The Crucible of Ash, as the ancient rites called it, was neither an arena nor a battlefield. It was an open fissure, jagged and circular, with rings of obsidian and glowing magma vents. Lava-fall cascaded in the distance like a molten waterfall from the caldera's heart. Qingsai stood bare-chested, his Soulkindled brand exposed across his back like a mark of prophecy. Yuwen watched from the outer rings, jaw clenched.
A priest of the Emberlords recited the trial incantation:
> "Vurnax tar'fel. Spirit, flesh, ash. Let fire be your truth. Let weakness be your pyre."
Three masked warriors emerged from the smoke, wielding flame-etched spears. These were Flame Sentinels, masters of Furnastran martial fire—the test Qingsai must survive.
As the gong rang, the heat grew unbearable. Fire arced toward him like whips. Qingsai ducked and rolled, channeling instinct, not control. With a sudden pulse of light, his hand surged in golden-red aura.
Lucentia and flame — mingled.
> "Let me burn bright." Qingsai whispered.
He caught one spear mid-air and redirected the flame outward into a radiant ring. A wave of Soulkindled power burst forward, not destructive, but balancing. The crowd gasped.
> "Vel'unar taz'rei…" one Sentinel murmured. "The fire answers him."
One by one, Qingsai disarmed his opponents—not with rage, but harmony. When it was over, the flames subsided into glowing motes.
The crowd fell silent. Then knelt.