**From the Chronicle of Shadows and Flame**
The bells of the **Dragon Altar** rang across the mountains, their sound sharp as steel and pure as fire. On that day, Cadia gathered to witness destiny: the crowning of the **Dragon Warrior**. Monks, nobles, and soldiers bowed as banners of jade and gold rippled in the wind.
At the center of the shrine stood **Zilong**, chosen by the Dragon Spirit itself. His blade gleamed with divine light, his posture steady as the mountains. The priests sang praises, the crowd cheered, and the elders declared:
> *"The Dragon has chosen its champion. Cadia is safe under his wings."*
But in the shadows of the altar, a young warrior stood still, his fists clenched tight. **Ling.**
He had trained for this moment his entire life. He had bled, broken, and risen again, certain the Dragon's power would be his. Yet the Spirit had turned its gaze elsewhere. Zilong had been chosen. Not him.
The crowd's cheers were salt in his wounds.
*"Why not me?"* Ling thought, his jaw locked. *"Am I not swift enough? Sharp enough? Devoted enough? What do they see in him that I lack?"*
The Dragon's silence was the loudest answer.
---
That night, while the monks celebrated, Ling slipped away. He left behind the banners, the chants, the sacred halls. The only sound that followed him was the whisper of the wind, cold and endless.
The wind became his companion. His blade, his only voice. He wandered Cadia's borders, hunting bandits, slaying raiders—not for glory, not for pay, but to carve meaning from emptiness. People began to whisper his name with awe and fear:
> *"The Wind without Master."*
Yet inside, Ling was hollow. Every strike of his blade was a question unanswered.
---
Far away, in the heart of Cadia, another destiny burned.
**Zetian**, the Phoenix Empress, stood within her shrine of flame. Around her, priests prepared the ritual of rebirth, their voices trembling in reverence. The Phoenix flame curled around her body, consuming her flesh, reshaping her soul.
When she emerged, her eyes glowed with fire, her wings of flame spread wide. The people fell to their knees, crying:
> *"The Phoenix has risen! Our Empress is eternal!"*
But when night fell, and the fire dimmed, Zetian sat alone. Her hands trembled as she stared into the embers.
*"Each time I rise, I lose something,"* she whispered to the empty hall. *"Memories… feelings… fragments of who I once was. Am I truly eternal? Or am I slowly burning myself away?"*
Her crown was heavy. Her immortality, a chain.
---
When the Abyss stirred, sending raiders and monsters across Cadia's borders, Zetian's council begged her to summon warriors. She needed strength, blades sharp enough to cut through shadows.
It was then that the wind answered.
Ling arrived at the Phoenix Shrine one dusk, his cloak torn, his blade stained. Guards raised their spears, but Zetian herself stepped forward, her fire casting long shadows across the marble floor.
"Who stands before the Phoenix?" she asked, her voice strong but curious.
Ling bowed his head slightly, though his tone was sharp.
"I am no one's servant. I fight for no banner, no altar. But I hear the Abyss has touched your lands. And I… am very good at cutting down demons."
The priests gasped at his arrogance, but Zetian only studied him. She saw the restless wind in his eyes, the bitterness of one forsaken. Yet also the strength of a blade honed in silence.
"You will fight for me," Zetian said finally. Her command was less request, more destiny.
Ling's lips curled into the ghost of a smile.
"I fight for no one," he repeated. "But… for now, I will cut down your enemies. Whether you call it service or not, that is your choice."
Their eyes locked—fire and storm, command and defiance. Neither yielded. Neither looked away.
Thus began the bond of Phoenix and Wind. Not of trust. Not of love. But of necessity.
And in that uneasy alliance, a legend stirred.
🔥 End of Chapter I.