The rain came on the third night.
It began as a whisper against the ash, soft and uncertain, then grew into a steady fall that soaked through the land, washing black dust into gray mud. The Ten Brothers rode beneath it in silence, hoods drawn low, the world around them blurred by mist.
Chen Feng felt the drops strike his face and mix with the soot there. For the first time in months, the air smelled clean. Yet the scent beneath the rain the faint, metallic taste of blood and burned soil never quite left. The land was trying to heal, but the scars ran deep.
Bao slept in a sling on Feng Wuyue's back, his small hands curled against the archer's cloak. He had grown quieter since the attack in the mountains, his eyes older than his years. He still flinched when Chen Feng drew his sword.
At dawn, they reached the edge of the plains where the Lotus Reborn's banners no longer flew. Here, the land was ruled by scattered clans merchants, thieves, and refugees who called themselves survivors rather than citizens. Smoke rose from a dozen small camps, and figures watched from a distance as the Brothers approached.
Li Heng raised his hand, signaling no threat. "We'll rest here," he said. "The horses are tired, and the child needs food."
They entered the largest camp, where a fire burned beneath a makeshift tent. A group of rough men eyed them warily, hands never far from their blades. Their leader — a scarred man with a single gold tooth stepped forward.
"Travelers?" he asked.
Li Heng nodded. "Passing through. We seek word of the north."
The man spat into the dirt. "Then you seek death. The north's crawling with flame cults and corpses. Every day more men march under the red banners. They call themselves the Sovereign's Chosen now."
Wu Zhen's eyes narrowed. "Sovereign's Chosen. So the name spreads."
The man shrugged. "They promise food, power, a place in their new world. Folk are desperate. Desperation doesn't ask what burns the bread as long as it's warm."
Li Heng dropped a small pouch of coins at the man's feet. "Our thanks."
As they turned to leave, the man called out, "If you're heading that way, don't bother coming back. No one does."
They rode north again under a sky that cleared with each hour. The rain had washed away much of the ash, revealing patches of green beneath the gray. It felt like a lie a moment of peace before something vast and terrible.
By dusk they reached a ruined fortress overlooking the valley. Its walls were half collapsed, but the towers still stood. They made camp within, lighting no fire.
That night, Chen Feng dreamed again.
He stood in a chamber of molten stone, the air trembling with heat. The Crimson Sovereign's voice echoed all around him deep, calm, inhuman.
The fire within you grows, vessel. But it remains chained. You wield it like a mortal, not a god.
Chen Feng looked up. The figure before him wore no mask this time. His face was a shifting flame, features forming and melting sometimes human, sometimes something far older.
"What do you want from me?"
I want nothing. You were made to serve. You were born from the same flame that birthed me.
"I'm not your servant."
No, the Sovereign said softly. But you are my shadow. And when light fades, the shadow returns.
The chamber shook. Chen Feng drew his sword, but the blade melted in his hand, turning to liquid fire that flowed into his veins. He screamed, feeling it burn through his heart, and the Sovereign's laughter filled the world.
He woke gasping, sweat freezing on his skin. Wu Zhen knelt beside him instantly, his hand on Chen Feng's chest. "The dream again?"
Chen Feng nodded. "He's getting stronger."
"The fire?"
"The Sovereign."
Li Heng joined them, eyes sharp. "We move at first light. If the Sovereign's influence reaches your dreams, he's close."
They left before dawn, riding hard. The land grew colder, harsher. Snow began to mix with the ash. Villages here were empty doors hanging open, no footprints, no sound. Only silence and the faint smell of burned incense.
By the third day, they reached the valley floor and saw what waited there.
An army.
Tens of thousands of soldiers in red and black armor stood in formation across the plain. At their center rose a colossal statue of the Crimson Sovereign carved from obsidian, its eyes filled with molten light. Around its base, monks in crimson robes chanted, their voices carrying like thunder.
"The Chosen," Li Heng murmured.
Zhao Ming spat into the dirt. "Chosen for the grave, maybe."
Chen Feng's gaze fixed on the statue. His heart pounded with every word of the chant. He could understand it now not by language, but by instinct. It was the same pulse as the fire inside him.
