The air outside Mason Lu's hut carried the scent of damp earth and pine, a comforting contrast to the storm inside the boy's chest. Chase sat cross-legged on the grass, eyes covered with a thin black cloth. Not that he needed it—he hadn't seen light in years. Mason sat opposite him, quiet as ever, watching.
"You want power, boy?" Mason's voice, deep and measured, broke the silence like a stone cast into still water.
Chase's fingers clenched into the grass. "I need it."
Mason said nothing. Instead, he drew a short breath and pointed upward. "Where's the wind coming from?"
Chase tilted his head. A leaf drifted past his ear. A faint whistle curved against his skin. "Northwest."
"Good." Mason stood. "Let's go inside. You owe me answers."
Inside the simple wooden home, the fireplace crackled. Mason poured two cups of tea, setting one in front of Chase. The boy didn't reach for it.
"Tell me, Chase. What truly happened that day?"
For a moment, Chase said nothing. The silence stretched—taut and painful. Then:
"I don't remember everything," Chase began, voice rough. "But I remember waking up... and my world breaking."
It was a warm morning in Silvermist Manor. He was twelve.
Chase stretched under silk sheets, blinking against the morning sun filtering through the high windows. Something felt wrong. His head ached. His limbs were sluggish, heavy. The scent of perfume clung to the air like rot under sweetness.
He sat up—and froze.
Across the room, Clara lay on the bed opposite his. His cousin. Her wrists and ankles were bound to the bedposts with red silk. Her blouse was torn, her skirt askew. Her eyes were wide, shimmering with tears, lips parted in a soundless scream.
"What…?" Chase's throat closed up. "Clara?"
The door burst open.
Richard stormed in, eyes wild. Behind him came Lim, the family patriarch—Chase's father.
"There he is!" Richard snarled, raising a hand. Earth energy gathered in a surge of power. "You damn animal!"
Chase barely had time to scream before the wave of hardened earth smashed into the room.
But another element—fire—rose to meet it, intercepting the blow.
Lim stepped forward, fury and confusion clashing in his eyes.
"Enough!" Lim barked, raising both hands. "What is the meaning of this?"
Richard turned on him. "He did this, Patriarch! He tried to defile Clara!"
Chase couldn't speak. He couldn't move. His tongue was thick. His vision blurred. Something had been slipped into his drink the night before—that much was becoming clear.
"I didn't…" he croaked. "I don't remember… I didn't…"
Lim looked at Clara—her broken, trembling form—and then at his son.
"Chase," he whispered. "Tell me it isn't true."
"I would never hurt her…"
"You were alone. No servants. No guards. You were found half-dressed… and Clara like that…" Lim's voice cracked.
"I didn't do it!" Chase cried, crawling forward. "You raised me better! You know I would never—"
"Silence!" Richard roared. "Let me kill him, Patriarch! You know what shame this will bring!"
Lim staggered back. "Take him away. Lock him up. I need… I need time."
And just like that, the walls of Silvermist closed in.
That night, they locked Chase in the northern cell. A week later, his escape began—not from a desire to flee, but because someone came for him. His father, cloaked and silent.
"I cannot protect you anymore," Lim said, pressing a fire-sealed scroll into Chase's palm. "This is all I can give you. I hope… one day… you'll survive long enough to prove the truth."
"Do you believe me?" Chase whispered.
Lim didn't answer. He turned and left, footsteps vanishing into the night.
Chase ran. Through forest and shadow, bleeding and blind from an ambush that cost him both his sight and his innocence. And when his legs finally gave out…
Mason Lu found him.
Back in the hut, Mason sipped his tea. "That's quite a story."
"It's not a story," Chase murmured. "It's all I have."
The old man looked at him for a long time. "You said you don't remember everything."
"I don't. But I remember Clara crying. I remember her looking at me like I was a monster. That broke me more than anything."
Mason finally stood, walking over to a wooden chest. From it, he pulled out a small wrapped scroll.
"Then prove you're not that monster. Become strong enough to unearth the truth."
He tossed the scroll onto the table in front of Chase.
"What is it?" the boy asked.
"A fire cultivation technique. Not a basic one. Advanced—dangerous. If you want power, it starts here. But so does pain."
Chase reached out, fingers trembling as they brushed the parchment. "Pain… I already live in it."
"Good," Mason said. "Then you'll fit right in with the rest of us."