Chapter 8
The map burned away in Rui's hand before the wind could catch the last corner.
Another dead lead.
The shrine hadn't held the First Breath scroll after all. Just more questions, more warnings, and one more Dragon Heir trying to gut him like a rabbit.
He flicked the last ember from his palm, watching it drift away like every hope he had for peace.
"You sure about this?" Yan Zhi asked from beside the stream, sharpening her dagger on a whetstone.
Rui didn't answer right away. He stood barefoot in the water, eyes locked on the mountain's shadow ahead.
"We follow the pulse," he said eventually. "It's leading me north."
"That's not an answer."
"No," Rui said. "It's a promise."
They crossed into the valley of Ashfall just before nightfall.
A strange place.
Everything looked dead—but not rotten. More like it had been preserved by flame. Trees blackened, yet upright. Grass that didn't bend to wind. Rivers that steamed even when cold.
"Something's wrong here," Rui murmured.
"You think?" Yan Zhi said, stepping over a half-melted shrine post. "This entire region was marked off-limits even during my years with Crimson Fan."
"Why?"
"They called it cursed," she said, "but no one ever explained why."
Now they knew.
The ground felt… wrong. Like something beneath was pulsing. Not the same way Rui's Dragon Pulse did—it was duller, more like it had been bound, forced to keep quiet for centuries.
But now?
It was waking up.
At the heart of Ashfall, the city revealed itself—Azhakai.
A dead city. Cracked walls. Crumbling towers. Streets flooded in golden ash that didn't stick to skin but burned if inhaled.
Yet as Rui and Yan Zhi moved through the ruins, they saw signs of life.
Fresh footprints.
Smoldering incense.
A bowl of still-warm fruit left beside a broken statue.
"Someone's here," Rui whispered.
Yan Zhi nodded. "Several someones."
A drumbeat echoed faintly in the distance.
Slow. Hollow. Like a funeral march.
They followed it.
Down winding alleys. Through shattered temples. Past carvings of winged beasts and long-dead emperors holding scrolls.
Until they reached the main square.
Hundreds of people stood in silence—barefoot, cloaked in ash-stained robes, heads bowed. In the center, atop a stone pedestal, stood a man with a mask made of white bone.
His voice carried over the square.
"We are not dead. We are not forgotten. We are not unworthy."
The crowd repeated it in perfect unison.
"We are not dead. We are not forgotten. We are not unworthy."
Rui froze.
Because he knew that chant.
He'd heard it before—in the nightmares that came after the scroll opened.
The voice that whispered to him in his sleep… had said it too.
Yan Zhi pulled him back into the shadows.
"You recognize that?" she asked.
"Yeah," he said. "It was in the dream. When the Dragon Lord first spoke to me."
"What does it mean?"
He looked back at the masked man.
"I think," he said, "it means they follow one of the heirs."
They watched as the masked speaker stepped down from the altar.
He removed the mask.
And underneath… was a child. Barely sixteen. Eyes golden. Skin glowing faintly.
But there was no innocence in his face.
Just power.
"The Third Heir," Rui whispered.
"He's a boy," Yan Zhi said, stunned.
Rui shook his head. "He's a weapon."
The boy walked among the crowd, touching each person on the head. Some cried. Others convulsed. A few collapsed entirely, trembling with euphoria.
"They worship him," Yan Zhi said.
"No," Rui said. "They're being fed something. Look at their eyes."
Sure enough—every person who was touched now had faint golden veins pulsing under their skin.
Dragon Pulse.
Corrupted.
Rui stepped forward instinctively.
Yan Zhi grabbed his arm. "Are you seriously thinking of confronting him here? In the middle of his flock?"
"They're not followers," Rui said. "They're prisoners in their own bodies."
"Still. We don't know what he's capable of. We're outnumbered."
"That's never stopped me before."
"Maybe it should."
But it was too late.
The boy turned.
He stared directly at Rui, as if he had known they were there the entire time.
He raised a hand.
The square fell silent.
Then he spoke, calmly, like greeting an old friend:
"Brother."
Rui froze.
The boy stepped forward, his followers parting like waves before him.
"You made it," the Third Heir said. "We weren't sure if the shrine would accept you."
Rui narrowed his eyes. "You were watching?"
"We always watch."
Yan Zhi stepped beside him, blades ready.
The boy didn't blink.
"We are not enemies, Shen Rui. We are kin. We share the same pulse. The same fire. The same curse."
Rui spat at the ground. "Then maybe I'll burn the curse out of both of us."
A smile flickered on the boy's lips. "You can try. But know this—every time you use the pulse, you feed it. And every heir you destroy... brings you closer to becoming one of us."
Rui ignited the flame in his palm.
Just a spark.
But the boy's eyes widened, briefly.
Then he stepped back.
And gave a slow, deliberate nod.
"Not yet," he said. "But soon."
He turned to his followers.
"Let him leave."
They parted again.
Silent.
Obedient.
Not a single one moved to stop Rui and Yan Zhi as they backed away into the shadows.
Rui's pulse still buzzed in his chest.
But it wasn't power.
It was a warning.
They left Azhakai at dusk, neither speaking for the first hour.
When they finally stopped to rest, Rui sat beside a dying tree and stared at his hands.
"I don't think I can win," he said.
Yan Zhi looked at him. "You've won before."
"Not against this."
She paused. "Do you think he was telling the truth?"
"That I'll become like them?"
"Yeah."
Rui didn't answer.
Because deep down, a small part of him wasn't sure anymore.
That night, as Rui sat alone beneath a sky streaked with dying stars, one question burned harder than the pulse in his chest:
If saving the world turns me into the villain… who will stop me when I go too far?