"They're awakening something," he whispered.
Wu Zhen's staff dug into the earth. "A ritual. They seek to draw the Sovereign's spirit fully into this world."
"Then we stop them."
Li Heng turned to him sharply. "No. Not yet. You felt what happened at the fortress. If you lose control again, the borderlands won't survive another fire. We need knowledge, not slaughter."
"I won't lose control."
"You already did."
The words struck deep, but Chen Feng said nothing.
They watched the ritual for hours. The monks poured oil into great bronze bowls and set them alight. Each flame turned crimson, not gold. The sky itself seemed to darken around them, as if night were descending at midday.
Bao clung to Feng Wuyue, eyes wide. "They're calling a god."
"Not a god," Wu Zhen said. "A curse."
When the first tremor hit, it came from beneath the earth. The ground cracked, and rivers of molten light surged upward. The statue's eyes flared, and the monks fell to their knees, chanting faster.
Chen Feng's sword began to glow again, burning through its wrappings. He groaned, clutching his chest. "He's here."
Li Heng shouted, "Fall back!"
But it was too late.
A column of crimson flame erupted from the statue, shooting into the sky. The clouds split apart, and a voice rolled across the land not sound, but thought, burning through every mind that heard it.
The age of ash begins.
The monks screamed as their bodies ignited, consumed by their own worship. The soldiers broke ranks, some fleeing, others dropping to their knees in devotion. The flame widened, reaching toward the heavens like a scar that refused to close.
The Brothers shielded their eyes as the blast wave struck. Chen Feng stood unmoving in the center, his hair whipping in the wind, the fire in his veins roaring in answer.
Wu Zhen's voice barely carried over the storm. "If you open yourself to it, he'll take you!"
"I can't stop it!" Chen Feng shouted.
The Sovereign's laughter echoed through his mind. You were born from my ember, child. There is no stopping what you are.
Chen Feng screamed not in fear this time, but defiance. He raised his sword and plunged it into the earth. The ground exploded in a ring of white flame that swallowed the crimson. For a moment, light and shadow warred across the sky.
Then silence.
When the smoke cleared, the statue was gone shattered into a thousand pieces. The army had scattered, their banners burning.
The Brothers stood amid the wreckage, coughing, their robes scorched. Bao clung to Wu Zhen, crying softly.
Chen Feng knelt in the mud, his sword dim once more. Blood trickled from his nose, his eyes red. "He's not dead," he whispered. "That wasn't him only his echo."
Li Heng placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then we follow the echo to its source."
The wind rose again, carrying with it a low, endless hum the sound of the Sovereign's presence retreating into the mountains beyond the plains.
The Brothers mounted their horses, the child between them, and turned north once more.
None spoke. The rain had stopped, but the world still smelled of smoke.
Behind them, the plains burned anew not with war, but with belief reborn, an old flame refusing to die.
And above them, high in the gray clouds, a faint red glow pulsed like a heart.
The Sovereign still breathed.
And his shadow walked beside them.
The plains stretched endlessly beneath the pale morning light, a vast wound upon the land where ash drifted like snow. The Ten Martial Brothers rode in silence, the wind dragging long shadows behind them. Every hoofbeat sounded like a heartbeat in a dying world. It had been weeks since the fall of the Lotus Fortress, and though victory had been theirs, the scent of blood had never truly left.
Chen Feng rode near the front, his eyes half-lidded but alert. Seventeen winters old, yet his gaze was older than most kings'. His cloak was tattered, the edge singed where his power had flared during the last battle. He felt it still that silent ember inside him, pulsing faintly, never sleeping.
The brothers traveled north toward the borderlands, where rumors spoke of a new warlord rising under a crimson banner. Everywhere they passed, villages lay in ruin, crops burned, the people scattered or dead. It was as if the world itself had grown weary of life.
Li Heng led the group, his broad back straight, eyes fixed on the horizon. Behind him, Zhao Ming carried the provisions, muttering under his breath about ghosts and famine. Wu Zhen rode a short distance away, his staff resting across his lap, the wooden rings clinking softly with every step of his horse. Feng Wuyue brought up the rear, his bow strung and ready, while Bao slept on his back, wrapped in a patched cloak.
