Six years had passed since Kael first set foot in the Ashwilds—a boy with nothing but cursed blood and a stolen blade.
Now, he was a storm.
His once-wild flame burned with the precision of a forge, his movements sharp, controlled, and deadly. The Ego Knife was no longer just a weapon; it was an extension of his soul, its black edge whispering secrets only he could hear.
The Ashwilds had become both his prison and his kingdom. Where once there was only desolation, Kael had carved out a refuge—an encampment of survivors, outcasts, and warriors who had pledged to follow him.
But Kael's eyes remained fixed on the horizon—on the shattered towers of House Kito, on the throne stolen from him.
Rumors had reached the Ashwilds: the Elders grew restless, whispers of rebellion stirred within the fortress walls. The fragile balance of power was cracking.
Kael's heart burned with a fierce hunger.
The exile was over.
The reckoning was near.
He was ready.
And House Kito would soon learn what it meant to face the true fire of Hel.
The ruins lay silent beneath the twin moons, relics of a forgotten age cracked and crumbling beneath Kael's feet.
He stood alone in the heart of the ancient forge, where stone and metal whispered the echoes of battles long past.
His voice, once sharp and fierce, was now a cold monotone.
No passion, no anger—only the steady calm of a flame mastered.
With deliberate motion, Kael drew the Ego Knife across his palm.
A thin line of blood welled up, dark as night. He lowered his hand, letting the crimson drip onto the cracked floor.
The blood did not stain—it ignited.
Blue fire bloomed, spreading like a living thing, devouring the dry stone and ancient metal. The flames crackled with quiet power, burning not just the surface but the very atoms beneath.
Kael watched, unmoving, as the fire consumed the ruins—the place that had been his crucible, his prison, and his proving ground.
The flames spread rapidly, a roaring wave that turned memories to ash.
He whispered to himself, voice flat and steady:
"Let the past burn. Let it fuel the fire of what comes next."
The inferno roared, lighting the Ashwilds with blue fire—a signal, a warning.
Kael's Hel Flame was no longer a secret.
It was a force that would reshape Grimworld.
And he was ready to wield it.
The blue flames from the burning ruins faded into the night, swallowed by the vast darkness of the Ashwilds.
Kael stood at the edge of the wasteland, the weight of the Ego Knife at his side and the steady pulse of Hel Fuel blood beneath his skin. His eyes, sharp and cold, fixed on the distant silhouette of House Kito's towering spires.
Each step forward was a quiet promise: to reclaim, to punish, to end.
The journey through the Ashwilds was brutal—twisting through shattered skyship graveyards, past the remnants of ancient wars, under storms that churned like restless spirits. Yet Kael moved without hesitation, his flame burning steady inside.
The fires within him were no longer chaos. They were purpose.
With every mile, memories sharpened—the betrayal, the exile, the faces of those who cast him away.
But Kael was no longer the boy who fled.
He was the inferno that would reduce House Kito to ash.
As the first light of Somid's dawn touched the horizon, Kael whispered, voice low and even:
"The House will burn. I will make sure of it."
The reckoning had begun.