The bandits stopped in their tracks, faces pale.
Qingsai stared at his hand—no longer trembling. The fire didn't burn him. It curled around his fingers like silk. Alive. Aware. Ancient.
One of the men lunged.
Qingsai moved without thinking.
He sidestepped, flame blooming from his arm like a serpent. It slammed into the attacker, launching him into a tree with a crack of burning bone.
The others panicked. "He's a spirit-cursed! Kill him!"
Too late.
Qingsai raised his hand and unleashed a wave of blue fire, controlled and focused, roaring like a lion across the clearing. The bandits screamed as it tore through their ranks—searing flesh, devouring weapons.
When it was over, three lay still, scorched and silent. The fourth crawled, trying to escape. Qingsai stepped toward him.
The man begged, "Please… I didn't know—!"
But Qingsai's voice was calm.
> "You took them. You were going to sell them. I remember… what people like you become."
He raised his hand again.
The flame answered.
When the smoke cleared, the shrine was ash.
The girls were safe, watching from a distance, eyes wide.
And Qingsai stood alone—his clothes singed, the flame fading from his palm.
He collapsed to his knees, heart racing.
> "I… awakened."
Far above, in the Veil Realm, a familiar spirit stirred.
Yulanis smiled.
> "Welcome back, Soulkindled."