The crackle of the fire filled the quiet night air as a middle-aged man, Lóng Tiānrán (龙天燃), sat cross-legged by the hearth, his broad figure bathed in the warm glow of the flames. His weathered face, lined by countless battles and burdens, softened as he looked upon his three sons gathered before him. Tonight was not a night for training, nor for punishment or pride—it was a night for remembrance.
His voice, steady yet threaded with deep, unspoken sorrow, rose into the smoky air.
"This is the story of our Lóng ancestors..."
He spoke each word with deliberate care, as if the very syllables carried the weight of centuries. His dark, flame-burnished eyes swept over the faces of his sons:
His firstborn, Lóng Hǎoyán (龙浩炎), ten years old, already showing the solid frame and calm leadership of a future warrior.
His second son, Lóng Jùnfēng (龙俊枫), fourteen years old, sharp-eyed and quiet, with a mind as quick as his fists.
And the youngest, small yet burning with untapped spirit, Lóng Yán (龙焱) — the boy destined to carry an unseen legacy.
The firelight danced across their young faces as they leaned in, eager and solemn, as their father wove the ancient tale.
As the story unfolded — of heroes and betrayals, of battles fought with blood and flame — the boys' eyes slowly filled with tears. Their young hearts, untouched by the horrors of history, trembled as they learned of their ancestor's tragic death at the hands of a man named Xū Míngluò — a name that even now, after countless generations, was spoken only with bitterness.
Sorrow gripped them — a raw, uncontrollable grief, as if the blood in their veins recognized and mourned the loss anew.
But then, Lóng Tiānrán placed a firm, calloused hand over his own heart, the gesture strong, unyielding.
"Even though our great ancestor is gone," he said, his voice deepening with reverence, "his soul still watches over us. From the heavens above, he shields Ashmere (灰堑村) with the fire of his undying spirit."
At that moment, the youngest, Lóng Yán, blinked fiercely, wiping his cheeks with the back of his small hand. His sorrow did not fade—it transmuted into something far greater: determination. He lifted his face, the fire reflecting in his wide, burning eyes.
"I'll become strong — stronger than anyone!" he declared, his voice shaking but loud, carrying the fierce purity of a promise made by a soul still untouched by failure.
"I'll find the one who destroyed him… and make him pay!"
His two older brothers, filled with the same fire, stood beside him without hesitation.
Lóng Hǎoyán placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
Lóng Jùnfēng gave a solemn nod, his eyes gleaming.
"Together," they said, "we will reclaim our bloodline's honor."
Lóng Tiānrán's chest swelled with a pride so great it almost broke him.
He looked at his sons—their small frames, their fierce little fists, their hearts ablaze—and he smiled, slow and full of both sorrow and hope.
"Good," he said, his voice thick.
"Never forget who you are. No matter how dark the night, the flame of the Lóng bloodline must never die. One day... you will burn brighter than the sun itself."
But then, a small voice pierced the moment.
It was Lóng Yán, still gazing up at his father with questioning eyes.
"Dad..." he asked softly, "why is it that no one in our family can reach the same level as our great ancestor anymore?"
His brothers turned toward their father too, breath held, seeking answers their young minds could not yet grasp.
For a long moment, Lóng Tiānrán said nothing. The fire popped and hissed between them, filling the silence.
Then he lowered his gaze to the earth, his hands curling into fists against his knees.
"Our ancestor died long ago," he said finally, voice rough with something deeper than grief — regret.
"When he fell... something irreplaceable was lost. A piece of the flame in our blood flickered out. Since that day, no descendant of the Lóng Family has ever crossed into Level 6."
The words hung heavy in the air.
"We fight. We strive. But the peak we once touched has become a dream beyond our grasp. The strongest among us now can only reach Level 5, 9-stars peak… and even that is a dying ember compared to the blaze we once commanded."
He drew a trembling breath, as if even speaking it aloud was a burden too great.
"It is as if... our blood is cursed."
The fire crackled, casting shadows across the boys' solemn faces.
But inside their young hearts, something ignited.
Lóng Yán was the first to rise, fists clenched so tight that his knuckles whitened.
"I don't care if it's a curse!" he cried, his voice fierce and raw.
"I'll break it! I'll climb past Level 6, Level 7… even Level 12 if I must! I will carry the flame higher than anyone before me!"
His brothers rose beside him, the same fire burning bright.
"We'll do it together," they said, their voices forging a vow that night, stronger than steel.
