Morning had not yet broken.
A thin layer of mist still clung to the Crimson Lotus Sect like a second skin, coiling around the tiled rooftops and dampening the early sounds of the waking mountain. But where Long Xiyue sat beneath the scorched plum tree, the mist dared not tread.
The courtyard stone was still warm beneath her feet.
Smoke curled upward from the cracked earth like incense. The plum tree's blossoms had not wilted overnight; they glowed faintly, fed by a flame that no longer obeyed the rules of nature. They bloomed in defiance of winter, their petals scarlet as spilled blood.
And at their roots, Long Xiyue opened her eyes.
The transformation had ended. Her body felt unfamiliar—lighter, stronger, and oddly still. As if the air around her awaited instruction. Her skin held a faint sheen of gold, barely visible beneath her robe, but her aura was different now. It had weight. Gravity.
She inhaled slowly. The world responded.
Not with words, but with recognition.
She rose to her feet, bare soles quiet against the stone. Each movement felt deliberate, like a dancer learning steps from a forgotten dream. Her hands flexed with new precision. The Qi within her no longer trickled; it surged in slow, thunderous tides.
But with power came clarity. Memory.
She remembered the names of those who sealed her. Remembered the sigils burned into her bones. The high priestess with a jade scepter. The Grand Elder of the inner court. Her uncle. Her blood.
They feared her.
And fear makes men do foolish things.
A faint sound broke her focus.
Soft footsteps. Approaching.
She turned, calmly.
A boy in disciple robes appeared between two crumbling pillars. Young. Perhaps fourteen. An outer sect novice. His eyes widened the moment they fell on her—on the still-burning tree, the fractured ground.
He dropped to his knees.
"M-my lady! I—I was told to investigate the disturbance—!"
Xiyue blinked. "Do you know who I am?"
"N-no, my lady, but... the tree..." He gulped. "Only a celestial-blooded can awaken a spirit tree."
She stepped forward. He flinched.
"I am not your lady," she said, voice even. "I am a servant."
He looked up. "Then... what are you now?"
She considered the question.
"I don't know yet."
But she would.
High above, the inner court was in uproar.
Flame signals had been lit hours ago. The elders were gathered in the Cloud Pagoda, murmuring behind barrier screens of shifting jade. The Grand Elder's face was pale.
"A forbidden bloodline," he whispered. "We were certain she died."
"Someone interfered. The seal should have lasted another decade at least," another elder growled.
"Long Xiyue lives. Worse—she awakened near the plum tree. If the Spirit Tree has returned—"
"We must act."
There was silence. Then:
"Send her to the Ash Trials."
A hush fell.
"That arena hasn't been opened in—"
"She cannot be executed openly," the Grand Elder said flatly. "But if the flames of the trial consume her, the Heavens will not object."
"She's a child."
"She's a weapon."
So it was decided.
By midmorning, the summons arrived.
A black-robed envoy appeared at the edge of the courtyard, flanked by two silent wardens in full sect armor. He carried no weapon—he didn't need one. The badge pinned to his chest glowed faintly with talismanic wards.
He bowed. "Long Xiyue. By decree of the Grand Council, you are summoned to the Ash Trials."
She tilted her head. "I'm not a disciple."
The envoy didn't flinch. "Now you are."
And so she followed.
The path to the trial grounds wound downward, into the mountain's underbelly. Few knew of the Ash Trials. Fewer returned from them. Once, it was a crucible for the sect's elite—those vying for entry into the Core Flame Hall. Now, it was spoken of only in whispers. An old punishment. A death rite wrapped in formality.
The corridor opened into a vast cavern.
Ash choked the air. The ground was blackened, scorched. Pillars of obsidian jutted upward like broken teeth. And at the far end, a circular arena, ringed in fire.
She stepped forward. Alone.
The envoy did not follow.
From the flames, a voice rose:
"You enter the Trial of Ash. Here, you prove your worth—or perish."
Xiyue said nothing.
A pulse of heat surged through the ground.
The ash shifted.
From beneath, figures rose—twisted things of bone and molten sinew. Trial Spirits. Forged from ancient cultivators who had died in rage and unfinished purpose. They bore weapons of fire and hate. Their eyes were hollow.
Xiyue exhaled. Her blood stirred.
The sigil on her chest ignited.
The spirits attacked.
The first came fast—a blur of flame and steel, cleaving the air with a screaming blade. Xiyue ducked, twisted, and struck upward with her palm.
A pillar of fire erupted.
The spirit shattered mid-lunge, its remnants crumbling into glowing cinders.
Two more followed.
She moved through them like water set ablaze—each motion guided by instinct buried deep in her blood. She did not call on spells. She remembered them. Her body knew the old forms: Phoenix Talon Step, Burning Vein Pulse, Dragonbone Grasp.
An arrow seared past her cheek.
She caught it.
With a flick, it became a lance of fire and tore through three spirits in a line.
Around her, the arena howled.
The fire that ringed the trial surged higher, responding to her presence. Feeding on her defiance.
More spirits rose. Ten. Then fifteen. A tide.
Her breath grew heavy.
She was not invincible. Not yet.
But she was free.
She screamed—and with it came a burst of golden flame that swept outward like a tidal wave, consuming everything in its path.
Silence fell.
Nothing moved.
The fire dimmed.
Xiyue stood in the center of a scorched circle, alone.
Above her, the stone ceiling cracked. A single shaft of sunlight pierced the gloom, falling upon her face.
She closed her eyes.
Not because she was weary.
But because the second trial had already begun.
The second trial was not fire.
It was silence.
Xiyue found herself standing in a void. The walls were gone. Her body floated, suspended in a sea of ash and memory. Images flickered around her—visions not her own.
A man drowning in flame, screaming for forgiveness.
A child abandoned on temple steps.
A blood pact signed in desperation.
Each memory stabbed into her like a needle.
She clenched her fists. "This is not mine."
The void answered:
But it is what you carry.
A mirror formed.
In it stood a woman, her reflection.
But twisted.
Eyes black as pitch. A crown of bone. Fire dripping from her hands like blood. Behind her, cities burned.
Xiyue stepped forward. "No."
The reflection smiled. "You will become me. This power—it corrupts. It consumes."
"It reveals."
She reached toward the glass.
And shattered it.
Ash swallowed the void.
When she awoke, she was kneeling in the arena. Alone.
But the fire had gone out.
And the elders who watched from afar whispered in fear:
"She passed."
"She lives."
"She remembers."
Outside the arena, the mist had burned away.
And for the first time in decades, the Spirit Tree in the servant's quarter shed a single golden petal.
It drifted through the air, untouched by wind, and came to rest at the feet of the girl now walking out of the mountain's shadow.
Long Xiyue picked it up.
And the path of the Dragon Empress continued.