Kael stepped into the moonlight.
The chamber behind him sealed with a soft thrum, as if the mountain itself had inhaled and returned to sleep. The ash vial was empty now—its contents part of him. But the warmth hadn't faded. It still pulsed beneath his ribs, just out of reach, like a second heartbeat.
The herbalist had said nothing more. Only handed him his blade—still chipped, still rusted—and pointed toward the path down the mountain.
"The flame grows through friction," she had said. "Go find some."
By morning, Kael reached the outer training grounds of the sect.
He didn't belong here. Not truly. He was a ghost between disciplines, a stray without a rank or bloodline. The others—disciples with tiger sigils and sun emblems—barely spared him a glance.
Except one.
Jin Tao. Golden robes. A face too handsome to be kind. And a smile like a dagger.
Kael had crossed paths with him before. Once, when he tried to fetch water from the spring. Jin had knocked him aside for stepping in the "noble line." And laughed when Kael bled.
Today, Jin looked him over and sneered. "Still breathing, ash boy?"
Kael didn't answer. He walked past.
A hand grabbed his shoulder.
Kael didn't think. He moved.
Not like before—not like a trained reaction. But like instinct. No—like memory. But not his own.
His body twisted. His foot slid back, pivoting with the grace of a seasoned martial artist. His rusted blade came up—not clumsy, not slow—but sharp.
Jin's eyes widened.
A thin cut opened on his cheek.
Silence fell.
Kael stood still, staring at the blade in his hand. It had moved before his thoughts had. Like it remembered a fight he'd never fought. Like it carried the echo of someone else's war.
Jin's face flushed red. "You dare—?"
Kael blinked. The heat had returned. The second heartbeat thrummed louder.
Then something clicked.
A vision—not with his eyes, but through the flame. Jin's stance—open on the left. His weight—favoring the front foot. His next move—telegraphed before it began.
Kael could see it all.
Not the future.
But the weakness.
Jin lunged.
Kael stepped sideways, let the momentum carry Jin past him, and struck—not hard, just enough to trip the heel.
Jin slammed into the dirt.
The training ground erupted in gasps.
Kael stood there, unmoved. The rusted blade hummed softly in his hand, as if pleased.
He didn't know how he'd done it.
But the Fire knew.
And it was teaching him.
[New Ability: Ember Reflex – Your body reacts with the memory of warriors long dead. In combat, you may predict and counter instinctively. Passive.]
Far above, a figure watched from the shadows of the sect's higher halls. An elder, face hidden in his sleeve.
"The broken boy… just moved like a Warden."