Shen Zian awoke to darkness.
Not the comforting veil of night, but an oppressive blackness that clung to his skin like damp silk. For a moment, he couldn't remember where he was—only the ringing in his ears and the echo of lightning striking stone.
Then it came back.
The shrine.
The Primeval Core.
The Heaven Envoy.
The escape.
Zian stirred, groaning as pain lanced through his ribs. His body ached in places he hadn't known existed. Even his beast core flickered faintly, its once-blazing heat now reduced to embers.
"I need… qi," he muttered, pressing a hand to his chest.
But there were no beasts here. Only the narrow cavern he had stumbled into—cold, lifeless, forgotten. His wounds throbbed. The power he had used against the Envoy had cost him dearly.
Still, he had survived.
Barely.
That counted for something.
He glanced down at his hands. His fingernails had grown sharper again—thin, black edges curling like claws. His skin had a faint shimmer under the darkness, like beast-scale beneath flesh. The Primeval fusion had left its mark, both within and without.
He was changing. Slowly. Irreversibly.
But what he needed now wasn't power.
It was stability.
He sat cross-legged and drew a ragged breath. There wasn't much qi left in the air, but he reached inward anyway, focusing on the core within him. The beast core pulsed weakly, still integrating the conflicting fragments of the fox-beast, the panther, and the ancient Primeval essence.
The corpse qi, however… remained still.
Dormant. Cold.
As if waiting.
He reached for it.
Instantly, a chill shot through his body—ice crawling up his spine, filling his veins. But unlike before, there was no pain. No resistance. The corpse qi welcomed him now, folding over his awareness like a second skin.
And with it came something else.
A presence.
A whisper.
"You've opened the first gate…"
Zian's eyes snapped open.
Across the cavern, a small flicker of blue flame appeared—silent, floating midair, casting a sickly glow. From the flame emerged a figure—a man cloaked in tattered burial robes, with a skeletal mask carved from beast bone. Hollow eye sockets stared at Zian.
But he felt no malice.
Only… curiosity.
"Who are you?" Zian asked, rising to his feet unsteadily.
The masked figure inclined his head. His voice was like dry parchment rustling in wind.
"I am the Bone-Faced Keeper. Watcher of the Dead Path. You wear the mark."
Zian instinctively reached for his neck. The corpse talisman—shattered in the fight—was gone. But the faint imprint remained on his skin. A brand. Faint and gray.
"The talisman chose you. Few survive its call. Fewer still awaken the Corpse Flame."
Zian frowned. "What is it?"
The Keeper extended his hand. The blue flame drifted toward Zian and hovered just above his palm. It radiated no heat—only a sense of ancient stillness, like moonlight on a grave.
"It is a seed," the Keeper said. "Born from death. Fed by qi. It remembers the techniques lost to time. With it, you may walk the Path of Deathbinding—the art of shaping corpse qi into weapons, wards… and eventually, life itself."
Zian's heart pounded. "You mean necromancy?"
The Keeper's hollow eyes did not blink. "No. Not mindless puppets. Willful echoes. Fragments of soul and memory given purpose. Warriors bound by death and forged by your flame."
The blue fire pulsed once.
A memory surfaced—his battle with the Heaven Envoy. The skeletal serpent he had summoned from the shattered talisman. It had thought before it struck. Acted on instinct. Or command.
That had been his first step.
And this… the second.
Zian stared at the flame.
"What's the cost?"
The Keeper was silent for a long time.
"Balance. As you bind death, so must you remember life. Lose yourself in decay, and you become ash. But if you hold to purpose… you may wield what others fear."
Zian nodded slowly. "Then teach me."
The Keeper stepped back, and the flame split—five sparks orbiting Zian's hands and chest, each representing a different sigil. Glyphs appeared in the air: lines of script written in corpse qi, unreadable but understood.
"First lesson: Form the Flamebrand."
Zian watched as the glyphs condensed into a single sigil—sharp, angular, etched into the air like bone etched by claw. He reached out, and it burned into his palm without pain.
The blue fire responded.
A brand formed across the back of his right hand—an ancient symbol, glowing with eerie light.
Zian gasped. His senses sharpened again. The chill of death didn't fade—it merged with the beast qi, stabilizing it. The flame now danced within him, not as an enemy… but as a tool.
A part of him.
The Keeper nodded once. "You walk two paths now. Few survive one. You may survive both… or be consumed."
Zian bowed his head. "I don't plan to die."
"Good," said the Keeper. "Because from this moment on, the world will come for you."
"And not just the heavens."