The "Ember Palm" was the first technique taught to every novice at the Ascendant Flame Tower. It was foundational. A child's trick. A simple channeling of Fire Qi from the core, down the arm's primary meridian, the "River of Cinders," and out through the "Blaze Gate" at the center of the palm. The result was a focused burst of heat and concussive force—enough to knock over a practice dummy, light a campfire from a distance, or, in a real fight, stagger an opponent and leave a minor burn.
For Lin Feng, it was an act of spiritual forgery.
In the isolated quiet of the sub-basement archive, with only the hum of crystal matrices and the watchful golden eyes of Archivist Lian, Professor Ignis laid out the problem.
"The orthodox path is a straight canal," Ignis explained, drawing glowing lines in the air with a fingertip. "Qi flows from reservoir, through channel, to exit. Your path is a labyrinth of dead ends and isolated chambers. You cannot create a continuous flow. So we must create the illusion of one."
The plan was audacious. Lin would select one of his stabilized fracture-amalgams—the "Stormstone" energy born of Earth, Fire, and Air—and use the amulets' guidance to teleport it. Not through a connected meridian, but by "jumping" it from its isolated fracture chamber directly to the exit point at his palm, using the amulets as a spiritual bridge.
"It is a short-range spatial translocation of energy," Archivist Lian said, her voice holding a hint of clinical fascination. "Theoretically possible with high-level spatial manipulation arts, which you do not possess. The artifacts, however, can create a temporary, micro-fold in your internal spiritual geometry. Think of it as using a hidden door in a maze to appear at the exit without walking the path."
"It will feel unnatural," Ignis warned. "Because it is. You are bypassing the natural order of the body. There will be a cost."
The cost was pain.
Lin sat on the meditation mat, his right arm extended, palm up. Inside, he focused on the star-shaped fracture below his sternum, where the warm, buzzing amber "Stormstone" energy pulsed steadily. Through the mental interface provided by the amulets—a faint, golden overlay of his internal map—he could "grasp" the energy. He then visualized the endpoint: the "Blaze Gate" in his palm, a point his basic classes had taught him to locate.
"Now," Ignis instructed, his voice calm. "Do not push. Do not flow. Command the transition."
Lin focused on the amulets. He felt them grow warm, their heat syncing with his heartbeat. He willed the energy to move.
There was no flowing sensation. It was a jump. A sickening, dislocating lurch in his spirit, as if an organ had been plucked from one part of his body and slapped into another.
The Stormstone energy vanished from the sternum fracture and appeared, with a violent, jarring suddenness, crammed into the microscopic space of the Blaze Gate in his palm.
Agony.
It was a white-hot, localized explosion of pressure and wrongness. His hand spasmed uncontrollably. The skin of his palm reddened, then glowed with a hot, amber light that was distinctly not pure Fire orange. Tendrils of what looked like solidified smoke and tiny, crystallized sparks swirled within the light.
"Hold it!" Lian commanded, leaning forward, her eyes recording every fluctuation. "Stabilize the manifestation! Shape it with intent!"
Tears of pain blurred Lin's vision. He gritted his teeth, using the Breath of the Cracked Vessel to contain the foreign, protesting energy in this new, unnatural location. He forced the intent of "push" and "ignite" into it.
With a sound like a damp log cracking on a fire, a gout of flame erupted from his palm.
It was wrong. It was a foot-long jet, but its color was a muddy orange-brown, shot through with flickers of grey and white. It didn't roar like Fire Qi; it hissed and crackled, throwing off tiny, stinging fragments of hardened ash and crystallized air. The force that accompanied it wasn't a clean concussive wave, but a shuddering, uneven punch that made his own arm recoil violently.
The jet lasted three seconds before sputtering out. The energy in his palm dissipated, leaving behind a deep, throbbing ache as if the bones were bruised from the inside. His hand was covered in a fine, grey dust and tiny, shallow cuts from the crystalline shrapnel.
Lin slumped forward, panting, his whole arm trembling.
Professor Ignis nodded slowly, a complex expression on his face. "It is... recognizable as an Ember Palm. A very poor, unstable, and idiosyncratic one. It will pass a casual inspection from a low-level instructor or an arrogant peer who expects failure. More importantly, it leaves a residue of primarily Fire Qi, masking the other components."
