The sky turned red before Yan Xuanlanbin even set foot in the Flame Realm.
Ash drifted from above like snow. Heat rolled off the cracked earth. Rivers of lava ran through black stone canyons, hissing as they bubbled and spat fire toward the heavens.
The portal behind him vanished in a flash of light.
Yan adjusted the cloth over his mouth and walked forward. The Supreme Sword pulsed once at his side — not in warning this time, but anticipation.
Here, everything burned.
And fire never waited.
A mountain stood at the center of the realm. Smoke poured from its peak, and flames danced along its sides like living things.
That's where he was going.
But as he approached the base, voices echoed from the ridge.
Three figures stood above him.
Robes of deep crimson. Golden flame sigils on their chests. Their eyes glowed faintly like embers. Cultivators of the Burning Fang Sect.
One of them stepped forward.
A woman, tall and muscular, with a greatsword across her back.
She looked down at Yan with open disdain.
"You're not one of us," she said.
Yan said nothing. Just kept walking.
That seemed to irritate her more.
"You carry a sword meant for gods," she said, leaping down and landing in front of him. The stone cracked beneath her boots. "But you're not a flame disciple. Not even a brother of ash."
"I don't need to be," Yan replied, voice calm. "The sword chose me."
She chuckled — a low, sharp sound.
"I'm not here to argue," she said, unsheathing her blade. It glowed red-hot, flame licking along its edges. "I'm here to test you."
She didn't wait for permission.
She charged.
Yan stepped back, drawing his sword in a single smooth motion.
Their blades clashed.
Hers burst with flame on impact, sending sparks flying across the rocky path. His held firm — a broken edge against an inferno.
She swung again, powerful, two-handed strikes that smashed into the earth like hammers.
Yan dodged, quick and light.
She was faster than she looked.
Stronger than most.
He ducked under a sweeping blow and countered — a short slash toward her ribs. But her sword twisted, intercepting his mid-strike.
"You're quick," she said, smiling now. "But flames don't fear speed."
She raised her hand, and fire erupted from the ground around him.
Yan leapt clear, rolling across molten stone. His robe smoked. The edge of his sleeve caught fire. He slapped it out and stood.
The woman charged again.
This time, he didn't dodge.
He met her.
Steel rang against steel, the Supreme Sword glowing with a low hum.
The broken edge sparked with each strike, deflecting, slicing, redirecting her massive swings.
He sidestepped, then lunged, slashing across her left arm. Blood sprayed. She hissed, but didn't stop.
She backhanded him across the jaw.
His vision blurred.
Then her sword came down — straight at his head.
He dropped to one knee and raised his own blade in defense.
The flames surged.
For a moment, he thought the heat would burn his arms off.
But the sword held.
Cracked.
Strained.
But held.
She stepped back, breathing hard.
He stood, smoke curling from his shoulders.
"Still think the sword picked wrong?" he asked.
She didn't answer.
She charged again.
This time, Yan moved.
Not with reaction — with purpose.
He ducked her swing, moved inside her guard, and slammed his shoulder into her chest. She stumbled. He slashed low, across the thigh. Her leg buckled.
He spun behind her and brought the sword down across her back — not to kill, but to end the fight.
She dropped to one knee.
Breathing hard.
Sweat poured from her brow.
Her blade clattered to the stone.
She looked back at him — and grinned.
"Fine," she said. "You're not just a boy with a fancy weapon."
He nodded once.
"You've got teeth," she added, pushing herself to her feet. "But the mountain doesn't care about teeth. It devours everything."
Then she pointed upward — toward the peak.
"Your next test waits at the summit. If you survive… maybe you'll walk out of here a real swordbearer."
She stepped aside.
Yan walked past her, climbing toward the peak.
Behind him, one of the other cultivators murmured, "He didn't even use flames. Just a broken sword."
And the woman replied, "Which is why I'm worried."
The climb was brutal.
Stone cracked beneath his boots. Heat rolled down from the summit in waves. Breathing felt like inhaling smoke.
At the top, a massive gate stood.
A single rune burned across its surface: TRIAL.
Yan stepped forward.
The gate opened.
Inside was not a room.
It was a void.
A battlefield of fire and glass, floating in nothingness.
Flame wreathed every stone.
In the center stood a figure in black armor, faceless, eyes glowing red.
A flame spirit. One of the ancient ones.
Born from fire.
Guarding the path.
It raised a burning spear.
The sword in Yan's hand pulsed once.
Then silence fell.
And the real fight began.
The spirit moved like lightning.
Its spear stabbed forward, trailing flame. Yan twisted, dodging barely. The heat peeled the skin on his cheek. He slashed, but the blade bounced off armor like it was stone.
He moved again, fast, cutting through fire.
The spear came again — sweeping, stabbing, spinning.
Yan blocked — barely.
He couldn't overpower it.
Couldn't outburn it.
So he didn't try.
He baited a strike, rolled under, and slashed at the back of the knee joint.
A spark — a crack.
Not much.
But enough.
The spirit stumbled.
Yan struck again — this time, aiming not for damage, but for rhythm.
Beat.
Step.
Cut.
He began to move like a wave — flowing, dodging, striking. Not forcing the sword to obey, but letting it guide him.
The blade hummed with ancient rhythm.
The spirit's strikes slowed.
Yan ducked one more thrust.
And drove his sword into the spirit's chest.
The fire exploded.
He woke in ash.
Back on the peak.
The sword glowed faintly.
And the mountain whispered:
"You walk the path. Let the next realm judge your soul."