The old man's breath grew weaker with each passing day.
His once-commanding presence dimmed, like a fading flame fighting against the wind.
Lian knelt at his side, crushing herbs into a paste, but he knew—it would not be enough. No medicine could mend wounds that cut into the soul.
The old man chuckled bitterly as he watched the boy work.
"Still trying to save me, boy? Heh… even mountains crumble with time. I've lived longer than most. Don't waste your tears."
Lian lowered his head, but his fists clenched tight.
"Before I leave," the old man rasped, "you should know my name."
His cloudy eyes seemed to clear for a moment, as though reclaiming a fragment of his former glory.
"Yan Zixuan. Once an elder of the… Crimson Flame Sect. Betrayed, hunted, broken. That is all I am now."
The name echoed in the cave. To Lian, it was a revelation—not just a man, but a cultivator who had once stood among the strong.
Yan Zixuan coughed violently, blood staining his lips, yet his smile remained.
"I was too proud, too reckless. I thought power alone was enough. And for that, I lost everything."
His gaze fixed on Lian. "But you… you are different. You know how to bend, how to hide. That is the path to survival. Never forget it."
His trembling hand reached for Lian's shoulder.
"I leave you my techniques… my legacy. Do not waste them. Live… live where I could not."
The grip weakened, then fell.
Silence swallowed the cave.
Lian sat frozen, staring at the lifeless body before him. His chest felt hollow, his throat dry. For a long time, he did not move.
Finally, he carried Yan Zixuan's body outside, up the mountain slope where an ancient pine tree stood. With bare hands, he dug into the cold earth until his fingers bled.
He laid his master to rest beneath the roots, covering him with stones and soil.
Kneeling before the grave, Lian pressed his forehead to the ground.
"Master Yan," he whispered, voice trembling, "I swear to you… I will not remain a servant. I will sharpen your legacy, and I will rise above them all. One day, the name Chu will fall, and the world will remember only the servant who turned to fire."
The wind howled through the trees, carrying his vow into the night.
For the first time, Lian stood from the grave not as a boy weighed down by chains—
But as a cultivator with a path, an oath, and a fire that no darkness could smother.
End of Chapter 10.