The skies above Ashmoor Village always seemed to carry a whisper of sorrow ashen clouds drifting like the forgotten souls of a bygone era. Situated at the edge of the Ebonflame Wastes, Ashmoor was a remote, quiet place known not for its wealth or glory, but for the ancient legends buried beneath its scorched earth.
On this day, however, the silence of the sky was broken. Bells chimed from the Awakening Hall, and villagers gathered in anticipation. It was the season of ascension the time when the youths of Ashmoor turned fifteen and stood before the Spiritstone Altar to awaken their cultivation roots.
Children of elders, hunters, herbalists, and even the blacksmith's only daughter lined up in ceremonial robes, eyes sparkling with hope. Among them stood Kael Ardent, draped in plain gray linen, his dark hair matted with dust, and his eyes a stormy blue that hid more than they revealed.
"Is that the orphan boy again?" someone whispered.
"Shouldn't even be allowed on the altar," another scoffed.
"He doesn't have a clan name. His blood's probably cursed."
Kael heard every word. He was used to it. Ever since the fire ten years ago that burned his home to cinders and left him alone, he had been "the ashfall orphan," a child of smoke and ruin. But today today might change that. If he awakened a spirit root, he could join the Emberwood Sect, escape this place, and maybe even prove that fate had more in store for him than ridicule and starvation.
"Kael Ardent," a voice called. The Hallmaster, old Master Dren, motioned with a tired hand. "Step forward."
Kael swallowed hard and walked to the stone. It stood nearly twice his height, etched with runes older than the village itself. The moment he laid his hand on it, the chamber dimmed the ambient fire crystals flickering as though afraid.
A hush fell.
The Spiritstone should have glowed blue for water roots, red for flame, green for life, gold for lightning. But Kael's hand sparked nothing. Not a flicker. Not a pulse.
Silence turned to murmurs. Murmurs turned to laughter.
"Spiritless," Master Dren said, shaking his head with a sigh. "You possess no root. You cannot cultivate."
Kael stood frozen. He wanted to scream that it was wrong. That the stone had failed, not him. But no words came. His mouth tasted of ash.
"Remove yourself," the Hallmaster added flatly.
Laughter echoed in his ears as Kael turned and walked through the crowd, every step heavier than the last.
The day dragged into dusk. Kael wandered beyond the village, past the old charcoal cliffs and toward the Cindervale Ruins a shattered temple buried beneath obsidian stone. He often came here when the village became too much, when the whispers turned to blades.
Tonight, the sky burned orange as the sun vanished behind jagged peaks. The wind stirred the ashes around the ruins like forgotten memories. Kael dropped to his knees before a broken statue of a robed figure whose face had long eroded away.
"I don't want to be nothing," he whispered. "I don't want to fade like them."
The ground beneath him suddenly pulsed. The rune lines across the stone cracked alight dim, flickering orange veins crawling from the statue's base.
Kael scrambled back, eyes wide. The air thickened, heat pressing against his skin.
From the base of the statue, a small ember flickered to life, hovering in the air.
A voice deep, ancient, cracked like volcanic glass spoke not with sound, but within his mind:
"Ash of the sky... embers of the void... You have called, and I have answered."
Kael could barely breathe. "Who are you?"
"I am what remains. I am the First Flame, sealed by fear, forgotten by time. You… are my vessel."
The ember darted forward and slammed into Kael's chest. Pain erupted like wildfire through his veins. He screamed, falling backward as visions flooded him cities burning, stars crumbling, gods kneeling before a throne of fire.
Then darkness.
He awoke hours later, gasping. The ruins were still and silent, the ember gone. But something inside him had changed. His skin radiated faint heat. His heartbeat thudded with rhythm not his own. And deep within, he could feel it a core pulsing inside his dantian, not formed from elemental root, but something ancient and forbidden.
A Cursed Core.
Back in the village, Kael tried to act normal, but sleep no longer came easily. His body was different. Stronger. Faster. His reflexes were sharper. He began training in secret behind the cliffs, mimicking the martial movements he had seen from the sect disciples during visits.
On the third night, when a wild ash wolf attacked a trader outside the village, Kael didn't hesitate. He lunged from the shadows, bare hands against claw and fang. The flame surged within him as he struck. One blow. That's all it took.
The beast was incinerated mid-air.
Witnesses claimed it was a falling star. Kael said nothing.
But the world was not silent.
Far beyond the mountains, in the Celestial Tribunal's Flame Tower, a crystal orb shattered. A priest robed in golden fire robes turned from the relic with a scowl.
"A cursed spark has awakened," he said grimly. "A remnant of the Forbidden Flame."
His eyes burned with resolve. "Send word to the Emberwood Sect. Have the boy brought in… or destroyed."