The void stretched around Song, an endless sea of black where time and space dissolved.
The campfire's faint glow was the only anchor, its flames casting flickering shadows across the old man's weathered face.
Song sat beside him, his heart pounding, the crunch of bones beneath his feet still echoing in his mind.
His Tattoo of Dominion pulsed weakly, a single stripe that felt like both a curse and a lifeline.
The old man's question hung heavy in the air, its weight pressing on Song's soul.
"Would you wish to be one of them? A great warrior of your era?"
Song froze, his mouth opening but no words coming.
Did he want greatness?
He didn't even know what it meant.
His life was a blur of pain—chained in slave pens, whipped by Grue, mocked by Kael.
The desert where he'd been found, half-dead, with no name or past.
Greatness was a word for others, not for him.
He met the old man's gaze, those ancient eyes studying him like a blade peeling back flesh.
"Elder," Song said, his voice trembling, "I don't know how to answer."
"My life… it's barely worth a few sentences, and 'greatness' isn't in them."
He paused, his fists clenching.
"But I know this—I never want to be a slave again."
"I want to be stronger, to choose my own fate."
The old man's brows twitched, a flicker of surprise crossing his face.
"Choose your own fate?" he echoed, his voice tinged with curiosity.
"Yes, elder," Song said firmly, his defiance burning through the fear.
The old man laughed, a deep, resonant sound that filled the void, echoing off unseen walls.
The darkness seemed to shiver, as if unaccustomed to such mirth.
"And if I told you only immortals and gods can choose their fate," he said, his laughter fading, "would you still desire it?"
His eyes locked onto Song's, sharp and unyielding, searching for weakness.
Song's heart raced, but he didn't waver.
"Yes, elder," he said, his voice steady.
"Greatness isn't my goal. Freedom is."
The old man chuckled, a softer sound this time, and turned back to the fire.
With a calm motion, he picked up a dry branch, snapping it into pieces.
"Do you know of karma?" he asked, tossing the fragments into the flames.
The fire flared, its light illuminating the void's edges, revealing faint outlines of scattered bones.
Song shook his head, his gaze fixed on the old man.
"Karma," the old man continued, "is the invisible threads binding all things."
"A child to its parents, a teacher to their student, a lover to their beloved."
"It is fate, the ties that weave the world."
He paused, his eyes glinting.
"Breaking those ties is no simple task."
"Walk your path to its end, and you may become immortal—or perish in obscurity."
"Your karma, your fate, depends on you alone."
"Break the chains of this world, or bow to them. There is no other way."
Song's chest tightened, the words sinking into him like stones.
Break the chains, he thought, his mind flashing to the slave collar, the obsidian that had swallowed him, the fox-beings' crimson eyes.
Is that even possible?
The old man snorted, as if reading his thoughts, and tossed something to Song.
Instinctively, Song caught it, his fingers closing around a strange object.
Under the fire's dim light, he examined it—a yellow fruit, the size of a man's fist, its surface rough and warm.
It pulsed faintly, a rhythmic throb like a heartbeat, sending a chill through him.
"What is this?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.
"The Fruit of Raging Fire," the old man said, his gaze returning to the flames.
"Place it against your stomach."
Song hesitated, glancing from the fruit to the old man's impassive face.
The pulsing grew stronger, almost alive, urging him to act.
Swallowing his fear, he pressed the fruit to his skin.
Pain erupted, a fire that consumed him from within.
His vision darkened, his stomach lurching as he vomited blood.
His body convulsed, muscles seizing, bones cracking under an unseen force.
He collapsed, the ground cold against his cheek, his screams swallowed by the void.
The old man's voice cut through the agony, calm and unyielding.
"The Fruit of Raging Fire grants what you lack most—potential, talent, raised to near limitless heights."
"Ancient texts say the weaker one's talent, the greater the effect."
"For you, boy, this fruit is everything."
Song barely heard him, his mind fraying under the pain.
Waves of fire coursed through him, each one threatening to shatter his soul.
"Remember my words," the old man continued.
"There is only a person and their path."
"Find your purpose, and pursue it, fearless of the karmic ties that bind you."
Song's body trembled, his tattoo blazing with a searing red light.
The single stripe stretched, morphing into a full ring around his wrist.
His muscles hardened, his veins thickened, his bones snapped and reformed, each cycle forging them stronger.
He was still a First Lord, but his power now rivaled a Third, perhaps even a Fourth.
Yet, none of this reached his consciousness.
His world was pain, a relentless storm tearing at his sanity.
The old man watched, his expression unreadable.
Hours passed, the void unchanging, the fire's glow steady.
Song clung to life, his face drenched in sweat, his features twisted in torment.
The old man's brows rose, a spark of surprise in his eyes.
He's still fighting, he thought, a rare flicker of hope stirring.
Is this time different?
The void was littered with bones—millions who had faced the Fruit of Raging Fire and failed, their lives and souls consumed.
Only a handful had survived, their names etched in legend.
The old man sighed, his gaze heavy with sorrow.
"I hope this time it works," he murmured, his voice barely audible.
Song's body continued to transform, his tattoo glowing brighter, its ring pulsing with newfound power.
His mind teetered on the edge, but his defiance held, a spark refusing to be extinguished.
Don't break, he told himself, his thoughts a fractured mantra.
I will live.
The pain surged, a final wave that threatened to drown him.
His tattoo flared, a rune flickering briefly on its surface, identical to those in the palace hall.
The void trembled, the fire roaring as if in response.
Song's consciousness wavered, but a voice—not the old man's—whispered in his mind, ancient and vast.
Awaken.
The void shattered, light flooding his senses.
Song gasped, his eyes snapping open to a world of chaos.
He lay on the obsidian platform, the palace hall around him a battlefield.
Explosions of energy illuminated the runes, bodies littered the floor, and the air reeked of blood.
What's happening? he thought, his body heavy but alive, his tattoo burning with unfamiliar power.
The collar around his neck was dormant, its grip loosened.
He staggered to his feet, the hall shaking as a new threat loomed, its presence chilling his soul.
To be continued…