"We will reignite the pride of the Lóng family!"
And as Lóng Tiānrán gazed at his sons, standing defiant against the weight of their fate, his heart, long weary and battered, began to heal.
For the first time in many years...
He dared to believe.
He dared to hope.
That night, the four of them sat under the infinite stars — a father and his three sons — speaking softly of dreams that burned as brightly as the heavens themselves.
The cool night air kissed their cheeks, carrying with it the scent of ash and pine from the surrounding blackstone ridges of Ashmere Village. The ever-present haze of drifting embers shimmered around them, as if the very world itself was listening, bearing witness to the quiet birth of their vow.
Lóng Tiānrán listened as his sons spoke — sometimes shyly, sometimes with fierce certainty — about the futures they would carve. About the heights they would reach. About the fire they would rekindle in the name of the Lóng bloodline.
And as he watched them — these three bright flames born from his blood — he found himself praying silently into the night.
"Let them be the ones..."
"Let them be the ones to break the chains of our fate."
Above them, the stars spun slowly in the heavens, each one a silent sentinel to the oath that had been forged by fire and sorrow, and sealed by the hearts of a father and his sons.
That night, without even knowing it, destiny itself shifted.
— ✴️ —
The Day of Awakening — Kindleheart Shrine
The seasons turned swiftly, as if the world itself hurried onward toward some unseen moment of destiny.
Now, Lóng Yán was six years old.
Small but sturdy, wild-haired and bright-eyed, his spirit already burned hotter than any of the village boys his age.
His two older brothers towered over him now:
Lóng Hǎoyán, at ten years old, already built like a young ox, his strength beginning to bloom.
Lóng Jùnfēng, now fourteen, tall and sharp as a blade, carrying the calm wisdom of his father in his gait.
It was the time all children of Ashmere Village awaited — the time when each six-year-old was taken to the Kindleheart Shrine (火芽灵殿 – Huǒyá Língdiàn), the sacred place where souls were ignited, where a child's Elemental Core and Beastpulse Spirit would be awakened.
The shrine itself stood atop a high, lonely plateau, surrounded by jagged cliffs of scorched red stone and forests of blackened pine that whispered with ancient winds.
Steam curled from hidden hot springs, the mist giving the mountains an ethereal glow under the pale morning light.
The shrine had stood for generations untold — a monument of charred stone and golden crystal, thrumming with ancient flame energy, older than the village itself. Every year, it awaited the next generation, calling silently to the blood of Ashmere's children.
Today, it called for Lóng Yán.
Lóng Yán arrived at the shrine, escorted by his father, Lóng Tiānrán, and his two proud older brothers.
Three of the family's most respected elders followed close behind:
First Elder: Lóng Míngxiè (龙冥蟹) — his stern face marked by countless battles, his iron gaze unyielding.
Second Elder: Lóng Hányǔ (龙寒羽) — a gentle strategist, known for his wisdom and calm.
Third Elder: Lóng Xùntiān (龙迅天) — swift of spirit, the youngest of the elders, fierce and protective.
Before them stretched a long line of village children, their faces pale with nervousness, their families murmuring prayers and hopes.
The air was thick with expectation. The shrine's ancient flames burned low today — waiting, watching.
Suddenly, a figure stepped forward through the mist.
A tall woman, her scarlet robes flowing like a river of living fire, her presence serene yet overwhelming.
Elder Hǔo Chénróu, the Guardian of the Kindleheart Shrine.
The flames around the shrine seemed to bow as she approached.
Even Lóng Tiānrán, a man of immense pride and power, bowed deeply to her, as did every elder and family member present.
Elder Huǒ Chénróu's gaze fell upon Lóng Yán, and for a moment — just a heartbeat — her sharp eyes softened into something almost tender.
"Lóng Yán," she called, her voice a warm breeze over scorched fields.
"Come, child. Your path begins today."
Yán turned to look back at his family — his father, his brothers, the elders — and found their faces filled with pride and unspoken encouragement.
He waved, a small, brave gesture.
They nodded back, silent promises shining in their eyes.
Then, with steady steps, Lóng Yán followed Elder Huǒ Chénróu into the sacred heart of the shrine.
Inside the Kindleheart Shrine, the air changed.
Gone was the warmth of the sun. Here, the very air thrummed with the raw, living memory of the elements themselves.
The walls were etched with endless ancient runes — swirling lines and jagged symbols that pulsed faintly with hidden life.
Yán's small fingers brushed against the carvings as he passed.
