The chamber dimmed as the lantern outside guttered low, leaving only the faint blue glow of a crystal embedded in the ceiling. Shadows settled into the corners like watchful eyes.
Johan lay stretched on the rug, hat tilted over his face, but his voice cut through the silence.
"Still bothers me. Which god does this sect really serve? Annular Eclipse, yes… but is that just the veil? If the Overseer's in play, then something more ancient, hungrier, is coming."
Tom listened quietly, fingers tracing idle circles on the floor, each movement as if turning over a thought. "If we guess wrong, we might mistake shadow for sun."
Arlong, leaning against the wall, unstrung his bow and began a slow ritual of motion — draw, release, repeat. The string hummed faintly, his hands sure and calm. He spoke without looking at them.
"You know what?" he said, "I used to be the worst archer in my entire lineage. Lost every match, every hunt. Ten thousand failures. Until one day, by chance or curse, the arrow hit center. I didn't feel triumph. Like all those misses gathered themselves and agreed to end."
His tone carried something poetic, almost like worshiping. The bow creaked as he drew it once more, loosing nothing into the air.
Tom studied him, thoughtful. "And since then?"
Arlong shrugged lightly, eyes never leaving the invisible target in front of him. "Since then, every shot has carried both the weight of that emptiness and the echo of those failures. When my arrow flies, it is not just mine."
Johan gave a low whistle. "Respectable archer, I guess."
The room had gone quiet, but the air still carried the faint hum of hidden engines beneath the camp.
The three of them sat on simple cots lined against the wall. A single lantern burned low, its yellow glow flickering against the metal.
The hourglass above was running.
23:54… 23:53…
Tom leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes darting toward the grainy shadows along the floor. His hand played at the yellow rune he still carried, absent-minded. He didn't like the sound of the hourglass ticking down.
"We're here as journalists," Said Johan.
Tom frowned and Arlong raised a brow.
Johan gave a thin smile, though his tone was serious. "Not my first choice of disguise, but it worked. Too well, actually. They let us in without much hesitation. A group like this shouldn't. Their secrets are supposed to be buried. That means two things."
He leaned back, shadows cutting across his scarred face.
"Either they think we're too harmless to bother with…. or they already know exactly who we are."
The words hung heavy in the chamber.
Arlong shifted, resting his bow beside him. "That's not comforting."
Tom muttered, "No. It isn't."
The tension eased a little when Johan chuckled under his breath. He rubbed the scar near his eyebrow, then pulled a dagger from his boot and set it spinning in his palm. "We'll just need to be careful. Every movement here is a test. Fail, and we don't get a second chance."
Tom nodded slowly. He wanted to believe Johan's calm tone, but his gut told him they were being watched in every degrees, even now.
They sat a while longer. The air was too heavy to stay in silence, so Johan changed the subject. His voice softened, almost like he was speaking to students instead of allies.
"You know, I've mastered flame magic."
Tom glanced at him with a mix of disbelief and curiosity. Arlong smirked, tilting his head.
Johan continued, his eyes reflecting the dim light. "Most people don't understand flames. They think fire is just.… red. Burning wood, cooking meat, nothing beyond that. But fire has its own cosmology. A hierarchy. Levels, if you will. Each color is a step into its nature. Each step closer to creation or destruction."
He raised his hand. A small flicker appeared at his fingertip, nothing but a pale white flame.
"Heat Level One. White." He twirled it like a coin. "Novice. Barely warm. It's the flame children first summon when their spirit touches fire. Harmless, but it holds the purity of origin. Basically used in purification and healing."
The flame shifted, glowing yellow-orange. It gave a soft warmth to the room.
"Heat Level Two. Orange, sometimes turns Yellow. The flame of the Learner. Warmer, stronger, enough to light hearths and lanterns, enough to burn flesh."
It deepened into red, sharp and alive. Tom felt the sting of heat from across the room.
"Heat Level Three. Red. Standard flame. This is where most mages stop. It burns houses, forges steel, fuels wars. Common. Predictable. Yet underestimated."
Then the fire blazed blue, cold and sharp, like molten ice. Shadows bent strangely around it.
"Heat Level Four. Blue. Unordinary. Few flame mages reach this. It doesn't just burn flesh — it burns essence. It leaves no ash, only void where matter once was."
Arlong's eyes narrowed, his expression no longer playful. Tom swallowed.
Johan's voice dropped lower. "Heat Level Five. Black. Exceptional. The flames of hell. They eat reality itself. They don't give warmth, only absence. I don't like to use them — but I've seen cities turn silent under their touch."
His flame twisted darker, though he didn't summon black itself. Instead, he spoke it into existence, and the air trembled as if remembering.
"And above black…" His eyes sharpened, the scar at his brow wrinkling as he smiled faintly.
