The afternoon wind carried the smell of metal—sharp and cold, like it had blown through molten iron. Allen and Ying leaned against the back of a broken tower, both breathing hard. The ruins ahead stretched farther than they had imagined. The ground was covered in fine gray powder that gleamed faintly like frost, still warm enough to shimmer. The air was damp, and it smelled faintly of burned bone. Allen didn't need to ask. He already knew—this was the Ash Furnace Field.
Ash Furnaces were ancient engines from the early Empire, machines that could refine souls into fuel. They had been sealed centuries ago, and their reappearance could mean only one thing—someone was trying to rekindle the old flame. Allen crouched and lifted a pinch of ash with his dagger. It was still warm.
"Someone's been here," he said quietly.
Ying crouched beside him. "When I was a child," she whispered, "I saw a furnace once. The sky burned red for three days."
"Then an entire city died," Allen said flatly.
They walked along the base of the tower. Twisted metal supports jutted from the ground like bones tearing through skin. From the gray heaps rose thin curls of heat. The fireseed under Allen's ribs pulsed restlessly. He pressed his palm against it; the warmth faded, but his heartbeat turned uneven. The fire could smell the dead—it was starving. Ying noticed his expression.
"You're suppressing it again?"
"Yeah."
"It'll die if you keep that up."
"Later," he said, same as always.
They found a half-collapsed stairway behind the tower, leading down to a heavy iron door. The hinges had been pried once; new footprints marked the dust—some large, some small. Ying knelt to examine them.
"Adults. Children. More than a few," she murmured.
"That's bad," Allen said.
"Then should we still go in?"
"If we want salt, yes."
He tapped the door with the back of his knife. The echo came back low and dull—a small space behind it. "Listen for the wind's third beat," he said. They waited. The first gust rushed in, the second drew back. At the third, they pushed the door. The hinges screamed. Grit ground against iron, the sound sharp enough to wake the dead. The fireseed in his chest jolted—awake again.
The chamber beyond was round, no more than ten meters wide. Its walls were coated in thick ash. A metal pillar lay toppled in the center, still breathing faint heat. At its base shimmered a crust of translucent blue crystals—salt, pure and bright. Enough for three nights of survival. Allen stepped forward, but Ying caught his arm and pointed. Three human husks lay sprawled on the far side of the pillar. Their bodies were shrunken, charred, burned hollow. No smell of flesh—only the dry stench of ash. Yet faint light pulsed beneath each chest.
"They're still burning?" Ying whispered.
"When fire devours the body," Allen said, "it doesn't spare the soul. That's the furnace's curse. It never goes out. "He moved carefully around the corpses, knelt by the salt, and scraped at the crystal. It was hard as glass. The fire in his chest flared, hungry. He steadied his breath, gathered the shards, sealed them in a pouch—two minutes, no more. Ying stood guard, eyes locked on the corpses.
Then one of them shuddered. Ying's crowbar rose instinctively—but froze halfway. The corpse wasn't moving. Light was. Flame pulsed beneath the cracked shell, flickering like breath. Allen backed away. "Fall back to the line!" he barked, throwing a handful of salt in a half-circle. Ying retreated inside just as the corpse erupted.
Light exploded across the chamber. A pale-blue ring blazed along the walls, spinning faster and faster. The ash rose, twisting into tiny vortices that screamed like wind forced through a bottle's neck. In the center, the fallen core of the furnace began to glow again—embers crawling upward, eager to reignite.
Ying's voice trembled. "Who lit it?"
Allen's gaze fixed on the still-warm corpses. His tone was iron-cold."They did."