The morning mist still clung to the mountains like a ghost reluctant to leave. I stood at the edge of a moss-covered cliff, the cold wind biting my skin, and let my gaze drift over the vast valley below. The sect grounds stretched endlessly—stone walkways snaked through lush bamboo forests, courtyards bustled faintly in the distance, and towering pavilions pierced through drifting clouds like silent sentinels.
Once, this sight filled me with pride. Now, it only reminded me of how far I'd fallen.
"Ling Xuan."
The voice was soft, almost hesitant. I turned to see a boy in blue robes standing a few steps away, clutching a scroll to his chest. He couldn't have been older than thirteen. His face still carried the softness of childhood, but his eyes flickered with curiosity as they studied me.
"Senior Brother Chen," I greeted, forcing a faint smile. My voice sounded calm, but even I could hear the hollowness behind it.
He stepped closer. "The Sect Master has summoned you to the Main Hall."
I gave a small nod, tucking my hands into my sleeves. "Of course."
The boy hesitated, clearly wanting to ask me something, but he bit his tongue and scurried off instead. I watched him go, my lips curling into a bitter smile. Even among the junior disciples, rumors spread like wildfire. They all knew of Ling Xuan—the so-called "Flame Child" who had once dazzled the elders, only to fall so low he was barely worthy of being called a disciple.
And now, I was being summoned. Again.
The walk to the Main Hall felt longer than it should have. Disciples bustled about the stone paths, some carrying crates of spirit herbs, others engaged in practice. Conversations hushed as I passed. Some cast pitying glances; others smirked.
"Isn't that him?" a voice whispered from a shaded corridor.
"Yeah, the one who lost everything."
"He used to be a genius… Now look at him."
"Shhh! He might hear you."
I did hear them. I always did. Their words didn't sting anymore; they were just a dull echo, like rain tapping on a rooftop.
The grand doors of the Main Hall loomed ahead, carved with dragons and phoenixes intertwined in eternal struggle. I took a deep breath and pushed them open.
Inside, the hall smelled faintly of incense and sandalwood. Rows of pillars lined the room, and at the far end sat the Sect Master, robed in white, his expression serene yet sharp as a blade. Beside him stood two elders, both with hands clasped behind their backs, their gazes fixed on me like I was a puzzle they'd long since given up solving.
"Ling Xuan," the Sect Master said evenly. "You've returned."
I bowed deeply. "Yes, Sect Master."
He studied me in silence for a moment before speaking. "It's been two years since your… incident." His tone carried no malice, but the weight of his words pressed down like a mountain. "Your dantian remains shattered, your cultivation stagnant. Yet you still insist on remaining within the sect."
I kept my head low. "I have nowhere else to go."
That earned a small hum from one of the elders. Elder Zhao, a man whose beard was whiter than snow, stepped forward. "Xuan'er, I was among those who once believed you would lead this sect into a new golden age. You possessed talent far beyond your peers. Yet talent alone is not enough. You must understand—this sect cannot hold dead weight forever."
I clenched my fists within my sleeves but said nothing.
The Sect Master raised a hand, silencing Elder Zhao. His gaze softened—just barely. "We will not cast you out. But your path will not be easy."
He gestured, and a disciple stepped forward, placing a jade token in my hands.
"This grants you access to the Flame Archive," he said. "A place most disciples dare not tread. Perhaps you'll find something there… or perhaps not. It is your choice."
The Flame Archive. I'd heard whispers of it before—a secluded cavern buried beneath the sect, filled with ancient scrolls and abandoned techniques. Few ever ventured there, and fewer returned with anything of worth. It was a place for the desperate.
I bowed again. "Thank you, Sect Master."
As I turned to leave, I could feel Elder Zhao's disapproving gaze boring into my back. But there was also something else—a flicker of interest in the Sect Master's eyes, almost as if he were… testing me.
That night, I stood at the entrance to the Flame Archive.
The stone door was massive, etched with runes that pulsed faintly under the moonlight. A cold wind seeped through the cracks, carrying a faint scent of ash and something older, deeper—like the breath of a slumbering beast.
I pressed the jade token against the door. The runes glowed brighter, and with a low rumble, the door creaked open.
Inside was darkness.
I stepped in. The door sealed behind me with a dull thud, cutting off the moonlight. For a moment, I could see nothing. Then, torches flickered to life along the cavern walls, revealing rows upon rows of shelves carved from stone, stacked with ancient scrolls. Dust floated in the air, and the silence was so heavy it felt alive.
I walked slowly, fingers grazing the spines of scrolls as I passed. Many were old martial techniques—some incomplete, others so obscure they were practically useless. I skimmed titles: Flame Serpent Fist, Blazing Sun Palm, Ashen Breath Technique. Nothing special.
Hours passed. My legs ached, and my head pounded from exhaustion, but I pressed on, deeper into the archive.
That was when I felt it.
A faint tug, like a thread pulling at my soul.
I froze. The sensation was coming from the far corner of the cavern, where a shelf stood alone, its wood rotting, its scrolls barely intact.
Drawn by an instinct I couldn't explain, I approached. My eyes fell on a single scroll, buried beneath layers of dust. Unlike the others, its edges glimmered faintly, as if coated in embers.
I reached out and touched it.
The moment my fingers brushed the surface, the world shifted.
A rush of heat surged through my body, so intense I staggered back. The scroll burned against my skin, but I couldn't let go. My vision blurred, and suddenly, I was no longer standing in the archive.
I was floating in a sea of flames.
The fire wasn't just around me—it was inside me, burning through every vein, every nerve. Yet there was no pain, only a strange… familiarity.
"…Child of Flame."
The voice echoed through the inferno, soft yet commanding. I spun around, but there was no one there—only endless fire.
"Who's there?" I called out.
"Your flame sleeps… but not for long."
The voice faded, and with it, the flames dissolved.
I gasped and stumbled back, finding myself in the dim cavern once more. The scroll lay in my hands, its glow fading. My heartbeat thundered in my chest.
What was that?
I didn't sleep that night.
Back in my small courtyard, I sat cross-legged under the faint glow of a lantern, studying the scroll. The characters written on it were ancient, their strokes flowing like fire itself. It was a cultivation method—unlike anything I'd ever seen.
The Dreamflame Codex.
The words sent a shiver down my spine. The technique was fragmented, its instructions cryptic, but one thing was clear: it wasn't meant for ordinary cultivators.
I read through the first passage carefully.
"To touch the flame is to be consumed. To wield it is to be reborn."
My fingers trembled slightly as I traced the characters. Whoever had written this wasn't just powerful—they were beyond comprehension.
The scroll's energy pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat, resonating with something deep within me.
I closed my eyes, focusing on the first breathing technique described within. The energy inside my shattered dantian stirred faintly—something I hadn't felt in years.
A spark.
Tiny, fragile, but undeniably real.
For the first time since my fall, I felt hope.
But I wasn't foolish enough to believe this would be easy.
The sect was a place of whispers and shadows. If anyone discovered I had found this scroll, I doubted they would simply congratulate me.
I extinguished the lantern and hid the scroll beneath a loose floorboard. Then I sat back, staring out at the moonlit courtyard.
Somewhere deep in my soul, the voice from the flames still echoed.
Your flame sleeps… but not for long.
A chill ran down my spine. I didn't know what awaited me, but I could feel it—this was only the beginning.
And beginnings… were always dangerous.