The training grounds were alive with the clash of steel and the grunts of exertion. Li Wuyang stood at the center of it all, his breathing steady, his stance unyielding. The sun hung high in the sky, its rays beating down on the courtyard, but the heat he felt came from within. It was a fire that had been simmering beneath his skin for days, restless and unrelenting. He could feel it now, pulsing in his veins like a second heartbeat, demanding release.
Across from him stood his sparring partner, a fellow disciple named Zhang Wei. Zhang was taller, broader, and carried himself with the confidence of someone who had never tasted defeat. His smirk was infuriating, but Wuyang refused to let it rattle him. He tightened his grip on the wooden practice sword and nodded, signaling he was ready.
The match began with a flurry of blows. Zhang was aggressive, his strikes heavy and precise, but Wuyang was faster. He dodged and parried, his movements fluid, almost instinctive. Yet, as the fight dragged on, the heat within him grew unbearable. It was no longer just a warmth—it was a raging inferno, threatening to consume him from the inside out.
Wuyang's vision blurred for a moment, and he stumbled. Zhang seized the opportunity, driving him back with a series of powerful strikes. The wooden blades clashed again and again, the sound echoing like thunder. Wuyang gritted his teeth, his arms trembling under the force of Zhang's attacks. He could feel the fire in his veins surging, begging to be unleashed.
And then, it happened.
As Zhang brought his sword down in a final, decisive blow, Wuyang raised his own to block it. The moment their weapons connected, a searing heat erupted from Wuyang's body. The wooden sword in his hand glowed red-hot, and Zhang cried out in pain as the heat scorched his skin. He dropped his weapon and staggered back, clutching his hand, his face a mask of shock and agony.
The courtyard fell silent. All eyes turned to Wuyang, who stood frozen, his chest heaving, his sword still glowing with an unnatural light. The heat radiating from him was palpable, like standing too close to a forge. He could feel the elders' eyes on him, their whispers carrying across the training grounds like the rustle of dry leaves.
"The Yang Vein," one of them murmured, his voice trembling with a mixture of awe and fear.
Wuyang didn't understand what they meant, but the weight of their gazes made his stomach churn. He dropped the sword, the glow fading as soon as it left his hand, and took a step back. His legs felt like they might give out at any moment, and his head was spinning. The fire within him had subsided, but it left him drained, hollow.
Before anyone could speak, Wuyang turned and fled the courtyard, ignoring the calls of his fellow disciples. He didn't stop until he reached his quarters, where he collapsed onto his bed, his body wracked with fever.
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That night, Wuyang's dreams were filled with fire.
He stood in a vast, desolate landscape, the ground cracked and barren beneath his feet. The sky above was a swirling mass of crimson and gold, like the heart of a flame. In the distance, he saw a figure—a dragon, its scales shimmering with an otherworldly light. It roared, and the sound shook the earth, sending tremors through Wuyang's very soul.
The dragon turned its gaze on him, its eyes burning with an intensity that made his breath catch. He tried to look away, but he couldn't. It was as if the creature had rooted him to the spot, its presence overwhelming, suffocating.
"You carry the blood of kings," the dragon said, its voice echoing in his mind. "But power is a double-edged sword. It will lift you to greatness, or it will destroy you."
Wuyang wanted to ask what it meant, but the words caught in his throat. The dragon lunged at him, its massive form filling his vision, and he woke with a start, drenched in sweat.
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The next morning, Wuyang was too weak to leave his bed. His body felt like it had been turned inside out, every muscle aching, every nerve on fire. The elders came to see him, their expressions unreadable. They spoke in hushed tones, their words cryptic and laden with meaning.
"The Yang Vein is both a blessing and a curse," one of them said, his voice heavy with regret. "It grants immense power, but it demands a price. Few who possess it live to see their full potential."
Wuyang wanted to ask more, to demand answers, but he was too exhausted to speak. He could only listen as the elders continued their discussion, their voices fading in and out like a distant echo.
"We must tread carefully," another elder said. "If word of this spreads, it could bring disaster upon us all."
Wuyang closed his eyes, their words swirling in his mind like the flames in his dreams. He didn't understand what was happening to him, but one thing was clear: his life would never be the same.
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As the days passed, Wuyang's strength slowly returned, but the fire within him remained, a constant reminder of the power he now carried. He tried to push it down, to ignore it, but it was always there, simmering just beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest provocation to erupt.
The other disciples began to avoid him, their fear and suspicion evident in their eyes. Even Zhang, who had once been so confident, now kept his distance, his hand still bandaged from their sparring match. Wuyang told himself he didn't care, but the isolation weighed on him more than he cared to admit.
One evening, as he sat alone in the courtyard, staring up at the stars, he found himself reciting the poem he had heard the elders whisper:
A dragon stirs in the blood's hot course,
Power—sweet, until it bites the source.
Beware the gift the heavens impart:
A king's crown heavy, a pyre for the heart.
The words resonated deep within him, a warning and a prophecy all at once. He didn't know what the future held, but he knew one thing for certain: the fire in his veins would either make him or break him.
And he was determined to make it his strength, no matter the cost.