"Heat Level Six. Purple. Gamma. Anti-matter flame. It doesn't consume; it erases. What it touches doesn't burn. It ceases. Every atom reversed, rewritten as nothing. I can barely graze its edge, but once or twice… I've felt it."
The silence in the chamber deepened. The lantern flame seemed small, almost mocking, compared to Johan's words.
"And then…" He paused, letting the suspense breathe.
His hand shifted, and a faint silver gleam flickered, just a whisper of light before vanishing.
"Heat Level Seven. Silver. Divine flame. No mortal mage truly commands it. It's said to be the fire closest to the heart of creation. Some call it 'the Breath of God.' Some say it's the same fire that first lit the stars. It purifies… or annihilates, depending on the heart of the bearer."
He closed his hand, and the flames were gone. Only the lantern remained.
Each of them sat in silence for a long while. Arlong's eyes were fixed on Johan like he was seeing him for the first time. Tom's chest felt heavy, a strange awe crawling up his spine.
Finally, Tom whispered, "And you? Which one do you use?"
Johan leaned back, his expression unreadable.
"Mostly blue," he admitted. "Sometimes purple, if I'm willing to pay the cost."
Arlong exhaled through his nose. "A cost?"
Johan met his gaze. His voice dropped, heavy with meaning.
"Every flame asks for something. The higher you climb, the more it takes. Heat is not free. Creation demands sacrifice. Flesh, memory, even time itself."
Tom felt his stomach twist, but he didn't speak. The hourglass above ticked again.
23:45… 23:44…
Tom spoke. "So… anyone could climb those levels, right? If they practice enough?"
Johan chuckled softly, shaking his head. "No, Tom. Fire isn't just… fire. It's an element. Elements are jealous things. A mage doesn't get to pick from a basket. You're born with one affinity. That's it. One element, one bond. For some, it's fire. For others, water, or air, or stone. But if you try to reach beyond your affinity…"
He snapped his fingers. A small wisp of flame appeared and died instantly, smoke curling upward.
"…you rot."
Arlong leaned forward, brow furrowed. "Rot?"
"Your veins," Johan said flatly. "Your mind. Your soul. It begins with fever. Then madness. Then your body eats itself from the inside. No one survives trying to wield two elements."
Tom shifted uneasily. He looked at his own hands, as if expecting them to betray him. "So if you're fire…. you're fire forever?"
"Exactly." Johan nodded. "But don't mistake it for weakness. Each element isn't just a trick. They carry their own nature and fundamentals. The more you understand those, the deeper you climb."
Arlong tilted his head, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "So what's fire's nature, then? Besides burning my eyebrows off."
Johan laughed, quiet but genuine. "Fire's nature is hunger. Its fundamental law is consumption. That's why most flame mages end up warriors, destroyers. Their bodies match their flame. But if you can discipline hunger, fire becomes light, guidance and even protection."
Tom's eyes flickered with something — recognition, maybe hope.
"And water?" Tom asked.
"Water's nature is patience. Its fundamental is shape. It takes the form of anything it touches, never losing itself. That's why water mages tend to be healers, tacticians, strategists. But water drowns as easily as it heals."
Arlong rested his chin on his palm, listening. "Earth?"
"Earth is stubbornness," Johan said. "Foundation. The body that resists change. Their strength lies in endurance, but they're often slow to act. Then air…." He smiled faintly. "Air is freedom. Fundamental is motion. Quick, fleeting, difficult to grasp. Air mages are often reckless, but their adaptability is unmatched."
He paused, then added quietly, "Some rare ones carry stranger affinities. Shadow, lightning, even light itself. But those are costly paths. Not all elements forgive."
The lantern sputtered, throwing crooked shadows across Johan's scar.
Tom leaned closer, whispering like a child with a forbidden question. "You've never wanted more than fire?"
Johan's eyes darkened. He didn't answer immediately. He reached into his coat, pulled a flask, and took a long drink.
Finally, he said, "Wanting is easy. Surviving the want isn't."
The room sank into silence for a bit.
Arlong broke it with a sigh, picking up his bow. He strung it lazily, then tested the pull, his fingers steady. "When I first picked this up, I missed ten thousand shots. I counted. Ten thousand. One day… my arrow split the center. Just once. I still miss more than I hit. But that one? That one kept me going."
He loosed an imaginary arrow at the wall. The string hummed softly.
"Maybe magic's like that. Ten thousand burns, one perfect flame."
Tom smiled faintly, but the weight of Johan's words lingered. The thought of rot, of being bound to one element forever, made his chest heavy.
Johan caught his expression and added, "Don't think of it as a cage, Tom. Think of it as a mirror. The element you carry isn't random. It's you. The fire mage hungers because he hungered long before the flame. The water mage bends because they were fluid long before they touched water. You don't choose the element. The element chooses the truth of you."
The hourglass ticked.
22:00… 21:59…
No one spoke for a long while.