The stone was warm. Alive.
Elder Huǒ Chénróu saw his wide, curious eyes, and a knowing smile touched her lips.
"These are the Words of Flame," she said, her voice low and reverent.
"Marks left by the Ancients. They recorded the very first awakenings — when mortals first touched the spirit of the world."
She paused, resting a hand lightly on his shoulder.
"You will leave your mark here too, one day, little one."
"But first... your spirit must be set ablaze."
She led him deeper, where the true heart of the shrine awaited — the place where soul and element met for the very first time.
Where dreams were either born… or extinguished.
The stone floor beneath Lóng Yán's bare feet grew warmer with every step, until it almost burned, but he did not flinch.
The air thickened, vibrating with ancient power. It was like walking into the lungs of a living, breathing giant — the shrine itself alive, ancient, and watchful.
Finally, they entered a vast chamber — the Sanctum of Flames.
It was a place of awe.
Massive, blackstone pillars spiraled upward into shadows beyond sight, each etched with fiery glyphs that shifted faintly, as if breathing.
At the center of the chamber lay the Flickerlight Basin — a pool of living lava that rippled and shimmered like molten glass, casting gold and scarlet reflections across the towering walls.
Floating embers, tiny and delicate as snowflakes, drifted through the air, illuminating the shrine in a soft, ever-shifting glow.
It was both beautiful… and terrifying.
Elder Huǒ Chénróu knelt beside the basin, her flame-red robes pooling around her like flowing magma.
She beckoned Yán forward with a single, graceful motion.
"Kneel, child," she said gently.
"The fire does not choose easily. Nor does it choose lightly. But if you offer it your heart… it will answer."
Yán's chest tightened. His tiny fists trembled at his sides.
A thousand doubts screamed in his mind —
What if I fail?
What if I awaken nothing at all?
What if... I disappoint them?
He bit his lip hard enough to taste blood.
Then, with a breath so deep it seemed to drain the very air from his lungs, he stepped forward.
He dropped to his knees before the basin — the heat searing his skin, but he did not move away.
I will not fail, he told himself.
I will not shame them.
The embers around him began to swirl faster, drawn toward his presence like moths to an unseen flame.
The Awakening was beginning.
— ✴️ —
Step One: Soul Element Awakening
Elder Huǒ Chénróu raised both hands, her fingers weaving an ancient, forbidden pattern in the air.
Her voice rose in low, melodic chant — words so old they no longer belonged to any living tongue.
The Flickerlight Basin responded immediately.
The molten surface rippled once, then again, until it stilled — mirror-smooth.
And from its depths... the beasts emerged.
Twelve luminous spirit-beasts, forged of light and pure elemental force, rose from the molten surface without a sound.
Each was magnificent in its own way:
A Crimson Flame Lion, its mane a blazing inferno.
A Thunderclap Serpent, wreathed in bolts of golden lightning.
A Tideborne Leviathan, coiling and crashing in silent waves.
A Windrider Crane, feathers like shifting clouds.
A Stoneback Behemoth, earth itself bending with every step.
A Moonshade Panther, slipping through shadows.
A Radiant Dawnhawk, its wings shining with the light of dawn.
A Frostbone Wolf, dripping frozen mist with every silent step.
A Venomthorn Viper, sleek and deadly.
A Voidrift Wyvern, space itself bending around it.
A Verdant Rootstrider, vines and blossoms growing with every breath.
They circled Lóng Yán slowly, majestically — each one testing, each one reaching toward him with invisible threads.
One by one, they passed.
The Leviathan... no response.
The Crane... nothing.
The Panther... a faint shudder, then silence.
Yán squeezed his eyes shut. His hands dug into his knees, desperate, afraid.
Then—
The Flame Lion approached.
It was massive — easily twice the size of the others.
Its molten fur cast blinding reflections across the chamber.
Golden horns curved proudly from its skull, and its steps left burning pawprints on the very air.
It stopped before him.
The moment it breathed, Yán's body ignited from within.
He gasped —
Heat exploded inside his chest, racing through his veins like wildfire.
Golden lines blazed across his skin, branching outward like rivers of molten light.
He could hear the roaring of the lion — not with his ears, but inside his very soul.
It was not a greeting.
It was a challenge.
"Prove yourself."
The Lion opened its great jaws — and roared.
The soundless roar tore through the chamber, and Lóng Yán screamed as fire crashed through his bones.
He was lifted off his knees, suspended in midair by the raw force of the Flame.
