The world was burning.
Flames leapt from rooftop to rooftop, thick black smoke curling into the night sky. The once-busy market—full of laughter, barter, and the scent of roasted spices—was now a battlefield.
Wooden stalls crackled as the fire consumed them, barrels exploded from the heat, and terrified civilians ran in every direction. Some tripped over broken crates, others disappeared into the thick smoke, their screams swallowed by the roar of destruction.
Pip Thistleburrow had been haggling just moments ago.
Now, he was running for his life.
His heart pounded against his ribs, his boots skidding against the soot-stained cobblestones. A burning plank collapsed to his left, forcing him to dive sideways into a mess of overturned baskets and shattered pottery.
He gasped for air.
Too hot. Too fast. Too much.
A voice in his head screamed at him to keep running, to find cover, to hide like he always had when trouble found him. He was no warrior. He didn't wear gleaming armor like Nariel, didn't wield enchanted blades like Irelia. He wasn't meant for this kind of fight.
And yet—
The rush of it all, the sheer madness, sent a thrill through his veins.
This is insane. This is terrifying.
And gods help him… this is exciting.
He shook his head, forcing down the grin that threatened to break across his face.
"Focus, Pip. You don't have time to be a lunatic."
Somewhere in this chaos, people needed help.
And if he was going to make it out of this alive, he was going to have to start thinking like a warrior.
Then, he heard them. The screams.
Pip's head snapped toward a half-collapsed home, the second floor already ablaze. There was someone trapped inside, several people by the sound of it. Probably a family. He looked at the window on the second floor.
Through the flickering light, he saw them—a mother clutching her children near a blocked doorway. A fallen beam had sealed their only exit, the flames licking ever closer.
Think, Pip. Think.
His eyes darted across the burning wreckage. A water barrel. Half-full. Sitting just close enough to be useful.
A plan snapped into place. Risky. Stupid. But at least it was a plan.
He grinned. "Oh, this is gonna be good."
Reaching into his pouch, he plucked a smooth stone, lined up the shot—
He rolled his shoulders, took aim—
TWANG.
The stone whistled through the air and smashed against the side of the barrel.
CRACK!
The stone struck dead center, shattering the wooden barrel. Water exploded outward in a flood, crashing over the fire near the house. Steam hissed as the flames recoiled, weakened just enough to give him a chance.
Go.
He didn't hesitate.
Pip unhooked his rope, swung it over a half-burnt beam, and hauled himself upward.
He gritted his teeth, dodging falling embers, his boots barely finding purchase on the scorched wood. The shutters on the second floor were sealed shut—no problem.
He drew a dagger, wedging it between the boards.
With a sharp twist—SNAP.
The window burst open, revealing the terrified mother and her children.
"Alright, alright," Pip grinned, breathless. "Don't panic—well, actually, do panic, but listen to me while you do it."
The mother gasped, clutching her children tighter. "We can't—there's no way down!"
"Sure there is," Pip winked. "Me."
One by one, he helped them climb onto his rope, lowering them safely down.
Only when the last child's feet touched the dirt did Pip prepare to climb down—
The roof gave a final groan.
Pip's eyes widened.
"Cursed cabbage!"
No time.
With a deep breath, he jumped just as the entire second floor began to collapse.
He barely made it.
Rolling across the cobblestones, Pip coughed against the thick smoke, brushing soot from his coat.
The building collapsed behind him, the impact rattling the ground as a final burst of fire shot into the sky.
Too close.
Pip groaned, rolling onto his back, staring at the ash-filled sky.
"Well. That was reckless. Probably should've died just now."
He let out a ragged breath, heart still hammering—
Then—he saw them.
A squad of cultists moved like hunting wolves, cutting through the smoke. Their ember-colored robes flickered in the firelight, surrounding a lone figure—
Irelia.
She twisted, dodging between attacks, her blades flashing against waves of fire.
Pip exhaled sharply.
"Ah, hells," he muttered. "No way I'm leaving her to that."
He reached into his belt, pulled out a smoke bomb—
And sprinted toward the fight.
The battle was wrong.
Irelia felt it before she understood it—something off, something deliberate in the way the cultists moved.
They weren't throwing themselves at her like the mindless zealots she had fought before. They weren't overwhelming her with sheer numbers.
They were cutting her off.