For three days, they saw no signs of the living. Only vultures. Only silence.
On the fourth, they came across a settlement a scattering of huts near a dried riverbed. Smoke rose from the center, thin and gray. The brothers dismounted cautiously.
Li Heng motioned for the others to stay back and stepped forward alone. "We mean no harm," he called out. "We seek rest and word of the north."
No answer came. Only the creak of wood and the rustle of wind.
Then a sound a sob, faint but human.
From one of the huts, a woman stumbled out, her face pale and streaked with soot. In her arms, she carried a small bundle wrapped in cloth. She stared at them as though seeing phantoms.
"Please," she whispered. "You must go. They will come back."
Zhao Ming frowned. "Who?"
"The Chosen," she said, trembling. "The followers of the Sovereign. They took the men. Burned the rest. I stayed to bury my son."
The cloth shifted. Inside was not a living child.
Wu Zhen bowed his head. "He has peace now. You should leave this place."
"I cannot," she said, eyes glassy. "They said he would rise if I prayed hard enough. That the fire would give him life."
Her words struck something in Chen Feng. He stepped closer, but Li Heng caught his arm. "Don't."
"She's lost," Li Heng said softly. "You cannot save what's already gone."
The woman fell to her knees, whispering to the ash.
They left before sunset. None spoke for a long while.
By nightfall, they reached a ridge overlooking the valley. Below lay a sight that froze every heart: an army of thousands, torches burning red instead of gold. At their center, a massive statue rose a black figure of flame and stone, its eyes glowing like twin suns.
"The Sovereign's Chosen," Li Heng said.
Wu Zhen nodded grimly. "The cult spreads faster than any warlord. They don't need discipline. Faith is their chain."
Chen Feng stared down at the statue, and his pulse quickened. The fire in his veins stirred as though recognizing something ancient. He heard faint whispers, not from the men below but from within himself the same voice that haunted his dreams.
Child of the flame. You cannot escape what you are.
He turned away sharply, breath ragged. "We should move."
They camped among the ruins of an old fortress that night. The air was thin, cold, and heavy with the scent of storm. No one slept easily.
Chen Feng sat apart, staring into the dark. He could feel it the same pull that had haunted him since the day his mother died. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw her face again, pale beneath the red moon, whispering her final words: Do not seek revenge. Seek truth.
But truth was a blade that cut deeper than vengeance.
At dawn, they continued north. The closer they came to the heart of the borderlands, the stranger the land grew. The rivers glowed faintly at night, reflecting crimson light from no visible source. Trees bore leaves of blackened gold. The wind carried whispers fragments of prayer or madness.
On the sixth day, they reached a ruined temple built into the side of a mountain. The pillars were carved with symbols of the old dynasties, now defaced by fresh marks: the sigil of the Sovereign a flaming lotus bound in chains.
Wu Zhen ran his fingers along the carvings. "He was worshipped once," he murmured. "Long before men learned to fear gods."
Li Heng frowned. "You mean the Sovereign?"
"Not a god, not a man. Something in between. Fire given form. Creation and destruction bound as one."
"And you think he wants to return?"
Wu Zhen's gaze darkened. "He never left."
Before Li Heng could answer, Chen Feng gasped and clutched his chest. His sword trembled on his back, heat radiating through the scabbard.
"Chen!"
"I… I hear him," Chen Feng whispered. His voice shook. "He's calling from below."
The temple floor began to crack. Faint red light seeped through, and a low hum filled the air.
Zhao Ming drew his blade. "It's a trap."
"Or a test," Wu Zhen said grimly.
The ground gave way beneath them.
They fell into darkness, landing hard in a cavern lit by molten veins running through the stone. At its center stood an altar of obsidian. Around it knelt a dozen monks in crimson robes, chanting in a language that burned the ears.
On the altar rested a mask the mask of the Crimson Sovereign, its surface alive with fire.
The monks turned at once, their eyes glowing red.
Li Heng drew his sword. "Formation!"
