Chapter 35: The Fire That Hunts
The forest clearing where Moro trained had grown darker in tone. What once carried the crisp scent of pine now carried something heavier, the faint echo of a world leaning into war. Days had blurred into a cycle of sweat, bruises, and lectures, but every dawn felt sharper, the weight of history pressing harder against Moro's shoulders.
Xerx's staff drew a glowing circle on the dirt, lines etched into symbols older than kingdoms. The circle pulsed faintly, a rhythm that seemed to breathe.
"Again," Xerx said, his voice cutting through the air.
Moro exhaled and stepped into the circle. He extended his hand, calling forth the familiar hum of the matrix. The aura glowed blue at first, then shivered like a flame against wind. His body trembled as he fought to contain it, to let it flow through rather than against him.
"Balance," Xerx urged, tapping his staff. "You cannot cage the matrix, Moro. You cannot force it to heel like a hound. You must let it breathe."
The energy threatened to lash out, burning his veins with raw heat. Moro gritted his teeth, sweat streaming down his face. He thought of Kaya, of Herbet, of the rebellion waiting. He thought of his father—the man who bore the Ember Spirit alone until it consumed him.
No. He would not be consumed.
The matrix stabilized, glowing steady, the blue light smoothing into calm ripples.
Xerx allowed the faintest smile. "Better. You are learning."
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Jara's Truths
When Moro collapsed, panting, Xerx sat beside him. The old magician stared at the horizon, eyes carrying the weight of another time.
"Your father once trained the same way," Xerx said quietly. "Fighting himself, cursing himself, burning himself until there was nothing left but fire. I told him then what I tell you now—power is not endurance. It is understanding."
Moro wiped his face with the back of his hand. "Did he ever… regret it?"
Xerx's eyes narrowed. "Never. Jara was not a man of regrets. He knew what was coming for Shinya, and he chose to stand even when it cost him everything. What he did regret…" Xerx's voice dropped, almost a whisper, "…was leaving you behind."
Moro froze. "He—he thought of me?"
"Every day," Xerx said. "He spoke of you when the Ember nearly broke him. He fought harder because he knew you would inherit a world that needed saving. He feared he would not live to guide you. And in the end, that fear came true."
The words hit Moro like a blade to the chest. For so long, his father had been a ghost—whispers, rumors, shadows of a legend. To hear that Jara had thought of him, had burned with love even as he burned in battle, reignited something deep inside.
Moro clenched his fists. "Then I'll finish what he started."
Xerx nodded, though his expression darkened. "You must. Because the same enemy who broke him now hunts you."
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Hawks' Hunt
Far from the rebel camp, in the stone corridors of Shinya's sanctum, Hawks knelt before the Celtic High. His once-sharp eyes now burned with a shadowed glow, his veins etched faintly with dark magic. The High's chants whispered through him, sharpening his strength, warping his will.
"Find the boy," one of the hooded High commanded. "Find the son of Jara and snuff out his light before it burns."
Hawks bowed, his voice colder than steel. "As you command."
When he rose, the ground beneath him cracked, as though even the earth feared his steps.
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Training and Doubt
Back in the clearing, Kaya approached Moro as he sat by the fire. She handed him a flask of water, watching him quietly.
"You push yourself too hard," she said. "Even your father had limits."
Moro drank, then shook his head. "Limits are what killed him. I won't let them kill me."
Kaya frowned. "No, Moro. Limits are what make us human. If you break yourself before the real fight begins, you won't be saving anyone. Not me. Not Herbet. Not Shinya."
Her words cut through the stubborn fire in his chest. He sighed, lowering his gaze.
"She's right," Xerx said, stepping closer. "Training is not only about power. It is also about restraint. Remember this, Moro: fire uncontrolled is as dangerous to its wielder as to its enemies."
Moro nodded slowly. He still burned with impatience, but beneath it, a deeper flame of understanding flickered.
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The Rebellion Moves
Night settled, and Herbet gathered the squad. Maps spread across rough wooden tables, candles flickering in the dark. Every face was drawn tight with exhaustion and determination.
"The time has come," Herbet said. "Phase two begins at dawn. We strike at the heart of their supply lines. No more whispers. No more hiding. The people must see we are not afraid."
A murmur of agreement swept the squad. Some eyes were sharp with fire, others heavy with dread. But all of them were ready.
Moro watched them, the weight of his father's legacy heavy on his shoulders. Xerx's words echoed in his mind—You must balance. You must understand.
If he failed, their hope burned with him.
Herbet met his gaze. "You've been training long enough, Moro. Soon, you'll have to decide whether to burn with us… or lead us."
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The Closing Shadow
Beyond the trees, a shadow moved. Hawks, cloaked in silence, watched the rebel camp from the darkness. His eyes burned faintly, hunger sharpened by the High's magic. He did not strike—not yet. His orders were clear: wait, hunt, and when the time came, crush the boy with the fire.
The hunter's lips curved into a thin smile.
"The son of Jara…" he whispered to the night. "Your flame will die in my claws."
And then he was gone, swallowed by the shadows as the rebels prepared for war.
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