Archivist Lian was already making notes. "Energy coherence: 31%. Fire Qi signature: 68% dominant. Collateral self-damage: minimal but present. The translocation shock will lessen with repetition as the amulets and your nervous system acclimatize."
"It hurts," Lin gasped, cradling his hand.
"Pain is data," Lian replied, unmoved. "And currently, your data suggests you can perform this 'forgery' approximately twice in quick succession before the accumulated translocation shock and energy depletion render your arm temporarily unusable. You must never attempt a third time in a single encounter. The backfire could shatter the bones in your arm."
"So I have two shots," Lin said, the reality settling in. "Two pathetic, fake Ember Palms to prove I'm a normal, pathetic cultivator."
"It is your mask," Ignis affirmed. "Wear it convincingly. Use it only when observation is unavoidable. In your next public technique drill, you will 'succeed' for the first time. It will be messy, weak, and cause you apparent strain. This will align with your narrative of a late bloomer with unstable channels struggling to achieve basic competence. It may quell Kyrus's suspicions, or at least redirect them."
For the next seven nights, Lin practiced the painful jump. The amulets slowly learned, reducing the spiritual dislocation each time. The pain dulled from white-hot agony to a deep, grinding ache. The flame's color stabilized into a slightly less muddy orange, though the cracking, hissing quality and the ash residue remained. He could now, reliably, produce two jets in a span of ten minutes. A third attempt caused a warning flare of heat from the amulets and a spike of pain so severe he vomited.
During the days, he played his part. He failed the Palm-Ignition drills with consistent, quiet desperation. He endured Kyrus's smirks and the whispered taunts of "Hollow Hand." He noticed Kyrus watching him more intently, especially after training sessions, his eyes narrowed in thought. The noble scion had felt the siphon. He was waiting for another anomaly.
The tension broke during the weekly public demonstration. Mistress Volka, to motivate the novices, had set up a line of simple iron plates, each inscribed with a heat-reactive rune. A successful Ember Palm would make the rune glow red.
"Let us see individual progress!" she announced. "One by one!"
Disciples stepped up. Kyrus went first, of course. His Palm was a clean, forceful cone of orange flame that made his target rune blaze brightly and the iron plate ring from the impact. He received a nod of approval. Others followed with varying degrees of success.
When Lin's name was called, a subtle hush fell over his section of novices. He could feel dozens of eyes on him—the curiosity of the indifferent, the schadenfreude of the arrogant, and Kyrus's focused, analytical gaze.
He walked to the plate, his heart thudding against the amulets. This was the stage. His debut as a forger.
He took his stance, extending his right arm. He focused inward, not on a flowing core, but on the isolated amber spark in his sternum fracture. He felt the amulets warm in response, their presence a reassuring, guiding pressure in his mind. He visualized the jump.
The now-familiar, sickening lurch. The cramming of Stormstone energy into his palm. The sharp, bone-deep ache.
He released.
HISSS-CRACK!
The jet that shot from his palm was a foot and a half long, a sputtering tongue of orange-brown flame veined with grey. It hit the iron plate not with a concussive bang, but with a scattering thump, like a bag of wet sand. Glowing embers and crystalline dust sprayed out. The target rune on the plate flickered, then glowed a weak, sickly pinkish-red before fading much faster than the others.
But it had glowed.
A beat of stunned silence.
Then, a slow, sarcastic clap from Kyrus. "Bravo, Feng! You've managed to... warm it up. And make a mess." His friends laughed, but Kyrus's eyes were sharp, drilling into Lin. He had seen the strange color, the odd sound, the ash. He was cataloging it.
Mistress Volka looked from the soot-stained plate to Lin's pained, sweating face. Her expression was one of mild, professional disappointment. "A discharge. Unstable and inefficient. But it is a discharge. You have found a trickle where there was none, Disciple Feng. Now work on control and purity. Dismissed."
It was the most backhanded encouragement imaginable, but it served its purpose. Lin was now officially not a complete nullity. He was just a very bad cultivator. The mask was in place.
As the crowd dispersed, Kyrus sidled up to him, his voice low. "That was interesting, Feng. It didn't feel like Fire. Not really. It felt... contaminated."
Lin kept his face carefully blank, rubbing his aching palm. "It felt like pain. My channels are unstable. You know that."