The battle was chaos. The monks moved like shadows, blades flashing, bodies burning with inner flame. Zhao Ming cut down two in a single strike, but three more replaced them. Wu Zhen spun his staff, sending arcs of blue light through the air. Feng Wuyue's arrows found their mark again and again, but still the monks advanced.
Chen Feng stood motionless, trembling, his gaze fixed on the mask. The fire inside him roared in answer, urging him forward.
Take it, the voice whispered. It is yours. It was always yours.
He took a step.
"Feng!" Wu Zhen shouted. "Don't!"
But he couldn't stop. His hand reached the mask, and the moment his fingers touched it, light exploded through the cavern.
The monks screamed. The altar cracked. Chen Feng fell to his knees, the mask dissolving into flame that poured into his body. The Sovereign's voice filled every corner of his mind.
You cannot deny the fire. You are my shadow. You are my vessel.
Chen Feng roared and drove his sword into the ground. White fire erupted around him, colliding with the crimson. The cavern shook, stalactites falling like spears. The brothers shouted his name, but their voices were drowned by the storm.
When the light finally faded, the monks were gone — ash scattered on the wind. The altar lay shattered. Chen Feng knelt in the center, his eyes glowing faintly, the fire dim but still burning within.
Li Heng approached carefully. "Are you… still yourself?"
Chen Feng looked up, his face pale. "He's closer now. Every time I fight him, he learns."
Wu Zhen's expression was grim. "Then we must learn faster."
They climbed out of the temple and emerged into the dawn. The sun rose blood-red over the horizon, its light reflecting off distant columns of smoke. The land below was no longer silent drums echoed from the north, and red banners moved like fire across the plains.
"The Sovereign's Chosen march," Li Heng said.
"And we?" Zhao Ming asked.
"We follow," Li Heng replied. "If he's gathering armies, his body cannot be far."
They rode through the day, past fields of burned wheat and rivers turned black by ash. In one village, they found survivors starved, hollow-eyed, kneeling before a crude idol of flame. When Chen Feng approached, they screamed and fled, crying Demon! Fireborn!
He said nothing. He didn't need to. The fear in their eyes was truth enough.
That night, he sat alone by the edge of camp, staring into the dying embers of the fire.
Wu Zhen joined him quietly. "You cannot fight him by strength alone. He is not a man you can kill. He is a will that burns through ages."
"Then what am I?" Chen Feng asked softly.
"You are the spark that may end him or ignite the world anew."
Chen Feng looked down at his hands, faintly glowing in the dark. "I don't know which I'll be."
"Neither do I," Wu Zhen said. "But your mother believed you would choose rightly. That must count for something."
The night passed without dreams.
At dawn, the Brothers reached the edge of a ravine. Across it, the plains opened into a vast basin where the Sovereign's army gathered thousands of men kneeling before a blazing pit that seemed to reach the core of the earth.
In its heart stood the statue again rebuilt, larger, alive. Flames curled from its eyes as if it breathed.
The Brothers watched from the cliff as the ritual began. The monks chanted, the earth trembled, and the air itself caught fire.
Chen Feng's sword began to hum. He gritted his teeth. "He's calling again."
Li Heng nodded. "Then answer him but on your own terms."
Chen Feng stepped forward, raised his blade, and plunged it into the earth. The flame surged upward, clashing with the crimson fire below. The sky split in two white and red, light and blood.
The Sovereign's voice roared through the world. You cannot destroy me, child. I am every fire that has ever burned.
Chen Feng screamed back, "Then I'll burn with you!"
For a moment, there was only flame.
Then silence.
When the smoke cleared, the army was gone, the statue shattered once more. The Brothers stood amid ashes that glowed faintly like dying stars.
Li Heng turned to Chen Feng. "It's not over."
"No," Chen Feng said. "It's just begun."
Above them, high in the dark clouds, a faint red light pulsed like a heartbeat. The Sovereign still breathed.
The wind shifted after the battle. It carried not only the scent of smoke but something older—an echo of the Sovereign's laughter fading into the clouds. The Ten Martial Brothers stood among the ruins, their silhouettes framed against the red-streaked dawn.
