Midnight in the outer sect.
A pale, ember-tinged moon hung over the horizon, bleeding crimson light across the tiled roofs of Flamepeak Sect. The wind was thin, dry, whispering like a serpent across the training fields and dormitory rows. Most disciples were asleep, lulled by exhaustion or wine, trusting in the false safety of senior patrols.
But Shen Yao sat awake.
Cross-legged on the wooden floor of his narrow courtyard, he faced the stone basin in front of him — filled not with water, but black sand and ash from three different beast cores, each taken from fire-element creatures killed during his earlier trials. The mixture pulsed softly, reacting to the low flame flickering in his palm.
He wasn't cultivating. He was waiting.
For in his past life, this was the night they came.
Not grand assassins, not Heaven-sent enemies — just quiet blades in the dark. Inner sect disciples bought by a masked elder. Their orders had been simple: destroy Shen Yao's foundation without killing him. Cripple his flame roots. Shatter his core. Turn the "brilliant genius" into a silent joke.
And they had succeeded.
They had snuck beneath the wooden floorboards of his courtyard at the hour of ghostly breath, lit silent smokeless incense to numb his spiritual sense, then punctured his flame meridians from below using flame-piercing talismans laced with soul-rot.
This time, he had salted the earth before the serpent could slither.
Beneath the floorboards, buried in each corner of the courtyard, he had placed whisperfire sigils — ancient traps from the Infernal System's passive memory stores. Each one lay dormant until it felt the intent to kill within three feet of its range. Harmless to the innocent. Lethal to the treacherous.
And sure enough, as the second incense stick burned low, the floor creaked — ever so softly. The scent of lavender and metal filled the air.
A numbing charm had been activated.
But Shen Yao didn't move. He kept his eyes closed, his breath steady, his spiritual sense narrowed to a pinprick, mimicking the trance of someone deep in fire visualization.
A faint click came from beneath him.
Followed by— FWOOM.
A silent burst of heat. Then another. Four pillars of flame erupted from the ground, spiraling in jagged arcs, and the soft sound of muffled screams cut through the night — quickly silenced by the airless vacuum of the Whisperfire Sigils.
The wooden planks charred instantly. A hand shot up through the slats — skeletal and shaking, its skin melting like wax.
Shen Yao opened his eyes.
He stood. Walked slowly to the edge of the platform.
Beneath, two men thrashed in dying agony. The third had already been turned to black ash. One of the survivors — barely alive — looked up, half his face peeled back, blood mixing with burned marrow.
"You… you knew…"
Shen Yao crouched slowly beside him, voice soft.
"You came beneath my home with fire meant to cripple me," he said. "And yet you sound surprised that the fire answered."
"No—no… we were told… just punishment… Elder Han said—"
Shen Yao's eyes darkened.
"Han Guojiu."
He'd suspected it before. Now it was confirmed.
Han Guojiu — an Inner Sect elder who wore the robes of neutrality but had, in truth, been one of the Celestial System's most loyal hounds. In Shen Yao's past life, the man had remained hidden for years, manipulating the sect's disciple placements, matching talent to poison.
And this was the first move.
The dying disciple's body convulsed, his flame meridians collapsing inward. A seal — placed within his soul — activated automatically. Self-destruction. Shen Yao leapt back just as the corpse exploded in a flash of blue fire.
But he didn't flinch.
He merely stared at the ash drifting through the air.
A long silence followed then the Infernal Immortality System stirred.
[Karmic Assault Intercepted]
Target Identity: [Han Guojiu]
Sinflame Ledger Updated.
Flame Resonance Node: Unstable, Searching for Next Trigger.
Warning: You are now partially visible to Heaven.
That last line settled like lead in Shen Yao's chest.
The suppression had begun.
He raised a hand, letting a small flicker of fire rise from his palm. It was darker than before. More focused. Not angry — but aware.
Heaven was watching.
Good.
Let them watch him rise from the ashes they once scattered.
The next morning, word spread fast.
Three bodies had been found burned to nothing in the outer sect's meditation courtyard. Elders hushed it up as an alchemy accident. But everyone felt the tension tighten.
Shen Yao was no longer a stagnating outer disciple. He had been tested and the fire had not only survived — it had bitten back. That night, he stood atop the Flamefall Cliffs, overlooking the vast valley below.
The wind pulled at his robes, and the first light of dawn flickered across the eastern peaks like kindling waiting to catch.
Two enemies down. Dozens to go.
He whispered the names to himself. Not out of hatred — but precision. Focus. Flame did not rage blindly. It consumed with purpose.
And Shen Yao's purpose had only begun to ignite.
The morning light was slow to rise.
After returning from the Flamefall Cliffs, Shen Yao didn't retreat to rest or meditation. Instead, he moved silently through the outer sect's silent halls, visiting each corner that held meaning in his former life — the dorm where Lian Xue had been mocked for standing up to an elder, the sparring arena where he had once suppressed his talent to avoid resentment, the fire basin where he had once burned his first martial robe after being stripped of his rank.
He stopped before a rusted gong mounted beneath the old Bell Pavilion — unused, untouched for years. This gong had once called outer sect disciples to emergency muster.
In his past life, it had never been rung for him. Not even after he was crippled. Now, he reached up, pulled the cord, and let it ring once.
The sound echoed like a scream made of metal.
Across the outer sect, disciples stirred. Windows creaked open. Heads turned.
And standing there in black-crimson robes, ash still smoldering at the hem, Shen Yao looked up at the dawn sky with a calmness that chilled the onlookers more than fire ever could.
He had made his first move. He had taken a bite out of fate but the fire had only begun to spread.
System Update: Silent Flame Stability — Reaching Activation Threshold...
New Martial Flame Available: [Cremation Palm]
Do you wish to bind this technique to your soul flame?
He didn't answer immediately. Because something else stirred in the distance — not within the system, not even in the sect.
It was a scent in the air. An omen in the wind.
A divine aura. Faint, nearly undetectable — but real.
So… they had started watching already.
He smirked slightly.
"Good," he muttered under his breath. "Watch closely, gods. Burn slowly."
He accepted the martial flame binding. And with that, the heat inside his meridians shifted — not hotter, not colder… just more real. As if his body and spirit had stepped one inch closer to becoming one.
No more hiding. If Heaven wanted to peer through the veil, then let them burn their eyes out doing so.
The first assassination had failed. The fire had survived and it remembered.