Every street she tried to slip through—blocked.
Every alley she darted toward—sealed by fire.
They were herding her, shifting their positions like pieces on a game board, closing every escape route.
It is a trap.
Her pulse pounded in her ears as she cut down another cultist, her blade slicing through the smoke-choked air. The cultist crumpled, ember-colored robes pooling around his body.
And yet—he had already served his purpose.
Because even as he fell, she knew.
They weren't trying to kill her.
They were isolating her.
Her fingers clenched around the Egg's container, feeling the faint pulse of its runes against her palm.
How?
A tracking spell? Some kind of magical artifact? Something was pulling them to it, guiding them with terrifying precision.
She cursed under her breath.
"Damn it. It's never just a simple fight."
The fire shifted.
Not a stray explosion. Not another collapsing building.
Something controlled.
The flames coiled—not wild, not chaotic, but shaped by an unseen force. They parted in the center of the street, twisting inward, as if bowing to the will of something greater.
Someone greater.
A figure stepped forward from the inferno.
He did not walk through the fire—he commanded it.
The air around him rippled, warped by the sheer heat of his presence. The very flames clung to his ember-colored robes, wrapping around his arms, slithering along the fabric like living things. The edges of his cloak smoldered, yet never burned, as if fire itself was his to wield.
His face was calm.
No frenzied zeal, no manic devotion like the lesser cultists.
There was certainty in his stance. Authority in his bearing.
A predator who knew exactly where his prey was—and had no doubt of the hunt's outcome.
The other cultists withdrew, stepping back as if his presence alone was command enough. The battlefield shifted around him.
And then he spoke—
His voice did not shout over the roar of the flames.
It was low, smooth as burning embers, carrying the weight of something absolute.
"You are not meant to hold what belongs to the Phoenix."
His hand lifted, slow, deliberate.
And the fire obeyed.
A ring of flames rose around them, spiraling, twisting into shape—a burning cage sealing them in.
Nowhere to run.
He took another step forward, his movements unhurried, as if he already knew how this would end.
"Surrender the Egg, and you will not suffer."
Not a demand. Not a plea.
A promise.
Her grip on her daggers tightened.
Something in her gut twisted—not fear. Instinct. Recognition.
This wasn't like fighting the other cultists.
This wasn't a pawn.
This was a true believer. A man who did not doubt, who would never stop.
This was a real enemy.
She adjusted her grip, knuckles whitening.
Irelia replied, her tone low, dangerous "Try and take it."
The street erupted in fire.
The fight was on.
Irelia moved first.
With a flick of her wrist, a dagger flew with a burst of wind, runes glowing.
She vanished—only to reappear mid-step behind the cultist, both daggers slashing in a ruthless, precise arc—
CLANG!
Flames surged and twisted, forming a solid wall of blackened fire in an instant, intercepting her blades before they could carve into flesh.
The heat alone sent a shockwave outward, distorting the air, forcing her backward with the sheer pressure of the force.
Irelia barely landed on her feet before the counterattack came.
The flames shifted.
The wall of fire didn't vanish—it moved—became something else.
WHIP-CRACK!
A serpent of black flame lunged at her, twisting in the air like a living thing, its jaws snapping as it sought to consume her whole.
Irelia teleported.
A rune shimmered behind him—she blinked to it in an instant, already swinging her dagger at his exposed side—
BOOM!
A pulse of shadow magic erupted from his body.
Not fire.
Not heat.
Something colder, deeper, a void-like hunger that sent ice crawling up her spine despite the fire in the air.
The force slammed into her, sending her hurtling backward—she flipped mid-air, twisting to land on the side of a burning cart, using the Windborne Rune to launch herself back into the fray—
"He's using Shadowed Aether," Irelia muttered, narrowing her eyes.
Magic is drawn from the Aether, a pervasive energy that flows through all living and nonliving things. There are three types of Aether: Primal Aether, tied to nature and the elements. Runic Aether, bound to the written word and symbols, used for enchantments and ancient magic. And Divine Aether, gifted through blessings from the gods, granting powers such as healing and summoning.
But there was a fourth. Aether twisted by corruption, tainted by imbalance or forbidden rituals. Shadowed Aether. A force unshackled from the limits of the first three, raw and dangerous.