The fire did not burn him.
It transformed him.
A vortex of golden fire spun within his chest, pulling in every ember, every stray flame, until it condensed into a single, radiant core of light.
Then—
With a sound like the birth of a star—
The vortex collapsed inward.
Yán fell to the stone floor, gasping, smoke rising from his body.
And inside him, nestled within his spirit, burned a newborn sun:
His Flame Core.
His small body hit the stone floor with a heavy, echoing thud, the searing heat rising from his skin forming faint trails of smoke around him.
He gasped for air, his chest heaving, his fists clenching weakly at the cracked ground. His vision swam, his ears rang — and yet, through the haze of exhaustion, he felt it.
A warmth unlike any fire he had ever known, nestled deep within his spirit.
A pulse.
A living flame.
Inside him, hidden behind ribs too fragile for such power, burned the core of his being —
A newborn sun, cradled in the hands of destiny.
His Flame Core — the first foundation of his journey.
For a long moment, he simply lay there, breathing, letting the reality of it settle into his bones.
He had succeeded.
He had been chosen by flame.
But even as that fragile victory settled in his heart,
the world around him began to change again.
— ✴️ —
Step Two: Beastpulse Awakening
The air grew unnaturally still.
The embers that had floated so lazily moments before now froze in midair — suspended like frozen stars.
The molten surface of the Flickerlight Basin stilled completely. Not a ripple moved across its surface.
The warmth of the chamber deepened into something heavier, thicker — a tension so sharp it seemed to slice into the very spirit.
And then—
The shrine began to hum.
Low at first.
Barely a vibration under the stones.
But it grew.
And grew.
Until the very walls began to tremble, the air shimmering violently, the ancient glyphs on the pillars flashing with urgent light.
Lóng Yán pushed himself weakly onto one elbow, confusion clouding his fevered mind.
Wasn't it over?
Wasn't it supposed to be done?
Elder Huǒ Chénróu, standing a few paces behind him, suddenly stiffened.
Her eyes, seasoned by countless awakenings, widened in alarm.
"No…" she whispered, more to herself than to anyone else.
"This isn't... this isn't normal."
The Flickerlight Basin began to split.
A hairline crack formed in its molten center, glowing hotter, fiercer than the rest — a wound not just in the stone, but in the very fabric of reality.
And from that wound —
two eyes opened.
Not ordinary eyes.
Not even the eyes of a spirit beast.
They were suns — twin orbs of molten gold and white flame, vast and ancient, older than mountains, older than the shrine itself.
The gaze they cast was not one of anger, nor hatred.
It was a gaze of recognition.
They looked at Lóng Yán — this tiny, battered, newly awakened boy — and saw him.
Not as he was.
But as he could become.
The hum deepened into a rumbling growl that shook the very bones of the shrine.
The ground split wider.
The air warped and screamed.
The fires in the braziers twisted into thin blue tendrils, flickering violently.
And then—
the rift tore open fully.
— ✴️ —
The Rending of the Rift — Birth of Destiny
From the heart of the Flickerlight Basin, the Infernal Rift emerged — a swirling maw of fire and space, pulling at the world with a force that defied mortal laws.
Elder Huǒ Chénróu dropped to one knee instantly, her armor flaring to life around her in a desperate act of defense.
Her breath caught painfully in her throat.
"A Riftborn Pulse…" she gasped.
"A true one… A Pulsegate Shatter…!"
It was a phenomenon so rare, so impossible, that it was spoken of only in ancient myth.
A moment where the boundary between realms — the mortal world and the Beastpulse Realm — shattered.
Where a creature not summoned, but descended, chose a mortal soul directly.
It meant only one thing:
A beast not merely strong, but divine — was calling to Lóng Yán.
The shrine trembled.
The mountains outside shivered.
The sky far above churned into a crimson vortex.
And then, through the fire and chaos — a form emerged.
Massive.
Majestic.
Unstoppable.
Its body was clad in scales of burning crimson and molten gold, each scale a mirror of solar flame itself.
Long whiskers of liquid fire floated from its jaws, and its wings stretched impossibly wide — rivers of sunlight woven into their veins.
Every movement bent the world around it, every breath ignited sparks of pure creation.
A dragon — but no dragon ever seen by mortal eyes.
The Infernal Sunscale Dragon.
It did not roar.
It breathed — and that breath changed the very air, reforging it into something purer, heavier, stronger.
It hovered above the basin, its gaze locked solely onto Lóng Yán.
