The Scorched Expanse did not welcome survivors.
It did not care that Aren had escaped chains, nor that he had defied an overseer, nor that something ancient had stirred within his blood. The moment he stepped beyond the jagged boundary of Ashveil Pit, the land itself seemed to reject him—as though the world beyond demon rule was even crueler in its honesty.
The air hit him first.
It was dry, scorching, and heavy with the stench of sulfur and decay. Every breath scraped down his throat like sandpaper, burning his lungs from the inside out. The sky above was not truly red, but it carried a permanent rust-colored haze, as if the heavens themselves had been scorched long ago and never healed. There were no clouds. No birds. No mercy.
Behind him, Ashveil Pit loomed like an open wound in the earth—smoke belching endlessly from its depths, iron gates sealing in countless humans who would never see this wasteland and yet would envy him for standing in it.
Ahead lay death.
Aren staggered forward anyway.
His body screamed in protest. Every step sent pain rippling through muscles that had been torn, whipped, and overworked since childhood. Dried blood crusted his neck where the collar had exploded, and fresh wounds reopened with each movement. He felt lightheaded, his vision swimming, the world tilting as though it might simply swallow him whole.
He welcomed the pain.
Pain meant he was still alive.
The Scorched Expanse stretched endlessly, a sea of cracked earth and jagged black stone. Occasional skeletal remains littered the ground—some human, some beast, some so twisted they could belong to neither. Wind howled across the land in long, mournful gusts, carrying whispers that sounded disturbingly like voices.
Aren tightened his fists.
This was freedom.
And freedom, he realized, was far more terrifying than chains.
_________________________
By nightfall, his strength was nearly gone.
The heat of the day had drained him completely, and now the temperature dropped sharply, cold seeping into his bones. Aren collapsed behind a cluster of fractured stone spires that jutted upward like broken teeth. He pressed his back against the rock, chest heaving, eyes half-lidded as exhaustion threatened to pull him into unconsciousness.
He forced himself to stay awake.
Sleep in the Expanse meant death.
He had seen enough bodies to understand that truth instinctively.
Aren pulled his tattered cloth tighter around himself and stared into the darkness. Without Ashveil's smoke, the stars above were painfully clear—sharp, distant, uncaring. For the first time in his life, he saw the heavens unobstructed.
They felt… far away.
"You record emperors," Aren whispered hoarsely, recalling the voice from his dream. "Then why did you ignore us for so long?"
The stars did not answer.
His thoughts drifted, pulled backward by memory.
He remembered his mother's hands—thin, calloused, always trembling slightly when she brushed ash from his hair. He remembered the fear in her eyes every time a demon patrol passed, the way she pressed him into shadows and whispered stories as if words alone could protect him.
Humans once stood tall, she had said. Not because we were stronger—but because we refused to kneel.
Aren clenched his jaw.
If that was true, then somewhere along the way, humans had forgotten how to stand.
A sudden sound snapped him back to the present.
A low, guttural growl echoed through the darkness.
Aren froze.
The growl came again—closer this time.
He slowly reached for the broken shard of metal tucked at his side, the only remnant of the shattered collar he had taken with him. It was dull, jagged, barely a weapon—but it was all he had.
From the shadows emerged glowing eyes.
Then another pair.
Then another.
Beasts.
They crept forward, massive silhouettes barely visible in the dim starlight. Their bodies were lean and sinewy, covered in dark, scorched fur that blended seamlessly with the night. Their jaws dripped saliva that hissed faintly when it hit the ground, corroding stone.
Ashfang Hounds.
Aren recognized them instantly.
Demonic hunting beasts. Faster than humans. Stronger than steel. Used to track escaped slaves.
He swallowed.
So this was how it ended.
The lead hound stepped forward, muscles coiling beneath its hide. Its eyes locked onto Aren with predatory focus—not hatred, not anger, just hunger.
Aren pushed himself to his feet, legs trembling.
"Come on," he whispered. "I'm still standing."
The hound lunged.
Time slowed.
Aren felt the world narrow, his senses sharpening painfully. He saw the beast's muscles flex, the arc of its leap, the glint of its fangs. His body moved before his mind caught up—twisting aside just as the hound slammed into the stone where he had been.
He slashed.
The metal shard scraped across the beast's flank, tearing fur and flesh. Black blood splattered the ground, steaming faintly.
The hound howled.
The others surged forward.