"Unstable is one thing," Kyrus murmured, leaning closer. "What I felt during our spar was something else. A... pull. And what just came out of your hand wasn't just weak Fire. It was wrong. I have access to family archives, Feng. I read about old, forbidden blending experiments. Heresies." His smirk returned, colder now. "Be careful your 'instability' doesn't get mistaken for something else. The Tower purges heresy with cleaner fire than yours."
He walked away, leaving Lin with a chill that had nothing to do with Qi.
That night, in the archive, Lin reported the encounter. Archivist Lian's lips thinned. "The Ignis bloodline has always produced sharp, meddlesome minds. He is a minor branch, but he has resources. Your mask is thin. He is looking for cracks."
"We need to thicken it," Professor Ignis said, pacing. "A public association with a known, orthodox disciple would lend you credibility. It would make you seem more integrated, less of an outsider."
Lin thought immediately of Nyssa, but she was as much an outsider as he was, her mechanical gauntlet marking her as different.
"Not her," Ignis said, reading his expression. "Someone from a reputable family. Someone with social capital to spare."
As if summoned by the discussion of social capital, the archive's entrance chime sounded—a rare event. The grey door slid open, and a young woman strode in.
She was perhaps eighteen, and she moved with the unconscious grace of someone who had never been denied a thing. Her novice robes were of the finest silk-wool blend, dyed a deep, perfect crimson edged with gold. Her black hair was coiled in an intricate braid that fell over one shoulder, held by a pin shaped like a phoenix. Her features were sharp, elegant, and held a expression of mild, perpetual boredom. But her eyes, a striking hazel flecked with gold, were intensely alert, missing nothing.
"Professor Ignis. Archivist," she said, her voice cool and melodious. "My father sends his regards and reminds you that the quarterly review of the West Wing Pyrology grants is next week." She then turned her gaze to Lin, who was still seated on his mat. "And this must be the remedial project. Lin Feng, correct? I am Elyria of House Ignis."
House Ignis. Not a minor branch. The main branch. The family that held the Tower Mastership for three generations. Kyrus's distant, infinitely more powerful cousin.
Lin stood up awkwardly, unsure how to react.
Professor Ignis recovered first. "Disciple Elyria. This is an unexpected honor. Lin is under my tutelage, yes. We were just reviewing... breathing techniques."
Elyria's perfect eyebrow arched slightly. She glanced at the still-active holographic schematics of meridian pathways, which were decidedly more advanced than breathing techniques. "Of course." Her gaze swept the room, pausing on the amulets resting on a side table. She did not comment on them. "I came to deliver the message personally because my father also wished me to... assess the progress of your special student. He is aware of the interest in the Feng legacy."
The air in the archive grew several degrees colder. The Tower Master himself was aware of Lin.
"His progress is slow but measurable," Archivist Lian said, her tone guarded.
"Good," Elyria said, her smile not reaching her eyes. "Slow is safe. Measurable is useful." She turned her full attention back to Lin. "I understand you struggle with the social aspects of the Tower, Disciple Feng. My father believes isolation breeds... idiosyncrasy. Therefore, you will accompany me to the Festival of the Phoenix Flame tomorrow evening. It is a tedious but necessary social event for the promising disciples. Consider it part of your... integration." It was not a request.
Lin blinked. "The Festival? I'm not—"
"It is decided," she interrupted, her tone leaving no room for protest. "Wear presentable robes. Be at the Sun Gallery at the seventh bell. Do not be late." She gave a slight, perfunctory nod to the Professors and swept out of the room as suddenly as she had entered.
The silence she left behind was heavy.
"A command performance," Professor Ignis muttered. "The Tower Master is applying a social leash. Elyria is his eyes and ears. She is also one of the most talented pure-Fire cultivators of her generation. Flawless control. Being seen with her will grant you a shield of association. But it also places you directly under the magnifying glass."
Archivist Lian tapped her crystal log. "Her presence here was not coincidence. She saw the amulets. She saw the schematics. The Tower Master is monitoring our research more closely than we knew. The Festival will be a test. You must perform your role perfectly, Lin Feng. The bored, struggling novice, grateful for the attention of his betters. No anomalies. No sparks. Just... dull, harmless inadequacy."
Lin looked at his still-aching palm. He thought of the muddy, crackling flame, of Kyrus's suspicious eyes, and now of Elyria's cool, assessing gaze. He was a mosaic of broken pieces, trying to pretend he was a plain, unbroken tile. And now he had to do it while dancing under the lights of the main stage.
The mask was getting heavier. And the face beneath it was starting to sweat.