"Of course!" The realization struck her like a blade. "All the summoners… they're using Shadowed Aether."
Summoning magic was rare. Unless one was born with the innate gift, it could not be learned. Even those blessed with natural talent faced severe limitations on what creatures they could summon—unless, of course, they were an Aerith.
Then she noticed, he had barely moved the entire time.
He lifted one hand, and fire spiraled around him, coiling into shifting shapes—serpents, blades, chains, unnatural forms that never should have belonged to flame.
Shadowfire.
Twisted, corrupted, unnatural.
This was not normal fire magic.
Her hands clenched around her daggers.
The cult had fire summoners, pyromancers, and elementalists, but this man was different.
"You fight like a stray wind, darting from place to place. But you are aimless."
His flames slithered along the ground, forming rings of blackened embers that pulsed with the same corrupt energy.
"And wind cannot challenge fire, girl. It only feeds it."
Irelia's blade cut through the space between them—a ruthless, precise arc meant to end the fight in a single strike—
He didn't dodge, the cultist absorbed the blow.
Shadowfire coiled around his arm, devouring the strike—consuming the energy instead of resisting it.
And then he smiled.
"I've burned away everything that made me weak."
His fingers snapped.
The flames coalesced into a jagged spear, laced with tendrils of shadow magic, hurling toward her with blinding speed.
Irelia dodged—teleporting at the last second—
But the spear curved.
It bent mid-air, twisting toward her as if it had a will of its own—
THWOOM!
She barely raised a barrier rune in time, detonating the construct just as the spear impacted—runes shattered, and the blast sent her crashing through a wooden stall, splinters flying.
She gritted her teeth, shaking off the impact.
This man was fighting on an entirely different level.
She couldn't fight him like a normal mage.
He wasn't like the other cultists.
She enhanced her movement with Gale Dash, wind magic surging beneath her feet, forcing her speed to the absolute limit.
She struck back with elemental-infused steel, shifting between frost and fire, forcing him to counter both extremes.
She set teleportation runes in the air, chaining them together for a rapid attack sequence—appearing from multiple angles in quick succession.
Every move was met with equal ferocity.
He didn't just dodge—he warped. His form flickered between fire and shadow, evading blows in ways that defied logic.
His flames had shape. They weren't raw destruction—they were controlled, methodical, unnatural.
Every time she attacked, the fire did not react like normal fire—it struck back.
Their weapons clashed—steel against searing flame, runes shattering against the force of his strikes.
He was faster than she expected.
He flicked his wrist—ribbons of blackened fire snapped toward her, wrapping around her arm.
Binding magic.
CRACK!
A second tendril lashed at her mid-air, snapping toward her throat—
She twisted, engraving a Windborne Rune onto her palm and forcing a burst of air between them, breaking free just as the tendril struck where she had been.
His laugh echoed like dying flames
He wasn't struggling.
He wasn't frantic or desperate like most mages when their spells failed.
He was enjoying this.
"You destroyed an entire town. You murdered hundreds—maybe thousands." She gritted her teeth.
He chuckled.
Not mocking.
Not remorseful.
Just—amused.
"Flames do not bring destruction."
His flames expanded—reaching, clawing, as if alive.
"Only renewal."
Irelia surged forward, fury fueling her next strike.
She forced him onto the defensive—her blades moving in rapid, relentless succession, forcing him to step back.
Then—the ground trembled.
A low, guttural rumble shook the stones beneath them.
The flames at the Blazebringer's feet rippled—as if something beneath the earth had stirred.
Cracks formed in the cobblestones.
Something ancient was waking.
Something was rising.
The heat became unbearable.
Irelia gritted her teeth, backing away as the ground beneath them split apart.
Molten rock pulsed through the cracks, veins of fire snaking across the battlefield.
A figure of flame and shadow pulled itself free from the depths.
A Lava Wraith, a monstrous spirit of molten rage.
Not quite an Ifrit—but far more powerful than the mindless fire elementals that had come before.
It didn't simply emerge. It TORE its way into reality.
It lifted its flowing, shifting form toward the sky—
And SCREAMED.
The Blazebringer exhaled slowly, watching as the titanic entity of flame emerged from the depths.
His expression?
Calm. Satisfied.
"Now, let's see if you burn."
Irelia was outnumbered.
"Oh, wonderful..."