The boy struggled to rise. His body ached. His spirit wavered.
The pressure pressing down on him now was crushing — not in anger, but in sheer, overwhelming existence.
It was like standing before a mountain of fire that had been given thought, purpose, soul.
Yet despite the fear clawing at him,
Yán did not bow.
He could not.
He would not.
He clenched his fists.
His legs shook so badly he could barely stay upright, but he stared back at that impossible beast with wide, burning eyes.
If you are the flame that tests me,
Then I will become the fire that answers!
The Infernal Sunscale Dragon's eyes narrowed —
And then, the world collapsed inward.
A second Domain slammed down.
Not just heat, not just flame — but space itself warped, folding and compressing around him.
Lóng Yán's trial had truly begun.
The chamber groaned under the unimaginable pressure.
The great pillars etched with ancient runes cracked and splintered.
The once-calm lava basin now boiled and roared, shooting jets of molten fire into the suffocating air.
Yán staggered under the weight.
It was no longer simply pain.
It was an obliteration of existence.
Every breath he tried to take burned his throat.
Every heartbeat felt like a hammer blow against the walls of his chest.
The world around him blurred and twisted, folding in on itself — colors smeared, sounds stretched and warped into ghostly echoes.
He dropped to one knee, gasping, his hands scraping against the burning stone, skin blistering instantly.
But still—
He did not fall.
Somewhere deep inside the roaring inferno of suffering, a single ember of defiance clung to life.
I promised them...
I promised Father... Hǎoyán-ge... Jùnfēng-ge...
I promised that I would make the Lóng bloodline burn brighter again!
He forced his other knee up, trying to stand. His legs shook uncontrollably.
Every fiber of his young body screamed at him to give up — to lay down, to surrender, to let the agony end.
But he refused.
Even as space itself tried to erase him,
Even as fire tried to devour his soul,
Lóng Yán — only six years old — stood against the will of a being far beyond mortal understanding.
Above him, the Infernal Sunscale Dragon watched.
It made no move to help.
No gesture of mercy.
This was the test.
Not of strength.
Not of talent.
But of soul.
Would this fragile little human boy collapse?
Would he be just another forgotten ember, another shattered hope?
Or would he — against all odds — forge himself into something worthy of the dragon's legacy?
The Breaking of the Body — The Awakening of the Soul
The pressure deepened.
The cracked stones beneath Yán's feet split apart entirely, crumbling into ash.
The air rippled with shockwaves.
The shrine walls buckled outward with loud groans, as if about to explode from the force pressing inward.
And still, Lóng Yán fought to rise.
He planted one foot.
Then the other.
His arms hung limp at his sides, skin scorched, veins glowing faintly with molten gold from the strain on his newborn Flame Core.
He could barely see.
Barely think.
Only feel.
Feel the inferno threatening to consume him.
Feel the fabric of space tearing and crushing him in the same breath.
And yet—
He remembered.
The stories his father told by the fire.
The way his brothers stood beside him with unyielding pride.
The blood that ran through his veins — ancient, battered, but never broken.
"I am Lóng Yán!"
"I will not fall!"
The words tore themselves from his throat in a hoarse, broken cry.
At that moment — when his body could endure no more, when his spirit teetered on the edge of complete annihilation —
something deep within him responded.
A light.
Small at first.
Like the tiniest star winking into existence in a black, endless void.
But it grew.
And it burned.
And it roared.
Birth of the Star Vein Nexus (星脉核心)
Inside Lóng Yán's spirit — alongside his still-fragile Flame Core — a new phenomenon began to stir.
A swirling cyclone of force, made of fire, space, and something far more ancient.
The vortex collapsed inward, forming three tiny stars, burning fiercely within his spiritual sea.
They spun in perfect harmony, tracing a formation so complex, so precise, that it could not be mortal.
It was something the shrine elders had only seen in fragmented myths.
Something spoken of only in the oldest, dust-covered scrolls.
The Star Vein Nexus (星脉核心).
A core not bound to a single path —
but a sacred forge capable of evolving the soul along three intertwined destinies.
A body that could one day wield multiple elemental forces.
A spirit that could one day command the heavens themselves.
And just as the Nexus solidified within him—
The rift above the Flickerlight Basin widened one final time.
The great Infernal Sunscale Dragon descended fully, wings folding as it approached the boy who had endured what no other child ever could.
Its immense form filled the chamber with burning majesty.
Its every movement sent golden ripples through the broken shrine.
