Chapter 3: Fire Beneath the Skin
The village of Arin'Thal hummed quietly in the twilight, nestled beneath the protective shade of the world-tree. Lanterns floated gently through the air, glowing with soft white fire, as if the stars had descended to keep watch over the villagers below.
Po sat cross-legged on a mat of woven leaves inside a circular hut carved into one of the tree's great roots. A small fire crackled in a suspended brazier, the flames burning green and blue, giving off no smoke and yet heating the room with strange efficiency.
He stared into the fire, his thoughts tangled.
Thread of Reversal… soul-bound… unravel fate…
The words of the woman elder rang in his ears.
"I don't understand," he muttered to himself. "Why me?"
Kaelen sat across from him, slicing fruit with a curved blade made of bone and silver. She handed him a wedge without looking up. "The Flame doesn't make mistakes."
Po took the fruit, biting into it. Sweet and sharp, like honey soaked in citrus. It grounded him, just slightly.
"Where I come from," he said slowly, "power is earned. Through years of cultivation, mastery of techniques, overcoming tests. I didn't earn any of this. I didn't even survive with dignity. I was—"
"Beaten," Kaelen finished. "Shamed. You fell."
He looked up at her.
"But then," she continued, "you stood up. Not in that world—but here. And here, perhaps standing is enough. For now."
Po was silent. The weight of her words settled over him like a second skin. He didn't want to admit how much it hurt—the memory of Jian Fei's blows, of Liu Meilin's cry for mercy, of lying broken on the arena floor.
But here he was.
Alive.
Changed.
"Will I be able to return?" he asked quietly.
Kaelen shook her head. "The Veil only opens one way. Once the Thread is pulled… the pattern must be rewoven."
Po frowned. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
Kaelen stood, walking to the doorway. The village pulsed with faint music now—strange flutes and stringed instruments he couldn't name. "Live. Learn. And if the Flame is right… lead."
She turned to him, her starlit hair drifting like smoke. "Come. There's something you must see."
—
Kaelen led him to the village's center where the great tree's roots formed a natural platform. A dozen figures stood in a circle around a large basin carved of stone and crystal. Inside, molten fire swirled—not lava, but something more alive, pulsing with red, gold, and violet hues.
"The Ember Well," Kaelen said. "It reveals what lies beneath."
A tall figure stepped forward. He was broad-shouldered, armored in bark and bronze, with a spear taller than Po slung across his back. His eyes were molten amber.
"Are you the one?" the man asked, his voice low and thunderous.
Po didn't speak.
Kaelen answered for him. "He is Po. The Threadbearer."
The man frowned, then nodded slowly. "Let the Ember decide."
Po stepped hesitantly to the edge of the basin. The heat licked at his skin, but it didn't burn. Instead, it seemed to reach for him—like a dog sniffing an unfamiliar scent.
"Place your hand within," Kaelen instructed.
Po hesitated.
What if it burns me? What if I don't belong?
But he was tired of doubt.
He thrust his hand into the swirling fire.
Pain.
Not physical pain—but something deeper.
The fire wasn't heat. It was memory. Soul. Truth.
Visions slammed into him—flashes of his past life. Training beneath the cold waterfalls. Laughing with the younger disciples. The day he first saw Meilin. The jealousy in Jian Fei's eyes. Blood. Rage. Darkness.
Then the fire dove deeper.
He saw a vast battlefield beneath two moons. A tower of glass shattering. A dragon made of shadows devouring the sun. A golden book with empty pages. And a hand—his hand—writing glowing words into it.
A voice echoed once more:
"You are not the chosen. You are the change."
The fire flared, and Po staggered back, gasping. The basin went still.
Silence fell over the villagers watching.
Then, the armored man stepped forward and dropped to one knee.
"All hail the Flamebreaker."
Kaelen bowed her head. "It's true. He carries the Flame's memory."
"What does that mean?" Po asked, his voice unsteady.
Kaelen looked at him, eyes glowing. "It means your soul carries a fragment of the First Fire—the primal spark that reshapes worlds. You weren't brought here by accident. You were summoned. Not by a spell—but by the will of the world itself."
"I don't want to be a god," Po muttered.
"You won't be," she said gently. "But you might be something more dangerous: a mortal with the power to rewrite fate."
Later that night, Po sat alone on a root-ledge overlooking the forest canopy. The stars above Elyndra spun slowly, forming constellations he didn't recognize. The wind carried distant music and the scents of blooming night-flowers.
He clenched his fists.
All his life, he had believed strength was earned. That he could climb rank by rank, earn respect, earn love.
And in the end, he had been humiliated.
But now...
Now the world itself bent toward him. As if it knew something even he didn't.
He looked at his hands.
There was no cultivation base. No core. No
And yet—he felt something. A pressure under his skin. A whisper in his blood.
A fire waiting to be lit.
He didn't know what kind of man he would become in this world.
But he would never let himself be weak again.