Chapter 17 – Hollow Flames
Dawn broke red over the Flintclaw compound, painting the tribe's forges in blood-colored light.
The largest courtyard — Ren Flintclaw's personal training hall — was already filled with heat and smoke.
Inside, servants scurried like ants, feeding wood and spirit coals into a towering bronze cauldron etched with the crest of the clan: a claw striking through stone.
The air shimmered with heat, the temperature rising until even the stone floor hissed.
Ren Flintclaw stood bare-chested beside the cauldron, his lean frame gleaming with sweat, his red veins faintly glowing beneath the skin.
He looked young — too young — but the arrogance in his eyes made him seem carved from steel.
"Is everything ready?" he demanded.
One of the elders bowed deeply. "Yes, Young Master. The ores mined yesterday have been refined overnight. Each shard was said to contain essence dense enough to nourish your blood veins."
Ren smirked. "Good. Then today… I will break through."
Servants poured the powdered ore essence into the cauldron. The bronze walls pulsed with orange light as the powder dissolved into molten liquid.
A sharp metallic scent filled the air, heavy and intoxicating.
Ren stepped into the cauldron without hesitation. The molten essence lapped at his waist, boiling around him like living fire. His skin reddened instantly, yet his expression didn't flinch.
He crossed his legs and sank deeper until the liquid reached his chest, his breathing steady but forced.
"Begin the flame feed!" he barked.
The servants obeyed. Spirit coals were added, feeding the inferno. Flames roared higher, and the cauldron shuddered.
Ren's teeth clenched.
Sweat poured down his temples, sizzling as it hit the molten brew. His body glowed from within, the red veins pulsing brighter, rhythm syncing with the flickering fire.
He could feel it — faint threads of energy entering his body, sliding into his blood, brushing against the barrier that kept him from the next level.
The bottleneck.
He focused his will, forcing his veins open.
"Come on… move…!"
The heat intensified. The essence inside the cauldron boiled like a storm, yet no surge of power came.
No flood of strength.
No release.
Only resistance.
Minutes dragged into an hour.
The fire's roar became suffocating. Ren's skin blistered, then healed, only to blister again as his veins strained to absorb essence that wasn't there.
Inside the molten bath, the energy felt hollow — a shape without substance.
Every breath he took tasted of ash and disappointment.
The barrier within him didn't weaken.
It hardened.
His heart thundered. He could feel the faint trembling of failure creeping up his spine.
"More heat!" he snarled. "Add more coals!"
"But, Young Master—"
"DO IT!"
Terrified, the servants obeyed. The flames roared higher, turning white-hot. The air warped with heat; the bronze cauldron groaned under pressure.
Ren clenched his jaw until blood filled his mouth. He tried to force his will again, to pull in the essence — but the more he pulled, the more it resisted.
It was like trying to drink from a cup already emptied.
There was nothing left to absorb.
Finally, the molten surface went still.
Ren sat trembling in the center of it, his aura flickering weakly.
The light in his red veins dimmed to a faint ember.
He had failed.
With a roar, he slammed both palms against the cauldron's edge.
BOOM!
The vessel cracked, molten essence spilling across the courtyard like a river of fire. Servants scattered, shouting in panic.
Ren leapt from the wreckage, his eyes burning with fury. His breath came ragged, his pride in tatters.
The Patriarch's most gifted warrior had been humiliated — by his own weakness.
"Why?" he hissed. "Why can't I break through!?"
He stared at his trembling hands, veins flickering like dying embers.
Then his expression twisted with venom.
"Because this wretched tribe has nothing worthy of me. The ores are poor, the land barren, the bloodlines weak!"
He paced furiously, kicking aside the shattered crucible. "If I'd been born in the Dominion's core, I'd have long since reached the Fourth Vein! Instead I rot here, surrounded by peasants who don't even know how to breathe properly!"
His words echoed through the empty courtyard. Only the hiss of cooling metal answered.
He exhaled shakily, regaining a sliver of composure.
"Fine," he muttered. "If the ores fail me, I'll use something stronger."
He turned sharply toward the nearest guard. "Summon the Patriarch. Now."
The guard bolted. Moments later, Patriarch Harun Flintclaw arrived, robe half-buttoned, the smell of smoke still clinging to him.
"Young Master Ren," the Patriarch began cautiously, bowing low. "The refinement—"
"Failed," Ren snapped. "The ores were empty. Hollow. Your miners brought me ash."
The Patriarch paled. "That's… impossible! We refined them ourselves—"
Ren's glare cut him off. "Enough excuses. If your ore cannot strengthen me, then I'll use the Desolate Cores instead."
The old man hesitated. "Young Master, the cores are too volatile. Even seasoned warriors have perished attempting refinement without preparation—"
"Then gather those seasoned warriors," Ren interrupted coldly. "As many as you can spare. They'll help stabilize the ritual. I will not remain trapped in the First Vein while the Dominion opens its gates in three months."
"But—"
Ren stepped closer, his aura flaring hot. "Do I need to repeat myself, Patriarch?"
The old man lowered his head. "No, Young Master."
"Good."
Ren turned away, his gaze fixed on the ruined cauldron. "Prepare the chamber by tomorrow night. The Desolate Core refinement begins at dusk."
As the Patriarch retreated, Ren's eyes lingered on the shattered metal, his reflection warped in the molten puddles at his feet.
"I will not be caged by this backwater," he whispered. "If the heavens won't open for me… then I'll break them apart myself."