The Crimson Willow Sect loomed ahead like a slumbering beast—its spires etched into the mountain, its walls weathered by centuries of wind and blood. Aryan walked the cobbled path leading to its outer gates, his footsteps light, measured. His gaze swept over the grounds like a silent flame licking through dry leaves.
It was strange… returning to a place he had never seen in this life, yet knew better than his own breath.
This sect had once knelt before him.
Now, he was just another outer disciple candidate. Powerless. Forgotten. Mortal.
And that was exactly how he wanted it.
The Flame Seed pulsed in his chest—a steady rhythm of suppressed might. He kept it buried, hidden beneath layers of spiritual suppression. There could be no mistakes. Not yet.
A bell tolled in the distance. The sect's gates creaked open.
"Name?" a silver-robed elder asked, his tone dismissive.
"Aryan," he replied.
The elder scanned a scroll and nodded. "Outer Disciple Batch C. Dorm 43."
No fanfare. No recognition. Just a boy with smoldering eyes and secrets deeper than the void.
As Aryan turned, he felt them—dozens of auras watching him. Some curious. Some mocking. One… familiar.
He froze.
That presence... it shouldn't be here.
Not this soon.
He didn't look back. He couldn't afford to. Not yet.
But deep inside, the fire stirred restlessly.
This sect was a forge—and every forge needed kindling.
Let them underestimate him.
Let them laugh.
They would all learn soon enough.
He had returned not to chase power.
But to reshape fate.
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Author's Note:
Thank you for continuing this journey with me! Chapter 3 marks Aryan's first step into the world that once revered and betrayed him. If you're enjoying the story, please leave a comment or add to your library—your support fuels the fire!
— R.E. Solcrest