The floating continent of Fresta hovered in the skies like a god's forgotten dream. Oceans hung in midair, waterfalls streamed into clouds, and ancient ruins drifted aimlessly across the horizon. Magic in Fresta wasn't just power—it was life, and every heartbeat carried the whisper of mana.
At the edge of the Flame Arcipelago stood the Crimson Spire, a solitary tower made of obsidian stone and crimson glass, wrapped in eternal fire. This was the home of Sera Rymer, the youngest appointed Keeper of a Cresettla Stone.
She wasn't born noble. In fact, Sera was born from a forbidden union between a High Arcanist and a Beastfolk dancer. Her feline ears and tail marked her as a half-blood, a stain on pure magical society. Yet from the moment she was old enough to touch a spell scroll, flames bent to her will.
At age nine, she summoned her first fire spirit. At twelve, she won a duel against a FACTION general in front of the Flame Council. By fifteen, she was chosen by the Cresettla Stone of Flames, an ancient relic said to hold a piece of the sun's soul.
The stone was sentient. It pulsed with heat and pride, whispering to her in her dreams. "Burn only for the worthy," it would say. "And destroy all that dares twist destiny."
Her appointment as a Keeper meant eternal duty. She was bound by an oath older than the language of spells—to protect, obey, and follow the stone wherever it willed.
FACTION, the elite circle of Keepers, Enforcers, and magical scholars, took her in. Each member was bonded to one of the seven Cresettla Stones—Time, Flame, Void, Earth, Sky, Soul, and Mirror. Together, they prevented wars, maintained balance, and punished magical heresy.
But FACTION was no family. It was a court of ambition and secrets. While Sera rose through the ranks, she noticed how the elders watched her too closely. They whispered when she passed. Her talent was admired, but her bloodline—and her attitude—was a threat. She wore skirts too short, skipped meetings to sunbathe on the tower roof, and once got caught giving a fire spirit a bubble bath in the grand hall.
"Control yourself," said General Trux, her grizzled superior with an eyepatch. "You're not here to be liked. You're here because the stone chose you. And you damn well better act like it."
But Sera never cared for acting. She believed in emotion, impulse, passion. The stone of flame had chosen her, after all, not a puppet.
She spent her days patrolling the boundaries of the Crimson Spire and training with ancient fire arts. Her nights, though, were hers alone. Lying naked beneath silk sheets laced with fireproof enchantments, she would press the stone to her bare skin and feel it whisper. The flame would pulse gently along her navel, then her collarbone, then settle like a heartbeat over her chest.
She was alone, but never lonely. Not with the stone. Not with her fire spirits. Not with the thrill of power humming through her veins.
That peace, however, ended on the Night of the Rift.
She woke to a soundless scream—a magical shattering that cracked the barrier between realms. The stone—her stone—began to burn violently, hotter than ever before. Her bed erupted in flame. Books curled into ash. And from the stone itself, a single word echoed in her mind:
"Chosen."
Before she could react, the stone tore itself from her altar, created a swirling red portal in the center of the tower, and vanished.
She collapsed, burned and breathless. Her bond had been severed. Not broken, not stolen.
Transferred.
The Cresettla Stones were sentient. They chose their Bearers. And somehow, across time, space, and dimensions, the Flame Stone had found someone else.
FACTION was in uproar. The High Elders accused her of negligence. Trux demanded her resignation. She was told the bond must be forcibly taken back, even if it meant killing the new bearer.
But Sera felt something else.
Curiosity.
Who was this soul the Flame had chosen over her? Who was powerful enough, passionate enough, chaotic enough to steal the heart of the stone?
And more than that—why did her chest ache like a lover had left her?
She disobeyed direct orders. She used forbidden magic. She reopened the rift.
And she fell.
Through stars, through silence, through heat and ice and thought and memory.
She landed in a cramped, dusty bedroom with posters of video game girls and cup noodles on the desk. And standing in the corner, blinking sleep from his eyes, was a boy.
Disheveled black hair. Dark eyes. Wearing a loose T-shirt and shorts.
"Uh," he said.
And her stone pulsed brightly in his chest.
He was the new bearer.
And his name was Akira Kitagawa.
He wasn't a warrior. He wasn't a king. He wasn't even out of high school.
And yet the stone had chosen him. Not for his strength.
But perhaps for his heart.
Sera, still glowing with residual mana and wearing nothing but a flame-touched cloak that clung tightly to her curves, stumbled forward.
She reached out.
He stared at her boobs.
"We... we're going to have to make a pact," she whispered.
He passed out on the spot.
---
Thus began the story of the last Keeper of Flame.
A girl who gave up everything to follow her stone.
And a boy who didn't yet know that fate had marked him as the center of a war between worlds.
Because now that the stone had bonded, there would be no turning back. Other factions would come. Enemies would rise. Lust, magic, and destiny would entwine.
And Sera Rymer, proud and stubborn, would have to learn what it meant to protect not just a relic—but a person.
Even if that person was an awkward, horny teenager.
Even if it meant living in his house.
Even if it meant learning what Earth panties were.
And even if it meant falling in love.
To be continued