Its breath tasted of stars and solar fire.
And for the first time —
it bowed its head.
Not in dominance.
Not in pity.
In acknowledgment.
This boy, this tiny mortal child, had been weighed...
Had been tested...
And had been found worthy.
The dragon inhaled deeply —
and from its colossal chest, a fragment of its very soul tore free.
A Pulse Essence Imprint — a spinning shard of molten divinity — drifted down through the ruined air, its light filling the entire sanctum.
It hovered for only a moment —
then shot forward like a falling star—
And embedded itself directly into Lóng Yán's Flame Core and newborn Nexus.
The impact shook the world.
Golden light flooded through him, through the stones, through the broken air.
A roar echoed not just in the shrine, but across the mountains, across the sky.
A roar of promise.
A roar of rebirth.
Lóng Yán collapsed fully, his small body limp, breathing shallow but alive.
The dragon, its purpose fulfilled, gazed one last time at the boy —
then turned, its form dissolving into ribbons of pure light, disappearing into the collapsing rift.
The shrine fell silent once more.
But everything had changed.
Forever.
The sacred hall, once a proud and timeless sanctum of flame, now stood broken and battered — cracked stone, scorched glyphs, and smoldering ash bearing witness to the impossible.
The air was heavy, trembling with the fading echoes of a miracle too vast for the mortal world to contain.
In the center of the ruin, two small figures lay motionless:
Lóng Yán, the boy who had defied the impossible, his small body curled into itself, still faintly glowing with the remnants of starlight and flame.
And Elder Huǒ Chénróu, the seasoned Guardian of the Kindleheart Shrine, shattered and unconscious, her once-mighty flame armor crumbled to ash around her.
Both of them lay wrapped in the lingering warmth of the Pulse Essence — not burning, not harming — but protecting.
Like a living flame that refused to let its chosen die.
Above them, the ceiling of the shrine had cracked open. Through the jagged wound in the stone, the wide, endless sky gazed down — crimson and gold, swirling like a sleeping inferno.
The storm that had once blazed across the heavens was slowly fading now, breaking apart into countless drifting embers, scattering across the wind like fallen stars.
The world outside watched.
And held its breath.
— ✴️ —
Outside the Shrine — Rising Fear
At the foot of the shrine's grand staircase, the Lóng Family waited.
And waited.
The air was thick with dread.
The other village children had long since completed their awakenings, running back into the arms of relieved parents, their smiles bright, their souls alight with the first taste of elemental power.
But not Yán.
No smiling boy had come running down the steps.
No proud elder had stepped forth to announce his awakening.
Only silence.
Only the faint, ever-present trembling of the earth under their feet.
Lóng Hǎoyán, ten years old but already steady as stone, shifted restlessly, his fists clenched so tightly that his knuckles turned white.
Lóng Jùnfēng, usually calm, stood stiff and tense, his sharp eyes locked on the shrine doors with a frown carved deep across his brow.
It was Hǎoyán who spoke first, his voice rough with fear.
"Father..."
"It's been too long. Something's wrong."
Lóng Tiānrán said nothing.
But the lines on his face — the hardened lines of a warrior and a patriarch — deepened into a mask of grim fear.
He could feel it too.
A wrongness in the air.
A tension so thick it could suffocate.
No... not wrong, he thought.
Something has changed. Something... beyond us.
He turned sharply to the shrine elders, his voice low and urgent.
"Where is Elder Huǒ Chénróu? Why hasn't my son come out? What is happening inside?"
The shrine elders exchanged dark, troubled glances.
No one answered at first.
Finally, Elder Gāo Lù — the most senior among them — stepped forward, his face pale.
"Patriarch Lóng..." he said slowly, choosing every word with care,
"Elder Huǒ Chénróu has not returned either."
"Something... is very wrong."
Without another word, Lóng Tiānrán moved.
A blur of flame and will.
He stormed up the shrine steps, his long coat snapping in the wind behind him like a burning banner, his two sons and the Lóng elders racing close at his heels.
There was no hesitation.
No fear.
Only one truth filled his heart:
I must get to my son.
Now.
— ✴️ —
Inside the Shrine — The Discovery
The heavy stone doors groaned open.
The first thing they saw was the devastation.
The shrine — proud, sacred — lay cracked and broken.
The second thing they saw —
Two bodies.
Lying in the center of it all.
For one terrible moment, Lóng Tiānrán's heart froze in his chest.
No... No... please no...
