Prologue: Flame's Rejection
Year 4125 of the Central Calendar
Month of Dawnfire, Day 7
Phoenix Caelum Tower, Central Terra
The courtyard shimmered under sunrise, its marble glowing like molten gold. Seven elders sat in a crescent, their robes alive with embroidered flame.
Grandmaster Zhao's voice boomed across the marble floor.
Grandmaster Zhao: "Feng Jian, ignite your spark. Let flame prove your bloodline."
Jian, just seven, gripped the hilt of his blade. He closed his eyes, inhaled. For a heartbeat, he swore he felt warmth gather in his chest—only for the heat to scatter like ash when he exhaled. Nothing.
A hush. Then muffled laughter from the younger disciples.
Disciple (whispering): "No flame? The Phoenix scion is a candle with no wick."
Another disciple: "He's ash-born, not flame-born."
Jian's cheeks burned. He bit his lip until blood stained it, refusing to cry.
Grandmaster Zhao's brows furrowed.
Grandmaster Zhao: "Silence! This… child… does not yet understand his failure. Feng Jian, bloodline without fire is—"
Before he could finish, a gentle hand touched Jian's shoulder. He turned.
Lisa Draconis stood, silver eyes soft but firm. She held out a dragon-feather fan, shimmering with warmth.
Lisa: "Your light does not dwell in flame. Your path is yours to carve."
The elders stirred. Whispers spread. Jian clutched the fan, heart pounding, and bolted from the tower.
The murmurs echoed long after he was gone.
Chapter 1: Exile to Ming
Year 4125, Month of Dawnfire, Day 12
Central → Eastern Nations, aboard the Sky-Galleon Azure Wing
The airship cut through clouds, its wooden hull carved with phoenix motifs. Vast sails caught not wind but currents of refined Qi, glowing faintly with lines of monster-core energy. Beneath its keel, crystalline propellers spun in silence, holding it steady in the heavens.
In the cabin, Jian sat quietly, clutching the dragon-feather fan. His mother, Shen Mei, adjusted the silk shawl draped across her shoulders.
Shen Mei: "Do you see, Jian? The Central has ten kingdoms, ten families—flame, frost, thunder, shadow, and more. Grand as they seem, they cast out even their own blood."
Jian (quietly): "We were banished like criminals, Mother. Do you… regret leaving?"
She gave a small smile.
Shen Mei: "No. The East is not like Central. My family, the Ming, believe that strength is earned, not inherited. There, your path will be your own."
Jian pressed his forehead against the window. Far below, the land stretched like a sea of clouds.
Jian (softly): "Still… I wanted to belong."
She placed her hand on his.
Shen Mei: "Belonging will come. Strength first. Then respect."
Year 4125, Month of Dawnfire, Day 22
Eastern Nations, Small City of Mingzhen
The airship descended into a valley of tiled roofs and winding rivers. The city sprawled modestly—ancient wooden bridges arched over canals, lanterns swayed gently, and watchtowers lined the walls. With a population just over one hundred thousand, Mingzhen was no capital, but its spirit was alive.
A guard on the walls muttered as he watched the vessel land.
Guard 1: "Phoenix silk… must be a noble family."
Guard 2: "Noble? Or exiles? Did you hear? A Phoenix scion failed the fire test."
Guard 1: "Pity. Here, bloodline matters less. But still… monsters attack often. Let's see if he can even survive the year."
Jian and his mother walked through the city streets. Villagers bowed politely, though whispers trailed them.
They arrived at the Shen family compound—a modest household, average among Mingzhen's clans. Stone walls enclosed a central courtyard. Training grounds lay open, where youths practiced in plain uniforms. Hunters returned at dusk with beast carcasses strapped to poles, their blades stained with monster blood.
His grandfather, Shen Wu, stood at the gate, hair silver, posture unbent. He eyed Jian with a mixture of scrutiny and warmth.
Shen Wu: "So. The flame-born who carries no flame."
Jian bowed deeply.
Jian: "Grandfather, I… I will prove myself here."
For the first time since exile, Jian saw a flicker of pride in an elder's eyes.
Shen Wu (nodding): "Good. Tomorrow, we begin with Wind Dance. The style of our house. Remember this, boy: the wind is unseen, but it topples mountains."