The world knew only fire and silence the day the Crimson Dragon descended.
For generations, the land of Karyuun was sealed from the outside world by the Wall of Wills, a veil of energy said to have been crafted by gods and warriors alike. It was believed that the wall protected the realm from the decay of time, from the chaos that gnawed at creation. But deep in the heart of the Empire, where the lotus blooms never withered and the winds carried whispers of lost legends, one prophecy had not been forgotten.
"When the sky burns without sun, and the beast of flame bows to a shadow, the last blade shall awaken."
The child was born beneath a blood moon.
His name was Akari Ren, a boy with eyes the color of dying coals and silence so profound it disturbed even the monks who raised him. He never cried. Not when his mother vanished into smoke upon birth, not when he was left at the threshold of the Temple of Kaji, and not when he was forced to kneel for days under waterfalls of fire as part of his training.
Beside him, always, was the one they called The Ronin Flame—a nameless warrior who had long ago discarded his past like a snake sheds skin. His face remained hidden beneath a straw hat, but legends whispered he once challenged a god and won, losing his name in the process.
The Ronin never spoke. He simply taught. A twitch of his fingers could teach Akari more than a library of scrolls. And in the shadows of ancient torii gates and sun-scorched dojos, Akari learned more than swordsmanship. He learned patience. Pain. Purpose.
But no one could prepare him for the day it returned.
The sky cracked open like shattered glass, and from the void emerged a sea of living flame—a storm of scales and claws, fangs and fury. The Crimson Dragon, long believed a myth, roared with a sound that shattered temples and turned oceans to vapor.
It came not for conquest, but for one soul: Akari Ren.
The monks, warriors, sages—all fell to their knees, either in awe or terror. But the Ronin Flame stood tall, hand resting on the hilt of his twin-bladed katana.
"It remembers you," he whispered to Akari for the first time in fifteen years. His voice was sandpaper and sorrow.
"Why?" Akari asked, barely a whisper, trembling.
"Because you were its heart. And now, it wants it back."
---
As the red smoke curled like serpents around the boy, the Ronin stepped forward. The dragon paused, crimson eyes flaring with memory. And then, it bowed.
Akari's heart thundered in his chest. The beast that devoured empires and danced with gods was kneeling before him.
"You carry the last ember of the First Flame," the Ronin said. "But it is not enough to carry it. You must master it. Or it will consume you and the world with it."
Akari turned his gaze from the dragon to his mentor. "Will you help me?"
The Ronin turned away. "No. Because from this moment, you will walk alone."
And as the sky wept fire and the dragon opened its wings like a cathedral of smoke and light, Akari stepped into the flame.
Not to be burned.
But to become it.
---
Thus began the age of the Crimson Paradox.