He sprinted forward —
fell to his knees beside Lóng Yán —
and pressed trembling fingers against his son's throat, then his chest.
The others rushed in behind him, skidding to a halt, their breath caught in their throats.
For a heartbeat, time itself seemed to stop.
Then—
A pulse.
Faint.
Shallow.
But alive.
"He's alive," Lóng Tiānrán whispered hoarsely, almost disbelieving.
He pressed his forehead against his son's scorched brow, feeling the faint heat still clinging to his boy's skin.
Tears — tears he had not shed in years — welled up and spilled down his battle-scarred cheeks.
Behind him, Lóng Hǎoyán and Lóng Jùnfēng dropped to their knees.
"Yán'er!"
"Little brother!"
Their voices broke with relief and anguish.
Hǎoyán shook Yán's tiny shoulders gently, his tears falling freely.
Jùnfēng gritted his teeth, forcing down a sob, his hand resting protectively on his brother's scorched back.
Nearby, the shrine elders clustered around Elder Huǒ Chénróu, their faces grim.
She lived — barely.
But her flame had been nearly extinguished defending the boy.
The enormity of what had happened was only beginning to settle into their minds.
They could feel it — the lingering presence in the air.
The trembling remnants of a power so vast, so pure, that it should not exist in the mortal world.
Something ancient had awakened here.
And it had chosen Lóng Yán.
The Shrine Elders' Quiet Council
In a hushed corner of the ruined hall, the four shrine elders gathered, their faces pale with awe and fear.
Elder Xiū Mǐn spoke first, her voice shaking.
"That presence…"
"That wasn't a mere spirit beast. It wasn't even just a flame spirit."
Elder Ruò Hǎi nodded grimly.
"It was a Dragon. Not just any — a Sunscale Dragon."
"A creature of the highest realm... a myth among myths."
Elder Lán Jùn whispered words that no one wanted to say aloud:
"And it left behind an Imprint."
A silence heavier than any before fell among them.
"This boy," Elder Gāo Lù finally said, staring at Lóng Yán's small form,
"has been chosen by something beyond our understanding."
"A Pulsegate Shatter," whispered Xiū Mǐn.
"And a Divine Imprint."
"Such things," added Ruò Hǎi, "only appear once in countless generations."
They looked at each other.
The truth was clear.
This child — this fragile, unconscious boy lying broken on the stone — was no longer merely a son of the Lóng Family.
He was something more.
Something destined to tear the heavens themselves apart —
or be torn apart by the forces that would now hunt him.
Lóng Tiānrán, cradling his son's limp body, looked up at the gathered elders.
His voice was hoarse, but iron-strong.
"We will protect him," he said.
"No matter what comes."
No one dared argue.
The Lóng bloodline had begun to burn again —
not as a flickering ember,
but as a newborn star, threatening to set the heavens ablaze.
The true journey of Lóng Yán had begun.
And the world would never be the same again.
The Hall of Rebirth Flame (涅炎殿 · Niè Yán Diàn)
The shrine elders moved swiftly.
Without hesitation, without ceremony, they gathered the unconscious bodies of Lóng Yán and Elder Huǒ Chénróu — cradling them as one would cradle the most fragile of treasures.
Even now, the air around Yán pulsed faintly with residual flame energy, soft and gentle — as if the shrine itself was unwilling to let him go.
It took three elders to carefully stabilize the boy's spirit aura enough for safe transport. Another two shielded Elder Huǒ Chénróu's broken form in layers of woven flame sigils.
The procession moved through the battered corridors of the shrine in absolute silence, save for the occasional crackle of embers falling from the broken ceiling above.
At the back of the group, Lóng Tiānrán followed close, never taking his eyes off his son for even a heartbeat.
He carried a simple, terrible truth in his heart now:
My son stands on the precipice of legend… or disaster.
They passed through a great flame-scorched archway into the shrine's inner sanctum —
The Hall of Rebirth Flame.
It was a place few were ever permitted to see.
A sacred chamber carved from living redstone, where fire crystals pulsed like the beating hearts of ancient gods.
Rivers of molten light ran through channels along the floor, casting shifting reflections across the walls like an endless dance of spirits.
It was here that broken bodies and battered souls could be mended.
If anywhere could heal them — it was here.
At the center of the hall, twin circular platforms rose from the ground, each surrounded by spiraling runic arrays.
Above them, suspended from the ceiling, floated the Rebirth Flame Lanterns — sacred vessels holding pure flame essence, capable of soothing both spirit and flesh.