For a long time, none of them spoke. The earth still glowed faintly beneath their boots, warm with residual fire. The plains below smoldered, the ashes swirling like spirits reluctant to leave. It was a victory, perhaps, but not one that felt earned.
Chen Feng knelt, both hands gripping his sword. The blade was cracked along the edge, the runes burned black. He could feel it breathing beneath his fingers alive, as though it too had been wounded. The whisper inside him had gone quiet, but he knew better than to trust silence. The Sovereign had only withdrawn.
Zhao Ming spat into the dirt and turned away. "That wasn't a battle," he said. "That was a message."
Li Heng nodded grimly. "And we received it."
Wu Zhen closed his eyes, his staff pressed into the ground. "The fire doesn't die. It changes shape. The Sovereign's essence is scattering seeping into men's hearts. He's no longer confined to temples or idols. He's becoming belief."
Chen Feng rose slowly. "Then belief must bleed."
Li Heng turned toward him sharply. "Watch your words. We fight monsters, not men."
Chen Feng's jaw tightened. "Men can be worse."
Feng Wuyue, who had been silent, glanced toward the horizon. "There's movement in the north. Columns of smoke. Refugees, maybe—or another army."
The brothers mounted their horses, Bao still asleep against Wuyue's chest. They rode along the ridge until they saw it clearly: a caravan winding through the valley below, hundreds of travelers women, children, wounded soldiers dragging carts and animals through the mire.
At their head rode a man in scholar's robes, his hair bound in a golden clasp. Even from afar, his bearing marked him as one accustomed to command.
Li Heng signaled a halt. "Refugees don't march with banners."
Sure enough, crimson pennants fluttered among the carts not the sigil of the Sovereign, but the mark of the fallen Imperial Court.
"The last remnants," Wu Zhen murmured. "The Empire's survivors."
When the caravan reached the foot of the hill, the scholar looked up and called out, "Travelers! If you are not of the flame, lend your strength. We seek passage through the borderlands."
Li Heng rode down first, his hand raised in peace. "Who leads this company?"
The scholar bowed from the saddle. "Minister Shen Qiu, once of the Dragon Court. We fled the capital before it fell. You are...?"
"Li Heng of the Ten Martial Brothers. These are my kin."
Recognition flickered across the man's face. "The Ten? I had heard tales of your deeds in the south. Then Heaven has not yet abandoned us."
Li Heng's eyes softened. "Heaven may yet test us, Minister. What brings you here?"
"The Sovereign's cult consumes everything it touches," Shen Qiu said. "Villages burned, cities turned to shrines. I seek the northern pass to find allies beyond the mountains. But my people are weary, and the flame-worshippers stalk our trail."
As if summoned by the words, a horn sounded from the east.
Shapes emerged from the mist riders in crimson armor, their faces masked in ash and soot. The Sovereign's Chosen.
The Ten Brothers moved as one.
"Defensive line!" Li Heng shouted.
Wuyue leapt from his horse, already stringing his bow. Zhao Ming and Shi Long formed the vanguard, shields locked. Chen Feng stood behind them, eyes narrowing as the enemy approached.
The clash was swift and brutal. Arrows hissed through the air, striking men and beasts alike. The Sovereign's soldiers moved with fanatical precision, blades burning faintly red. Their chants filled the air half prayer, half curse.
Chen Feng drew his sword. For a heartbeat, he hesitated he could feel the fire within begging to be unleashed but he forced it down.
Not yet.
He fought like lightning, cutting through armor and flame alike. But every enemy that fell seemed to burn brighter, their blood igniting as it touched the ground. The air grew heavy with smoke, with screams.
Wu Zhen's staff cracked skulls like thunder, the rings glowing blue. "They don't fear death!" he shouted.
"They don't believe in it," Li Heng replied grimly. "Only rebirth."
The battle raged until the valley floor was slick with ash and blood. Then, as suddenly as it began, the enemy broke. The survivors fled east, chanting as they ran:
The Sovereign sees. The Sovereign rises.
The words echoed long after they vanished into the mist.
When silence returned, the refugees began to weep.
Shen Qiu dismounted, bowing deeply. "We are in your debt."
Li Heng shook his head. "No. The debt belongs to the dead. Make their loss mean something."
