The night the empire fell, the sky bled gold.
Kaelen was only six when the flames came, carried on the backs of men in silver masks and black banners. His village cracked apart beneath weapons that weren't swords, weren't spears—tools of Code, their edges sharp with the very laws of fire and silence.
His mother shoved him into the reeds by the riverbank, a spear pressed into his trembling hands.
Not just a spear.
The shaft coiled with silver and gold, etched in the shapes of two dragons chasing one another in endless loops. At its base rested a tiger's claw, cold and sharp enough to cut his palm even when held still.
"Run," she whispered, though her voice cracked as the world behind her split into screaming. "The Road will find you."
That was the last time Kaelen saw her.
He ran until the river swallowed him.
He floated until the desert spat him out.
And there, beneath stars that refused to blink, strangers found him.
The Ashroad Tribe.
They carried him into firelight. Warriors in bronze masks, their bodies scarred with flame-patterns, their eyes burning with a wild heat. They did not ask his name. They only looked at the spear clenched in his hands.
One of the elders, Druin, bent low, his gray braids swaying. His voice was deep, but each word seemed wrapped in something heavier.
"A child walks with the Twin Serpent Spear… and the Road has chosen again."
Kaelen did not understand. He only clutched the weapon tighter, his whole body shaking.
Days turned to weeks. Weeks into seasons.
The Ashroad did not cast him out. They fed him, taught him their ways.
They showed him fire not as an element, but as a Law.
"Flame is not heat," Jorah, the scarred warrior-mentor, said once, drawing a circle in the sand. His chest bore seared marks that still glowed faintly. "It is the memory of change. To wield flame, you wield the story of what something was and what it becomes."
For the first time, Kaelen learned what cultivation was.
Not qi. Not essence. Not spirit.
But steps on the Golden Road.
The Golden Road
Every being, human or god, walked it.
An invisible path stretching through the soul, paved with radiant steps of gold. Each step carved open a Code, a fragment of the laws the First Walkers left behind.
The Ashroad called the first stage the Kindling, where the faint golden spark flickered inside the heart.
Kaelen's spark had always been there—but dormant.
Only when he began to breathe with the tribe's rhythm, to train with the spear until his arms trembled, did the spark flare.
He saw it one night, in a dream:
A vast road, endless, each step etched with symbols shifting too quickly to name.
And far ahead, towering like mountains, he saw… shadows of giants walking before him.
Gods, perhaps. Or worse.
But even dreams could not prepare him for the tribe's first trial.
Jorah stood before him, holding out a flame that burned blue.
"This is the Trial of Paradox. Your spark will not grow without contradiction. You must carry flame without burning."
Kaelen reached for it—and the fire slid into his chest like a living thing.
Pain tore through him, but in that moment, the Golden Road beneath his feet shifted. A single new Code unfurled in his heart:
The Code of Ash — that which dies is never lost, only transformed.
Kaelen collapsed, smoke curling from his lips. The tribe roared approval.
Druin only smiled faintly, his ancient eyes glinting.
"The Road has opened for you, boy. Do you know what this means?"
Kaelen shook his head, gasping.
"It means your steps will echo. And everything that follows… gods, beasts, and men alike… will hear."