The wind had become a part of him, no longer just an element he called upon, but a current threaded beneath his skin. It whispered no longer. It listened. The chamber above had taught him grace, taught him to vanish between moments. But here, the air no longer stirred. In the heart of stone, the monolith's sigil had turned red. Not the red of life, but the deeper hue of coals before they burst. Fire had awakened.
The old man stood on the edge of that glow, his outline lost in flickering light. His voice carried the dryness of kindling ready to burn.
"You carry the wind," he said. "Now you must learn what it means to burn."
Together, they descended into the mountain's depths. The path coiled downward, carved by heat long forgotten. No torch lit the way. They did not need one. The walls pulsed faintly with veins of crimson ore, casting a low, restless glow. The deeper they went, the more the air changed—dry, weighty, thick with pressure. It wasn't heat alone. It was something older. A force buried beneath centuries of stone.
They emerged into a vast cavern that breathed like a forge. The ceiling loomed high above in shadow, while the walls curved like ribs around a single churning pit of fire. Yet the flame made no sound. It swirled silently, movements graceful and lethal. It felt alive, but not free.
This was no place of learning. It was a trial. Bones fused to broken swords littered the edges. Charred outlines marked where others had stood, then vanished. The fire did not test. It judged.
The old man stepped forward. The flames bent toward him, drawn like hounds to a master's scent. He extended a hand. The fire coiled, obedient.
"Wind guides," he said. "But fire does not. It transforms."
Altan moved forward, and the air struck him like a fist. Heat climbed into his throat, turned each breath into knives. His skin blistered in seconds, but he did not retreat. He had come to endure.
"You must learn to breathe flame," said the old man. "Not resist it. Welcome it."
There were no meals, no sleep, no markers of time. Only movement and pain. The fire stripped away everything soft, everything weak. Altan's robes fell apart. His hands bled. But he stood. And when he moved, he moved with purpose.
The Forms of the Infernal Path were not elegant. They were sharp, punishing, forged in agony. The Searing Palm ignited the air on contact, a blow that left tongues of flame drifting in its wake. Ember Coil wound heat around his limbs, a defensive arc that compressed and then snapped outward. Ashen Step allowed him to move through flame itself, vanishing and reappearing in a burst of molten air. But the toll was immense. Every stance tore flesh. Every motion cracked something within.
Fire was not like wind. It was not patient. It did not teach through grace. It taught through ruin.
Only when his body was broken, when there was nothing left but motion and breath, did the flame shift. One strike, and it responded. Not like a tool, but like a creature that had been watching and waiting. Flame coiled around his arm without command. The old man said nothing at first. Then, a single word.
"Ready."
The pit erupted. A column of fire leapt skyward and did not fall. From within the blaze, something emerged. Obsidian armor shaped like a man, but taller, broader. Its joints moved like liquid heat. Its skull bore curled horns, its hands ended in blades that shimmered white-hot. A single ember glowed in its chest. Not just fire, but memory. Fury made flesh.
The Fire Wraith.
Born of all who had perished here. A guardian not of fire's power, but of its price.
"Fire is not given," the old man said. "It is survived."
The spirit stepped forward. Its presence pressed the chamber down to silence. Even the flames stilled, as if in respect.
Altan did not bow. He raised his hands.
The Wraith attacked.
There was no warning, only movement. Its fist descended, a hammer of molten wrath. Altan dodged low, and the stone behind him became slag. He countered with Searing Palm, fire igniting from his knuckles and slamming into the Wraith's shoulder. It barely reacted. Blade-arms swung. Ashen Step carried him through the fire, a blur of light. Still, he was slower. The heat had seeped inside. Each breath burned. Each motion dragged.
The Wraith raised both arms. Its chest flared. The chamber filled with a tide of fire. Walls groaned. Air shimmered. There was nowhere to run.
Altan fell to a knee, gasping.
Then the memories came. Not summoned. Not desired. Just there.
His village, burning. Screams beneath smoke. His mother's silhouette. The Empire's banners framed by ash.
He clenched his teeth.
No more.
He roared, not in pain, but in defiance. Flame answered. It surged up from his core, wrapped his limbs, spilled from his mouth. It wasn't wild. It was waiting.
His qi ignited.
He struck. Searing Palm again. Ember Coil curved like a ring of fire through the Wraith's ribs. The Wraith staggered. Its armor cracked. Its flame pulsed wildly.
Altan stepped in.
No hesitation.
Both fists slammed into the ember in the Wraith's chest.
Light consumed the cavern.
When it faded, only embers remained, drifting like petals.
He fell to one knee. His chest heaved. Blood and smoke filled his mouth.
Then the fire moved again. A tendril reached from the pit, curled around his right arm, and branded a mark into his skin. The sigil pulsed, searing into flesh beside the spiral of wind.
The old man approached.
"You have survived two trials. Few do."
Altan stood, slowly.
The pain remained. But it was clean now. Clear.
He no longer commanded flame.
He had become something shaped by it.
Across the far wall, stone split. A hidden path revealed itself, narrow and steep.
The old man pointed.
"The earth waits."
Altan did not speak.
He walked toward the dark.
Wind had taught him to move.
Fire had taught him to endure pain and answer rage.
Now the mountain would teach him weight.
He stepped into the silence.
And did not look back.