Three days had passed since the battle in the Vale of Mourned Stars, and the land had begun to whisper of Li Shen's name as if it were a rising storm.
He traveled now through the Dying Canopy—a scarred woodland whose trees bled sap the color of rust and whose roots twisted in search of forgotten rivers. Ash fell from the sky here, not snow. Every step deeper was a step into a place abandoned by seasons.
At his side, the Ocean Soul Blade hummed with restlessness. Sērahn's Echo remained silent, dimmed beneath layers of cloth. The Mirror Vale Blade reflected nothing—its surface as dull as if mourning.
Li Shen followed no path, only the directions carved into a half-burned scroll salvaged from the Library of Lantheir. It led to a place the world no longer remembered:
Nyakan.
The last stronghold of the Phoenix Monks.
A fortress once perched atop the cliffs of flame-fed seas—until the war with the Hollow Council cracked the coast and dragged it beneath a tide of fire and sand.
It now slept beneath the Sea of Ash.
And somewhere in that sunken ruin, the Crimson Feather Codex waited—a legendary martial scripture once believed to channel both flame and rebirth.
By the fourth day, Li Shen reached the outer rim of the Sea of Ash.
He stood upon a high dune that pulsed gently beneath his feet, as though the desert itself breathed. Wind hissed softly over the land, dragging streams of ember-dust across the horizon. The sand here was black and red, scorched fine like ground bone.
But it was not empty.
Stone statues lay half-buried—figures kneeling with their hands bound in prayer. Ancient Phoenix Monks, turned to ash and petrified at the end of their war. Each bore a unique wound: some cleaved in half, others scorched to the soul.
He knelt before one, brushing away the sand. A name was etched faintly on its base:
Brother Rao, Flame Seeker.
They chose to die rather than surrender.
As he moved deeper, the air thickened—magic lingering like smoke.
A pillar of volcanic stone jutted from the center of the dunes, its peak split open like the broken beak of a dead bird. Li Shen climbed it slowly, senses sharpened.
At its summit, he found what the scroll had promised.
A ringed scar in the sand—so wide it swallowed the skyline. In its center, a sinkhole churned like an hourglass turned sideways.
Nyakan had not sunk.
It had been dragged down.
And it was still falling.
Li Shen took a breath and drew the Ocean Soul Blade. With a single, fluid arc, he carved a spiral into the air—channeling the Third Current Form:
Whirlpool Descent.
The wind obeyed. The sand yielded. A spiral of water and air carried him downward into the shifting void.
He passed through layers of scorched atmosphere—each one humming with old spells meant to kill intruders. Ghost-flames flickered around him, clawing at his limbs.
He deflected them with Eidolon Veil – Ember Mask, sheathing himself in silent shadow.
Then, finally—
Stone.
He landed on cracked obsidian ground. Pillars of crimson crystal towered overhead, half-melted from ancient heat. The ruins of Nyakan stretched before him: shattered bridges, hollow towers, temples with broken wings carved into their gates.
The air smelled of incense and long-cooled blood.
And it echoed.
Not with life.
But with training.
Somewhere within, fists still struck stone. Blades still danced.
The Phoenix Monks, it seemed, had not died.
They had become something else.
The temple gates opened for him without touch.
Inside, statues of flaming birds twisted around stone columns. Mosaics depicted monks rising from pools of fire. But in the center of the grand hall stood a lone figure.
Clad in robes scorched into armor, their eyes were twin pits of flame. They wore no mask. Their hair burned without smoke.
"Li Shen," they said. "We've been waiting."
He bowed low. "I seek the Crimson Feather Codex."
The monk's voice was calm. "Then burn away your weakness."
Without warning, the monk raised a finger—and a ring of fire erupted around them both.
Trial One: Flame Without Shape.
A hundred flaming spears formed above Li Shen.
He moved instantly.
Ocean Soul: Fifth Wave – Crashing Petal Waltz.
Each blade was turned aside with precision and grace. His blade carved a storm of flowing arcs, water clashing against flame. But even as the fire dimmed—
The monk struck him with a fist like a falling star.
Li Shen crashed into a pillar.
"Again," the monk whispered. "This time, fight with purpose, not reaction."
He rose, coughed blood, and grinned. "Very well."
Sērahn's Echo: First Starfall – Meteor Bloom.
Stars rained inside the temple. Stone melted. The monk staggered.
And then—laughed.
Three days passed.
Li Shen faced five trials.
He sparred with monks made of ash, wrestled fire-serpents conjured from forgotten prayers, and meditated beneath a burning waterfall that threatened to sear thought from mind.
At last, he stood before a chamber sealed in a single, unbroken flame.
The monk from before placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You are worthy. But the Codex chooses for itself."
Li Shen stepped forward—and the fire parted.
Inside, a pedestal held a scroll bound in red feathers that never burned. As he reached for it, the room shifted.
He was somewhere else.
A dream.
A memory.
He stood atop a mountain beneath twin suns, surrounded by monks of fire and fury. In the distance, an army of shadows approached. But he did not draw a blade.
He spread his arms—and ignited.
Rebirth.
The Codex entered his soul.
When he returned to his body, the scroll was gone. Only the heat remained.
The monk bowed.
"You carry it now. The Fire That Does Not Fade."
As Li Shen left the ruins of Nyakan, the Sea of Ash roared behind him.
In the distance, from beyond the burning dunes, he sensed a presence moving—massive, unnatural, silent.
A titan cloaked in fog and hatred.
One of the Twelve Hollow Ancients was stirring.
And it knew his name.