmered with a brief flash of heat.
"Long Xiyue!"
The spell shattered. The voice was sharp, grating, familiar.
Elder Mo.
She didn't flinch. Her back straightened slowly, like a coiled reed snapping into place. The elder's heavy steps crunched across the stone, his breath already heaving in irritation.
"You missed the purification hour." His voice was thick with disdain. "You tarnish the sacred grounds with your filth."
"I am done cleaning, Elder," she said quietly.
He stepped forward, robes billowing. His hand lifted—
But it stopped midair.
His eyes widened.
A glow rippled through her irises. Faint, gold, but unmistakable.
"No..." he breathed. "It cannot be."
Behind her, the old plum tree shuddered. For decades it had stood barren, lifeless. But now, as if spring had broken free from time's grip, it bloomed. Deep scarlet petals burst from blackened limbs, fluttering down around her like drops of blood.
Xiyue rose.
She did not feel the cold. Did not hear the elder's panicked muttering. Her gaze was distant, locked inward, where the warmth had swelled to a blazing heat.
The seal was breaking.
She remembered it now. Her seventh birthday. The chains of Qi that pierced her flesh. The robed figures chanting. Her mother's scream as the flames consumed the temple around them. She remembered the pain—the unbearable pressure as something ancient and furious was locked inside her.
The Dragon Vein.
"You…" Elder Mo took a step back. "You are supposed to be dead."
Her lips parted slightly. "You tried."
Suddenly, the plum tree ignited.
Flames danced across its limbs without consuming it, casting a crimson light that painted her skin in the color of royalty. Her simple servant robes fluttered in the rising wind, and from her chest, a sigil began to glow.
A dragon, coiled in ouroboros, its eyes gleaming with twin stars.
The symbol of the Celestial Flame Bloodline.
Elder Mo turned to flee—but the ground cracked beneath his feet. Heat surged up through the courtyard stones, splitting them in jagged lines. The very air around her shimmered.
She didn't raise her hand. She didn't speak a word.
And yet, he burned.
The fire wrapped around his legs, climbed his spine, seared his scream into the cold night. In seconds, there was nothing left but char.
Xiyue swayed.
The warmth dimmed, leaving only embers. Her breath was ragged, her vision blurred, but her body felt light—as if the chains that had bound her were gone.
From the temple's higher tiers, bells rang again.
This time not for prayer.
They were alarms.
Xiyue looked down at her hands. They no longer trembled. Her veins shimmered faintly beneath her skin, as though lit from within.
The bloodline had awakened.
A soft voice, half memory, half spirit, whispered in her mind:
You must rise, my daughter. You were born to burn empires.
And for the first time in her life, Long Xiyue smiled.
Above her, the stars blinked into view.
And somewhere far below the mountains, a slumbering dragon opened its eyes.
She returned to her quarters not as a servant, but as something ancient reborn. Her room was small—bare stone, a straw mattress, a chipped basin of water. Yet when she entered, the shadows withdrew.
Xiyue sat cross-legged and breathed in.
Qi flowed through her like never before. Not drawn. Not begged for. It came willingly, like water rushing to fill a broken dam.
She closed her eyes. The inner world opened.
She stood in a sea of fire.
Above her, stars burned. Not cold stars of the night sky, but living things—each one a node of potential, of future cultivation paths. Her soul, once a grey ember, now glowed with a vibrant hue of red and gold. She reached toward one of the stars.
As her fingers brushed it, pain lanced through her spine. Her bones shifted. Muscles tensed. Her blood screamed.
And then—clarity.
She saw the veins of the dragon. The pathways where fire and light could be directed through her meridians. She saw her weakness, her wasted years. And she saw the first gate.
The first realm.
Body Tempering.
It would come quickly now. She was not starting from nothing. She was reclaiming.
She drew the Qi inward. Flames erupted along her arms and legs, burning away impurities. Her skin blistered, cracked—and then healed, smoother and stronger.
It was agony.
And she welcomed it.
Hours passed. The world outside shifted. Voices rose. Alarms echoed through the sect. Somewhere, elders convened. Somewhere, names were whispered in panic.
But Xiyue sat motionless, her eyes closed, her breathing steady.
By dawn, the plum tree would still burn. The stone would still crackle with heat.
And a new cultivator would rise.
Not a disciple.
Not a sect girl.
But a force older than bloodlines and sacred oaths.
The Dragon Empress had begun her path.