Aren barely dodged another attack, rolling across the ground as claws raked where his head had been. Pain exploded as teeth sank into his shoulder, ripping muscle. He screamed, driving the shard downward into the beast's eye.
It collapsed, twitching violently.
Two left.
Aren staggered, vision blurring, blood pouring freely now. His strength was fading fast, his movements slowing. Another hound leapt, jaws closing around his leg, dragging him down.
He hit the ground hard.
The third beast reared back, preparing to strike—
And something inside Aren snapped open.
Not violently.
Not explosively.
But like a door that had been sealed for centuries and finally allowed to breathe.
The warmth returned.
It spread through his veins, subtle but undeniable, filling his limbs with a strange, unfamiliar strength. The pain dulled—not disappearing, but becoming distant, manageable.
Aren roared.
He drove his elbow into the hound's skull, then slammed the shard repeatedly into its throat until it went limp. The beast on his leg loosened its grip, snarling weakly.
Aren seized its jaw with both hands.
For a moment, he felt something resisting him from within his own body—an invisible barrier, brittle and cracking.
Then—
It shattered.
A surge of force ripped through his arms.
With a sound like splitting bone, he tore the hound's jaws apart.
Silence fell.
Aren collapsed beside the corpses, chest heaving, body shaking violently. Steam rose from his wounds as the warmth within him continued to pulse, knitting flesh together slowly, imperfectly.
He stared at his hands in disbelief.
He had done this.
A human.
Without cultivation.
Without a surname.
He laughed weakly, the sound bordering on hysteria.
"So this is what you were hiding," he murmured to his blood. "No wonder they sealed you."
The laughter faded.
Exhaustion dragged him under.
__________________________
When Aren awoke, dawn was breaking.
The sky burned a pale, sickly orange as the sun rose over the wasteland. His body ached, but the pain was different now—less sharp, less overwhelming. He slowly pushed himself upright and froze.
His wounds were… closed.
Not healed cleanly, but sealed enough that blood no longer flowed freely. Scar tissue marred his shoulder and leg, fresh and ugly, but undeniably solid.
Aren's breath caught.
Humans did not heal like this.
He stood slowly, testing his balance. His body felt heavier, denser—like something had been added rather than removed. His senses were sharper too; he could hear the wind scraping stone miles away, smell dried blood lingering in the air.
He looked down at the dead hounds.
Within their chests, faintly glowing crystals pulsed with dark light.
Beast cores.
Aren stared.
He had seen demon overseers harvest these countless times, stuffing them into pouches, refining them into cultivation resources humans were never allowed to touch.
His hands trembled as he reached for one.
The moment his fingers brushed the crystal, pain flared again—but this time, it did not reject him.
Instead, the warmth inside him surged eagerly.
The crystal cracked.
Energy flooded into him, wild and chaotic, tearing through his veins like liquid fire. Aren screamed, dropping to his knees as the force threatened to rip him apart.
His vision blurred.
His heartbeat thundered.
Then—slowly—it stabilized.
The energy settled, sinking deep into his body, dispersing as if absorbed by something vast and unseen.
Aren gasped, collapsing forward, chest heaving.
He did not know cultivation terms.
He did not know realms.
But he knew this—
Something fundamental had changed.
Hours later, Aren stood atop a rocky ridge overlooking the Expanse.
__________________________
Far in the distance, jagged silhouettes marked the borders of beast territories. Dark clouds gathered unnaturally over certain regions—signs of powerful creatures claiming dominion. Somewhere beyond that lay demon cities, human slave towns, and a world structured entirely to ensure humans never rose again.
Aren clenched his fists.
"I don't know how long this will take," he said quietly, voice steady despite the fear coiled in his chest. "I don't know how many times I'll fall."
The wind answered, cold and unfeeling.
"But I will not kneel again."
He closed his eyes, focusing inward.
Deep within him, he felt it clearly now—a sealed core, fractured but not broken, wrapped in chains older than Ashveil itself. Those chains trembled faintly in response to his will.
Aren exhaled slowly.
"This world took everything from us," he continued. "Names. History. Dignity."
His eyes opened, burning with quiet resolve.
"I'll take it back."
He turned toward the wasteland, toward danger, toward a future no human had ever reached.
Behind him, the corpses of beasts cooled beneath the rising sun.
Ahead lay the path of blood, cultivation, and defiance.
And though the heavens still watched in silence—
They had begun to pay attention.