The path to the Trial Caverns was long and steep—cut through stone, wrapped in mist, and marked by a thousand carved names.
Each name was that of a cultivator who had passed the Flame Ascension Trials.
Not all were still alive.
Long Xiyue walked alone, her spirit beast coiled at her heels like a shadow. Yanluo had grown larger in the past weeks. Its obsidian scales shimmered like living glass, its eyes bright with ancient intelligence.
They reached the entrance at dusk. Two sentries flanked the gate, but they said nothing. Merely stepped aside.
Word of her trials had already spread. Word of her brand. Her refusal to bow.
And so they watched her disappear into the dark.
The Flame Ascension Trials were said to be the final test before a cultivator shed their mortality.
Not many reached this far. Fewer were sent early. No one—no one—went through with a Crimson Brand still burning.
But the elders had sent her anyway. Some hoped she would fail.
Others feared she wouldn't.
The first chamber was wide, dome-shaped, and eerily silent.
Carved into the walls were ancient murals of fire gods and celestial dragons. A river of lava pulsed beneath a glass-like floor. Xiyue stepped forward, sensing heat and spirit pressure rising with every breath.
A disembodied voice echoed through the chamber.
"You seek power. But have you earned a name?"
Xiyue raised her head. "I seek nothing. I claim what was stolen."
"Then claim it. Call your blade."
A thousand motes of fire danced in the air. Then shapes formed—swords. Long blades, curved daggers, polearms of gleaming obsidian. They floated around her in silence.
The Trial of the Blade.
Each weapon was a spirit-forged vessel. A cultivator must draw the one meant for their soul. Draw the wrong one—and it would kill her.
She closed her eyes.
The fire inside her pulsed.
The Dragon Vein whispered. Not in words, but in rhythm. A pulse. A heartbeat.
One sword flickered.
It was not the grandest. Nor the sharpest.
It was flawed. Cracked near the hilt. Its flame was faint.
She reached out.
The sword snapped toward her palm like a hawk to its master.
And fire exploded around her.
When she opened her eyes, the blade was whole. Reforged by her touch. The crack was gone. Its edge pulsed with gold-red heat. Its hilt bore a sigil: a dragon coiled around a burning sun.
The chamber shifted.
A door of molten steel opened before her.
She stepped through.
The second chamber was colder.
Dark. Walled with black stone. Her breath fogged in the air.
A ring of runes glowed faintly on the ground.
In the center: a chained beast.
It looked like a dragon—but wrong. Its wings were broken. Its scales dulled. It snarled with hate, its golden eyes clouded.
A trial beast.
"Tame it," the voice commanded. "Or be devoured."
Xiyue stepped inside the ring.
Yanluo hissed but stayed at the edge, watching.
The chained creature lunged. It was fast. Strong. A head taller than her. It snapped with fangs of flame and clawed at the air.
She dodged—barely. Fire grazed her side.
The chain pulled the beast back, just enough for her to breathe.
She did not strike.
Not yet.
Instead, she watched.
The creature's movements were not wild. They were pained. Repetitive. She saw it favor its right side. Saw scars along its back—sigil burns. Suppression glyphs.
It wasn't mad.
It was tortured.
She lowered her sword.
"You're not a trial. You're a prisoner."
It roared.
She stepped forward.
"You smell the same fire in me, don't you?"
It hesitated.
"Do you want revenge?"
Silence.
She extended her hand.
"Then follow me."
For a long breath, nothing moved.
Then the chains shattered.
The beast growled low—and bowed.
Its form shimmered, then shrank, until it resembled a smaller wyrmling with dark crimson wings.
Yanluo and the beast met eyes. Not rivals. Kin.
Two spirit beasts.
Unheard of.
And yet, the chamber opened again.
The final trial awaited.
The third chamber was a mirror.
Literally. Every surface reflected. Ceiling, floor, air.
And within each reflection, another Long Xiyue.
Some wept.
Some laughed.
Some bled.
One stood crowned in ash.
Another lay dead at a grand elder's feet.
Each reflection played a future.
The voice spoke again:
"This is not about flame. This is not about power."
"This is about will. Which of you will you become?"
Xiyue stepped forward. The reflections shifted.
A younger her, afraid.
An older her, consumed by hatred.
A version who ruled through cruelty. One who fled it all.
They screamed, pleaded, tempted.
She stood still.
Then raised her sword.
"None of you are me."
She struck the mirror.
It shattered.
Light poured through.
And she fell to one knee, not from exhaustion—but revelation.
The trials ended.
When she emerged from the cavern, two days had passed.
Her blade hung at her side.
Two spirit beasts followed.
The Crimson Brand still burned on her skin, but her flame was brighter than ever.
She didn't wait for the elders.
She didn't bow.
She walked straight to the training grounds.
And as disciples paused, staring at her and the beasts at her heels, one whispered what many had begun to believe:
"She doesn't need a sect."
"She is a sect."
And Long Xiyue began training—not to survive, but to lead.
The fire had chosen her.
And soon, the world would follow.