Morning mist drifted through the Crimson Lotus Sect, cold and quiet like breath held in anticipation. The bells had not rung yet, and the courtyards were still. But there was tension in the air, like dry grass before a flame.
Long Xiyue stood at the center of it.
Summoned again before the elders.
This time, there would be no trial. No questioning. Only judgment.
The outer disciples lined the stone paths, whispering as she passed. Some looked away. Others stared with open awe or quiet fear. She walked barefoot, hair tied in a warrior's knot, her robe singed at the edges from last night's meditation.
The courtyard of flame was already prepared.
A pyre of enchanted wood sat unlit in the center, its purpose ceremonial but no less cruel. Around it stood the Grand Elder, the Flame Wardens, and ten high-ranking masters of the sect—all draped in crimson and gold.
Elder Gu stepped forward, his face set in grim finality.
"Long Xiyue, you stand accused of defying the sacred order. You challenged a core disciple—Jian Yu—and killed him in sanctioned combat. His lineage calls for blood."
She remained silent.
The Grand Elder raised a hand. "Though the duel was lawful, your display of unbridled power has disturbed the balance. You've attracted attention. Dangerous attention."
Another elder spoke up. "We cannot control what we do not understand."
"You mean what you cannot suppress," Xiyue murmured.
Murmurs rippled through the gathered crowd.
The Grand Elder's gaze sharpened. "The Crimson Brand is not death. It is a lesson. One you must carry visibly. Perhaps it will teach you the humility you've discarded."
Two Flame Wardens approached. One held a heated brand, glowing red-hot with runes of restraint and shame.
They reached for her arms.
She stepped back.
The air tensed.
For a moment, fire flickered at her fingertips.
Then she exhaled.
She turned and offered her shoulder.
The iron hissed against her skin. The crowd gasped. The brand seared through robe and flesh, embedding ancient characters into her. It pulsed once—locking part of her spiritual flow, a tether bound by sect law.
Xiyue straightened, even as smoke curled from her robes.
She did not scream.
She did not bow.
They gave her no escort back. No salve. No words.
She walked slowly through the outer court, sweat clinging to her brow, the scent of scorched skin trailing behind her. Disciples parted like grass before a blade.
Some looked upon her with pity.
Others with silent admiration.
One girl—Meilan again—ran up beside her.
"Does it hurt?" she whispered.
Xiyue looked at her. "Yes."
"Then why didn't you cry?"
"Because they wanted me to."
In her quarters, she undressed carefully and studied the mark in the mirror.
It was shaped like a spiral flame, woven with arcane patterns. It glowed faintly red, a permanent stain of dishonor in sect tradition. More than that, it acted as a limiter. A curse. The seal carved into her made channeling large amounts of Qi unstable—unpredictable.
They wanted her contained.
She sat before her training circle, laid out talismans of silencing and concealment, and began to meditate.
The Dragon Vein stirred within her, agitated.
The spirit beast, Yanluo, slithered closer and coiled beside her. It growled low—unhappy, protective.
She reached out, placing a hand on its obsidian scales.
"Not yet," she murmured. "Not until I've learned how to burn this curse away."
She spent days re-learning control.
Where once she had drawn Qi like a current, now it came in bursts and chaos. The brand disrupted her flow every time her inner fire surged too high. She burned her palm. Then her leg. Once, the entire training room.
But she learned.
She adapted.
Instead of brute force, she refined. Instead of summoning torrents of fire, she shaped ribbons of flame that danced and curved with will alone. She began studying forbidden arts—silent channeling, mirror flame weaving, inverted sigil loops.
Old, forgotten scrolls hidden deep in the library's restricted vault began to vanish one by one.
She replaced brute heat with precision. Power with elegance.
And the fire inside her purred.
One night, a warden came to her quarters unannounced.
He stood at the threshold, wary.
"You are summoned to the Flame Hall. Not a punishment this time."
"What then?"
"A test. A new trial. They've... adjusted the sect's rites. Just for you."
She rose slowly.
"Tell them I'm ready."
He looked uncertain. "You've just begun to—"
"I'm ready."
The Flame Hall was a sacred space, once used to test the worth of future elders. It had been closed for years, its hearth dim.
Now, fire roared within.
Xiyue entered alone. The doors sealed behind her.
Three flames hovered before her—each a trial:
The First Flame: Endurance of Pain
The Second Flame: Mastery of Flow
The Third Flame: Truth of Self
She stepped toward the first.
Flames rose around her, scorching, biting. The brand on her back ignited in protest, sending agony through her limbs. But she stepped forward, again and again.
She did not collapse.
She passed.
The Second Flame coiled like a serpent. It moved when she moved, dancing just beyond reach. She had to tame it—not with strength, but rhythm. She mirrored its flow, learned its dance. Hours passed. Days.
When she finally caught it, it rested in her palm.
She passed.
The Third Flame flickered, then bloomed into a mirror of fire.
She saw herself—crowned, robed, standing atop a battlefield of ash.
Alone.
The vision whispered:
Is this who you wish to become?
She looked into her own burning eyes and answered:
"No. But it's who I must be."
The flame bowed.
She passed.
When she emerged, the elders were silent.
The Grand Elder stared at her with an unreadable expression. "You should not have succeeded."
"I'm getting used to that," she replied.
And walked past them.
The brand still burned on her back.
But it no longer felt like a curse.
It was a challenge.
And she would burn through it all.