The Hollow wore the faintest shroud of dawn as I stepped from the Ember Shrine. The chill was sharper now, as if the forest itself could sense the shift inside me. My breath came steady, deliberate—each inhale a thread weaving me closer to something ancient, something forgotten by the System.
The Formless Flame flickered weakly in my palm, an ember alive with restless potential. It did not burn bright like the flashy skills others wielded, but it moved with me, an extension of my will—fragile and unpredictable.
Ahead lay the Crimson Threshold, a clearing where cultivators came to prove themselves, where raw power met the unforgiving test of reality. The red-stained trees bore the marks of a thousand battles—scars left by blades and blood, by fire and determination.
I was not prepared, but I had no choice.
The clearing held more than just the echoes of past struggles.
A dozen players stood clustered near the perimeter, their auras pulsing with the hum of the System—visible stats glowing above their heads like badges of security. Titles flashed: System Vanguard, Silver Arc, Skill Master—names earned not through will, but through coded support.
They looked at me—the null, the glitch—no interface, no buffs, no visible stats. Just a boy with a flickering ember and a breath unmeasured by any gauge.
The golden-eyed System Vanguard stepped forward, voice sharp and cold.
"Null, you're a mistake. A bug no one asked for. This place isn't for you."
I swallowed the burn in my throat and met his gaze.
"This flame is mine. My path is mine."
No System-assisted roar, no flashy skill animation. Just the quiet certainty of breath.
The first attacker lunged—a blade crackling with system-enchanted lightning, precise and merciless.
No auto-dodge prompt.
No glowing markers.
Just sound.
I heard the whoosh, felt the pressure in the air, and moved—not with muscle memory from a guide, but with instinct honed by countless breaths.
Exhaling slowly, I fed the ember. The Formless Flame responded, swelling into a shifting glow of oranges and blues that warped the space between us.
They hesitated.
The System could not predict what it could not see.
I moved again.
Not by rote skill sequences, but by a rhythm born inside me.
Each breath became a measure; each heartbeat a call to arms.
The strike landed.
Not with brute force, but a subtle pulse.
It slipped past system buffs and auto-corrected defenses, landing in the core of his form.
His movements faltered.
The golden glow above his head flickered.
Others charged—faster, sharper, coordinated by unseen coding.
But the flame that danced in my palm bent with the wind, shifting with intent, with feeling.
The System's patterns broke.
One by one, their attacks slowed, their spells misfired.
In the silence that followed, I felt it: my root—alive, resonant, awake.
The Soul Mirror Flame was no longer just a flicker.
It was a spark that challenged the very algorithm of the System.
Between strikes, memories of Ruyan's teachings came sharp and clear.
"The Rootless cultivate not by numbers, but by flow. Not by leveling, but by breathing truth."
The Breath of Revolt had done more than free me from the System's watchful eye.
It had taught me to listen—to the world, to myself, and to the flame growing within.
Every breath was a meditation.
Every motion a step deeper into the Dao.
This trial was no simple fight.
It was a reckoning.
To prove that the path outside the System was not chaos or error.
But evolution.
When the last adversary knelt, breath ragged and armor cracked, silence fell.
The golden System Vanguard wiped sweat from his brow, eyes wide in disbelief.
"You fight like you've rewritten the very code," he said, voice barely a whisper.
I let the ember die down, warmth fading into the cool morning air.
Kairos approached quietly and laid a hand on my shoulder.
"Your flame has grown," he said. "But your journey has only begun."
I nodded, the weight of his words settling deep.
The System's gaze would sharpen now, and its hunt intensify.
But I was no longer a pawn in its game.
I was the flame it feared—formless, unpredictable, alive.
The forest held its breath with me as I turned away from the clearing.
Not just a player without a system.
But a cultivator reclaiming a forgotten truth.
One breath at a time.