The shrine elders worked quickly.
Lóng Yán was placed upon one platform, his small body seeming almost too fragile beneath the towering weight of the sacred hall.
Elder Huǒ Chénróu was laid upon the second, her breathing shallow but steady.
The rituals began immediately.
Elders stepped forward, chanting ancient hymns — songs older than Ashmere itself — calling forth the power of the shrine to wrap the two fallen figures in coils of shimmering flame.
Sacred sigils bloomed across the air, spinning and weaving themselves into protective wards.
The Rebirth Flame poured down like gentle rain, seeping into scorched skin, cracked spirit cores, and shattered meridians.
The healing would be slow.
Painful.
Precarious.
But there was hope.
For the first time in living memory —
there was hope.
The Private Council — Sealing the Truth
As the healing flames worked their slow magic, the shrine elders gathered in a hushed circle with Lóng Tiānrán, speaking in low, urgent tones.
They stood away from the boys, their faces shadowed by the flickering light.
Elder Gāo Lù spoke first, his voice weighted by the enormity of what they all had witnessed.
"Patriarch Lóng," he said solemnly, "what occurred today... must not be spoken carelessly."
"Not even within Ashmere," added Elder Ruò Hǎi, his brows furrowed.
"If word spreads of what has happened... of the beast that descended…"
He didn't finish the thought.
He didn't need to.
They all knew.
If other sects — other empires — learned that a child had forged a bond with a Divine Beastpulse at such a tender age,
if they learned that a Pulsegate Shatter had occurred —
they would come.
Not with gifts.
Not with blessings.
With armies.
With chains.
To claim him.
To control him.
Or to destroy him.
Lóng Tiānrán's hands clenched so tightly that blood welled from his palms.
His voice was low, vibrating with fury and iron resolve.
"If any outside force dares to lay hands upon my son,"
"they will face the full fury of the Lóng bloodline."
The shrine elders bowed their heads in agreement.
But even so, the danger was real.
"We must seal the truth," said Elder Lán Jùn, gravely.
"We will report that Lóng Yán awakened a powerful Flame Beastpulse — yes — but nothing more. No mention of the rift. No mention of the dragon."
"And we must prepare," Elder Xiū Mǐn warned,
"for the storms that may come — no matter how tightly we seal our lips."
Lóng Tiānrán nodded once.
"Prepare we shall," he said.
"If fate demands a reckoning, then we will meet it with fire and steel."
His gaze turned back to his youngest son, still bathed in the healing glow.
Grow strong, Yán'er, he thought fiercely.
Grow strong enough to burn a path through the heavens themselves.
Silent Hours — Watching Over Them
Time drifted like mist within the Hall of Rebirth Flame.
The shrine elders rotated their vigil, maintaining the sacred fire and chanting the healing rites without rest.
The Lóng Family refused to leave, setting camp within the outer sanctum.
Lóng Tiānrán sat cross-legged nearby, his cloak wrapped around him, his eyes never straying from his son.
Lóng Hǎoyán and Lóng Jùnfēng took turns sleeping in shifts, though most of the time they simply watched, their young faces pale and tight with worry.
There was no laughter in Ashmere those nights.
Only whispered prayers carried by the wind.
But slowly, slowly — like the first light of dawn creeping over blackened hills —
the warmth returned.
The glow around Lóng Yán steadied.
His breathing grew deeper, stronger.
The fire within him, though battered, still burned.
And though the scars on his spirit would never fully vanish,
they would become something greater:
Marks of a soul that had faced the inferno of destiny and survived.
A boy who had been seen —
Judged —
Accepted —
By a Divine Flame beyond the mortal coil.
And beyond the mountains...
Far from Ashmere — beyond the cliffs, the molten rifts, and the red wastes of Ignisyr —
others stirred.
In the deepest halls of ancient sects,
in the blackened courts of forbidden cults,
in the gilded towers of mighty empires—
Eyes turned toward the faint ripple that had traveled across the fabric of the world.
A faint crackle in the flow of elemental force.
A whisper of an impossible event.
The world had not yet realized what had been born that night in Ashmere.
But it would.
Oh, it would.
And when it did—
The name Lóng Yán would one day be carved across the heavens themselves.
Not as a child of tragedy.
Not as a forgotten ember.
But as the harbinger of flame and destiny.
The first flicker of a future no one could yet imagine.
And the world...
would never be the same again.
✨🔥
[End of Chapter 2]