The Forest of Shattered Stars lived up to its name.
Every tree stood twisted, their bark shimmering faintly beneath starlight as though constellations had been carved into them by ancient gods. The canopy above was broken in places, allowing the moonlight to pierce through in jagged lines, painting the forest floor with silver scars.
Mo Lianyin entered with measured steps.
He had followed the signs as instructed—seven red petals placed on stones, branches tied with silken thread, the distant cry of a three-throated crow. All symbols of a sect thought lost to legend.
The Crimson Echo had survived in whispers.
And tonight, the whispers were gathering.
---
As he reached the heart of the forest, a clearing opened around him like a breath held too long.
Torches ringed the circle, but they burned blue, not orange—enchanted flames that recognized only those marked by exile, betrayal, or blood. Lianyin's steps passed through without resistance.
They were already waiting for him.
Around the fire stood seven figures, each cloaked in a different shade—ochre, indigo, silver, emerald, violet, white… and one in red so dark it looked black. Their faces were hidden, but their eyes gleamed through their hoods like forgotten stars.
The one in crimson stepped forward.
"You came," she said.
Lianyin inclined his head slightly. "You summoned me."
She laughed gently. "No. The world summoned you. We merely listened."
The others circled in, each one extending their right hand—revealing marks. Not tattoos, but branded seals burned into their skin, glowing faintly with the runes of forbidden cultivation. Some bore the symbol of lost clans, others the language of old demons, even one in the tongue of the ancient phoenix line.
Lianyin's eyes stopped on that one. A single feather sigil, flickering in gold.
"You… you have a Phoenix Brand," he said.
The figure nodded. "As do you. But yours was hidden. Bound since birth."
A ripple moved through Lianyin's chest.
"I was never told…"
"Because those who raised you feared it. The Phoenix Line is not a gift—it is a rebellion. The heavens themselves cannot control it."
The woman in red moved closer. "You burned a sect. You shattered a gate. And you survived the Mirror Lake. You are awakening, Lianyin. But there is more."
A hush fell over them.
The woman slowly knelt and reached into a pouch. From it, she pulled out a scroll bound in white bone.
Lianyin felt it immediately.
Ancient. Alive.
"This," she said, "is one of the Seven Forbidden Arts."
Lianyin froze.
"I'm not ready."
"No one ever is," she said. "But the enemy is."
---
They seated themselves in a ring of stone. The flames dimmed to a low hum, pulsing in time with the rhythm of unseen drums beneath the earth. The scroll was placed at the center of the ring, and Lianyin felt its pull.
The woman began to chant—softly, like wind between glass.
The others joined in.
It wasn't a language of words, but of memory. Of intent. Lianyin understood fragments:
> We remember the burned. We remember the broken. We remember the betrayed. We rise not from power, but from pain.
The scroll opened on its own.
And inside, written in crimson ink and wrapped around a strand of phoenix feather, were the rites of the Second Forbidden Art: Soul-Flame Invocation.
The woman looked to him. "Do you wish to learn it?"
Lianyin stared at the feather. "What is the cost?"
Her eyes didn't waver. "Your heart. Once you master this, it will never burn for anyone else. Not fully. Not again."
He didn't answer immediately.
He thought of his mother's touch, long lost.
Of the one friend who tried to save him, now buried beneath ruins.
Of the boy in the lake who claimed to be him.
Of the forest that breathed like it knew his name.
"…Then it was never mine to begin with," he whispered.
He reached out and touched the scroll.
---
Pain unlike any flame burst through his veins. Not physical pain—something deeper.
It was sorrow. Grief. Every memory of warmth twisted until it became a weapon.
The world around him melted, and suddenly he was standing inside a world of fire and feathers. The sky bled gold, and shadows danced with wings made of ash.
And in front of him stood a phoenix.
Not elegant. Not divine.
It was wild. Furious. Broken.
And it was crying.
The creature tilted its head and looked into Lianyin's soul.
Then it stepped forward.
And entered him.
---
His body convulsed back in the clearing, and the other cultists rose at once, whispering, chanting, steadying the torches. Flames surged around Lianyin's body, wrapping him in burning wings.
Then—silence.
Lianyin collapsed.
Breathing. Alive.
Changed.
When he rose, his eyes were no longer dark.
They burned with faint gold, with embers that never died.
---
The woman bowed deeply.
"Welcome, bearer of the Soul-Flame. You are now the Second."
He blinked. "Second?"
She smiled. "One has already taken the First Art. Six remain."
"And when all seven are awakened?"
She turned to the fire. "Then the age of the Immortals ends."