The soul is the essence — the reflection of one's true self.
The body, the element — inherited through blood and ancestry.
A person's essence cannot be trained; it is them. But the element can be honed, forged, reshaped through years of suffering. Of all basic elements, fire is said to be the most unforgiving to those without its lineage. To master it, one must master the very nature of burning itself.
Currently, Shita was within the Fire Clan — training, enduring, failing, enduring again.
"Young man! Strengthen your posture! Keep your legs balanced! Let the fire flow through you, not burn you!"
Standing barefoot on searing coal, Shita winced as his body trembled. The instructor's voice cut through the heat like a blade. He tried to focus, to stand tall, but his balance faltered. His foot slipped—his skin seared. The pain was immediate.
He fell to his knees.
"I should've rejected Jaze's offer," he muttered bitterly. "This is hell."
Beside him, a red-haired boy stood firm atop the coals, completely still, his eyes closed in concentration. The flames licked his feet harmlessly.
Shita glared. "You think you look cool, standing there like that? That's just lame."
"You've got no idea what you're talking about," the boy replied evenly. "Don't distract my training."
"Ugh…" Shita looked away, his jealousy simmering hotter than the fire beneath him.
Later that day, during the wooden sword trials, Shita faced the same boy again. Within minutes, he was disarmed and thrown to the ground. His pride stung more than his body.
When the day's training ended, he sat alone under the burning torches of the courtyard, staring into the embers.
"How long do I have to endure this?" he whispered to himself.
That night, as the moon rose high and painted the academy in silver light, Shita made his decision — he would escape.
For five days, he had observed the guards, memorized their rotations, studied the flame gates that sealed the perimeter. He had noticed something odd: the people of the fire seemed weaker, more fatigued, whenever the moon was full or partial. On those nights, the entire clan grew sluggish and retreated indoors.
Tonight was one of those nights.
Grabbing his small travel bag — water, rations, a single talisman — he crept through the shadowed corridors toward the gate.
No one was around. The only thing between him and freedom was a burning wall — the Gate of Embers.
To pass, one had to control the flame. To command it, one had to speak its language.
Shita extended his hand toward the fire. It roared in defiance. The heat scorched his arm, forcing him back.
He clenched his jaw. "Damn it… come on…"
But the fire refused him. It was alive — proud — and it would not yield to someone who hadn't accepted it.
Breathing hard, Shita lowered his hand. "Fine," he muttered. "Then I'll just use Plan B."
And with that, he turned toward the shadows — ready to risk everything for the freedom his flame would not yet grant him.
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