They stayed with the caravan that night. Fires burned low, and the survivors huddled close for warmth. Bao wandered among them, offering bits of bread and soft words far wiser than his years.
Chen Feng sat apart, staring into the flames. The crackle reminded him of the Sovereign's voice, the way it whispered between breaths.
Wu Zhen joined him quietly. "You held it back this time."
Chen Feng didn't look up. "Barely. Every strike I make, I feel him closer. As if my blade cuts not flesh but the thread between us."
"You are the thread," Wu Zhen said. "And he is pulling."
Chen Feng closed his eyes. "What if I break?"
"Then we tie you back together," Wu Zhen said simply. "That is what brothers do."
The wind rose, scattering embers into the night.
By dawn, they rode north again, escorting the caravan toward the mountains. The path grew narrow, the air colder. The forests here were twisted, their trunks scorched black, yet green shoots pushed through the cracks. It was as if the land itself refused to die.
That afternoon, as they passed through a narrow defile, the sky darkened unnaturally. A shadow fell across the path, and the horses reared in terror.
Out of the gloom stepped a single figure a woman in crimson robes, her face hidden by a veil of ash.
Li Heng drew his sword. "Name yourself."
Her voice was soft, melodic. "You need not raise your blade, Warden of the South. I am not your enemy."
Zhao Ming snorted. "Then why hide behind the Sovereign's colors?"
She lifted her veil slowly. Her eyes glowed faintly gold not the Sovereign's crimson flame, but something gentler, older. "Because I once served him. And now I serve the balance."
Wu Zhen stiffened. "A defector?"
"I was his oracle," she said. "I spoke his will before he remembered his name. But he has awakened too soon. The fire hungers beyond his control. He devours not only the wicked, but all."
Chen Feng dismounted, his gaze piercing. "You know him."
"I know what he was," she replied. "And what he made of you."
The brothers tensed, but Chen Feng raised a hand. "Speak."
The woman bowed her head. "You are the spark that escaped the Sovereign's pyre the fragment of his essence given mortal flesh. When your mother fled the temple, she carried his seed of flame within her. You are not his creation, but his error."
The words struck like thunder. Chen Feng staggered back, heart pounding.
"My mother…"
"She was chosen to bear a vessel, not a son. Yet her love gave you will beyond his command. That love is your strength and his weakness."
Li Heng stepped forward. "Why tell us this now?"
"Because he comes for you. His body burns in the north, in the Cradle of Fire. When he rises, the world will end in flame. You alone can stop him."
Wu Zhen's eyes narrowed. "Or fulfill him."
The woman smiled sadly. "Both paths are the same until the last step."
She turned, walking into the mist.
"Wait!" Chen Feng called. "What is your name?"
She paused. "I was called Yuexin once. Remember it when the fire tests your heart."
Then she was gone.
The brothers rode in silence. The revelation hung over them like smoke.
As dusk fell, they reached the northern rim of the borderlands. Beyond lay the Mountains of Echoing Flame jagged peaks wreathed in perpetual mist, glowing faintly from veins of lava deep below.
The caravan halted, too afraid to go farther. Shen Qiu bowed deeply. "We will go no further, my lords. May Heaven guard your steps."
Li Heng nodded. "Find shelter. Keep the old ways alive. The flame cannot consume what still remembers the light."
The brothers turned their horses toward the mountain path. The wind howled, carrying with it a sound that was not wind at all but the faint murmur of a heartbeat steady, distant, and vast.
Wu Zhen's staff glowed faintly. "He sleeps beneath these mountains."
Chen Feng stared at the highest peak, where the clouds burned crimson against the setting sun. "Then I'll wake him."
Li Heng placed a hand on his shoulder. "Not yet. The world still needs you free."
Chen Feng looked back one last time. The caravan below was a line of tiny lights moving slowly through the dusk. People still lived, still hoped. It was enough, for now.
He turned away, gripping his sword. The blade felt warm again, but no longer hostile.
As night fell, the red glow above the mountains pulsed brighter, like the breath of a sleeping giant.
The Sovereign waited.
And the shadow that bound him walked closer with every step.