The temple was no longer silent.
Whispers stirred beneath the stones, humming through old wards and broken runes. Wind twisted through open archways like breath held too long. Something ancient had cracked open—subtle, but felt in every corner of the ruins.
And Yuren stood at the gates, staring down at the dead man with the carved warning.
"The Ashbound," he murmured, voice raw.
Zhaoyan crouched beside the body, fingers ghosting over the robes. "These markings… this isn't sect magic. It's corrupted. Warped."
Yuren backed away, heart thudding. "What does it mean? That they're coming?"
Zhaoyan stood slowly. "It means someone knows what you are now. And they're not going to wait politely."
Yuren rubbed his arms, still feeling phantom heat coiled under his skin. "How many are we talking? One? Ten? A dramatic army of fire-hating cultists?"
Zhaoyan didn't answer.
Instead, he turned toward the forest. "We need to leave. Now."
---
They didn't make it far.
Before the sun had risen fully, the sky changed.
A strange gray cloud rolled in—not natural, not from rain. It moved like smoke, twisting and curling above the treetops. It pulsed.
Yuren looked up and felt his stomach drop. "That's not a cloud."
Zhaoyan drew his sword. "It's them."
The trees ahead groaned.
Then, they came.
Not walking—gliding. A line of figures in dark robes, faces obscured by cracked wooden masks. Each mask was carved with a different expression—joy, rage, sorrow, silence. And each figure moved with unnatural grace, like they weren't fully human.
Yuren swallowed hard. "I count seven. Do they look… floaty to you?"
One of the masked figures stepped forward. The mask bore a grin—wide, unnatural, etched into the wood.
It spoke.
"You are the Flame-Born's fragment," the voice rasped. It was neither male nor female—like dry leaves rubbing together. "You are unworthy."
Zhaoyan stepped between them and Yuren. "Say that again and I'll show you how worthy he is."
Another figure—this one with a weeping mask—raised its hand.
The ground split.
Yuren barely had time to react. Fire burst from his hands—raw, instinctive—and flared into a shield.
The attack shattered against it.
Zhaoyan leapt forward, blade singing through the air. His strikes were precise, clean—but these weren't normal enemies.
One caught his blade barehanded.
The fight erupted. It was chaos—fire against darkness, metal against mist. The Ashbound moved like smoke, twisting through trees, reshaping their limbs into weapons—blades, tendrils, even stone.
Yuren could barely think. His heartbeat was too loud. The fire in his veins roared louder.
One masked attacker lunged at him, claws out.
He didn't dodge.
He burned.
The flames exploded out—pure gold this time—and the figure shrieked as it disintegrated midair.
Yuren stared at his hands, chest heaving. "I didn't even… try that time."
Zhaoyan landed beside him, blade dripping with black ichor. "They're not unbeatable. But they're not done either."
Three figures remained.
The one with the silent mask stepped forward. It lifted its hand and pointed directly at Yuren.
"You are the flame. You will burn all. You must be extinguished."
The ground cracked beneath him.
Zhaoyan grabbed Yuren's arm. "We run. Now."
"But—"
"Now."
---
They ran until the forest thinned, until temple stone gave way to dirt path, until the mountains were behind them.
The last thing Yuren saw before the trees swallowed the temple again was Mei.
Standing silently at the edge of the ruined courtyard.
Watching.
And behind her—ash fell like snow.
---
Later, by a hidden stream, Yuren sat on a rock, arms around his knees.
He was quiet for a long time.
Zhaoyan knelt beside him. "You saved us back there."
"I didn't mean to."
Zhaoyan looked at him. "You think that matters?"
Yuren didn't answer.
"…They're going to keep coming, aren't they?"
Zhaoyan nodded. "Yeah."
"And you're still going to stick around."
Another nod. "Yeah."
"…You're kind of an idiot."
Zhaoyan smiled faintly. "I'm your idiot."
Yuren blinked, startled.
But then a small, crooked smile curved his lips.
"…Gross."
---
Far away, in a cold cave where sunlight dared not reach, a woman stood before a mirror.
She wore a red veil. Her eyes were fire and shadow.
She placed her hand on the mirror.
The glass rippled.
"Finally," she whispered, voice like coals hissing. "The flame wakes."
And behind her…
Dozens of masked figures kneeled.
The Ashbound were only beginning.
To be continued...