Sometimes, the flame you lit comes walking back toward you.
Lucen sat at the edge of the rooftop, shirt torn and soaked in dried blood. Smoke curled from the bruises across his ribs. Below him, the city pulsed—sirens in the distance, flashing lights crawling like ants through the wet streets.
Beside him, Aria stood in silence. Her arms were crossed, eyes fixed on the chaos far below.
"The city's scared again," she said quietly.
"They should be," Lucen replied.
"Of you?"
He didn't answer right away.
"…Of what I used to be."
—
Far below, in the rusted depths of an underground boiler room, Scarne stood over his work. Sparks leapt from his welding torch, licking at his scorched gloves. The thick tank on the table hissed faintly as he locked the valves shut.
His arms were bandaged in black cloth. One eye glowed from beneath the cracked metal mask. Blood ran slowly down his wrist—but he didn't stop.
On the table beside him were pictures. Photos of Lucen saving people. Some carried kids out of rubble. Others shielded victims from flames.
All of them had been crossed out with jagged red Xs.
A small TV played on the wall. Static broke through the reporter's voice.
"…unidentified vigilante causes another explosion during confrontation with new arsonist. Citizens are asking—'Is the fire devil back?'"
Scarne didn't flinch.
"Let them question," he whispered. "Let them fear. Then… they'll understand me."
He turned, dragging his fingers through cold ash on the floor. When he lifted his hand, the symbol glared back—a broken halo, burning from within.
—
Lucen walked through the city, hoodie drawn, face covered in bruises. The street buzzed around him—cars, chatter, phones ringing, screens flashing. But he moved like a ghost through it all.
A child pointed at him, wide-eyed.
"Is that the man from the fire?"
"Don't look," the mother snapped, pulling the boy close. "He's dangerous."
Lucen didn't look back. Each word stabbed, but he kept moving.
Then the world shook.
A deep boom cracked the sky open. Smoke twisted upward from a construction site. Screams followed. Fire.
Lucen didn't hesitate. He ran.
—
Chaos waited.
A crane dangled by one cable, spinning wildly over a collapsing building. Flames roared from the second floor. Workers scrambled down half-broken ladders.
Above them all, on a steel beam high above the wreckage, stood Scarne—flamethrower tanks strapped to his back like wings.
He raised his voice.
"He saved you once by burning us! Now he watches you burn again!"
Lucen landed hard, diving through falling metal. He rolled, grabbed a trapped worker, and shoved him out of the collapse.
"Scarne!" he shouted. "This ends before someone else pays the price!"
"You're ten years too late for that."
Scarne struck a match and dropped it.
Fuel drums exploded behind him, fire chasing air like a dragon's breath. Lucen twisted his body around civilians, redirecting fire with short bursts of energy. He didn't go after Scarne. He saved.
The two clashed for a moment—raw and brutal.
Scarne was faster now. Angrier.
"Come on!" he yelled, swinging. "Show them what you are! Let loose!"
"I can't," Lucen breathed.
"Can't… or won't?"
Lucen dropped low, swept Scarne's legs, pinned him.
"I know pain," he said. "But you're not the only one carrying corpses in your heart."
Scarne snarled, slashed his shoulder, and vanished—melting through scaffolding like a phantom of smoke and flame.
—
Later, Lucen collapsed at home.
He barely made it to the mattress. His chest ached. Wrists bandaged. Mind slipping.
He slept. And the dream came.
Mist.
A figure stood inside it, tall and pale. Black robes moved like they were alive. No eyes. Just a wide mouth that curled.
Morpheus.
"Even gods dream, Lucen," he said. "But you… you burn even here."
Lucen stood in the dark, fists clenched. "What do you want now?"
"A reminder. Of who you are. And what hell birthed you."
"I'm not them."
"Not yet. But soon… the ashes you left behind will rise."
Morpheus waved a hand.
Visions struck like knives. Lucen tearing through streets in monstrous form. Scarne's family—burning. A boy crying in firelight.
Lucen, on his knees, whispering to no one—
"What am I?"
He woke with a gasp, drenched in sweat.
—
By night, he walked to the cliffs.
Rain fell softly. The city burned quietly in the distance.
In his hand, he held a small locket. Old. Worn. The monk symbols etched into the surface had faded, but the feeling hadn't.
He turned it once in his fingers.
"What do you do," he whispered, "when your past wants a rematch?"
No answer.
Only thunder.
---
END OF CHAPTER 12
Next Chapter:-CHAPTER 13: THE OTHER SIDE OF FLAME🔥