The citadel's alarms still echoed in Zane Veyr's ears as he stood on the balcony, the volcanic sky a churning sea of crimson and black. The Nexus Point rift had vanished as quickly as it appeared, sealed by a squad of Flameheart warriors led by Zhara Emberkin, their flaming blades carving through the hybrid creatures that spilled forth. Zane's fists, still tingling from the fight, glowed faintly with the molten pulse of his Ember Core. He'd thrown punches, driven by instinct and that strange whisper—Find the others—but the rift's pull had nearly overwhelmed him. His chest ached, not just from the Core but from something deeper, as if his soul were straining against invisible threads.
Zhara emerged from the citadel's inner halls, her obsidian armor streaked with ash, her flaming katana sheathed at her hip. Her amber eyes found Zane, sharp and assessing, but softened by a flicker of concern. "You're still standing," she said, joining him at the railing. "Most Ashborn would've collapsed after touching a Nexus Point."
Zane wiped sweat from his brow, his Earth-born defiance surfacing. "I'm not most Ashborn." His voice was rough, but a smirk tugged at his lips. "Besides, you told me to fight it."
Zhara's lips curved, a rare smile that carried weight in this brutal world. "I did. And you listened. That's a start." She leaned against the railing, her armor clinking softly. "But you're not out of the fire yet, Zane Veyr. The Emberclad Clan's claim means nothing if you can't prove your Core."
Zane nodded, his mind racing. The trial had earned him a place, but the citadel's hierarchy was a minefield. Ashborn like him were slaves in all but name, their lives tied to the whims of Emberkin and Flamehearts. Solar Sovereigns, the godlike rulers, were distant but ever-present, their power a shadow over the clan. And that rift—those creatures with molten scales and steampunk gears—hinted at a threat beyond the volcanoes. Then there was the vision: another Zane, in a misty city under auroras, his hands glowing with symbols. It wasn't a dream. It was a piece of him, somewhere else.
"Teach me," Zane said, meeting Zhara's gaze. "The Core, the clan, all of it. I need to know what I'm up against."
Zhara studied him, her expression unreadable. "You're not afraid," she said, almost to herself. "Good. Fear gets you burned." She straightened, her voice taking on a mentor's edge. "Follow me. Training starts now."
They descended into the citadel, passing Ashborn hauling ore and Emberkin barking orders. The air grew hotter, the sulfur stench thickening. Zane's new armor—basic obsidian, heavier than his MMA gear—chafed, but the Core's pulse steadied him. Zhara led him to a secluded training chamber, its walls carved with runes that glowed like molten veins. Stone dummies lined the room, scarred from countless strikes. A single lava stream flowed through the center, its heat warping the air.
"This is where you learn to be more than Ashborn," Zhara said, drawing her katana. The blade ignited, flames dancing along its edge. "Your Core is raw, like a spark in a storm. Refine it, and you'll rise. Let it control you, and you'll burn out."
Zane clenched his fists, the pulse flaring. "How do I refine it?"
"Feel it," Zhara said, stepping closer. "Your Core is fire, but it's also you—your will, your strength. Channel it like you channel a punch." She raised her hand, and her Core flared, a wave of heat washing over Zane. His pulse responded, surging like a furnace. He closed his eyes, visualizing his gym, the rhythm of the heavy bag. The pulse steadied, a molten river flowing through his veins.
"Now strike," Zhara commanded, pointing to a dummy. Zane approached, his MMA stance instinctive. He threw a jab, imagining his opponent's guard. The pulse roared, and his fist ignited with an orange glow, cracking the dummy's surface. The impact sent a jolt through his arm, but it felt right, like landing a perfect hook.
Zhara's eyes widened slightly. "Faster than I expected," she said, circling him. "Your Core's strong, Zane. Too strong for an Ashborn." She stopped in front of him, her voice low. "Where did you come from?"
Zane hesitated. Earth, the gym, the quantum anomaly—it sounded insane. But Zhara's gaze demanded truth. "Another world," he said finally. "I was fighting, then… something broke. I woke up here."
Zhara's expression didn't waver, but her hand brushed his chest, over the Core. "Another world," she echoed, her touch warm, lingering. "The Loom's threads reach far. Maybe farther than we know." The moment stretched, her amber eyes locking with his, a spark of connection—not just mentor and student, but something deeper. Zane's breath caught, his guarded heart stirring.
A shout broke the tension. An Ashborn girl burst into the chamber, her rags singed, her eyes wide with fear. It was the girl from the trial, the one Zane had saved. "Zhara! The overseer—Korran—he's punishing the Ashborn! They're saying you defied him!"
Zhara's jaw tightened. "Korran," she spat, sheathing her katana. "Stay here, Zane."
"No way," Zane said, stepping forward. "If it's trouble, I'm in." He didn't know Korran, but he knew bullies. And he wasn't about to let Zhara face one alone.
Zhara's smile was grim. "You're stubborn. Fine. But don't do anything stupid." She led the way, the girl trailing behind, and Zane felt the Core's pulse quicken, ready for whatever came next.
The citadel's lower halls were a maze of obsidian corridors, lit by glowing runes and echoing with the clank of ore carts. Ashborn shuffled past, their faces gaunt, some bearing fresh whip marks. Zane's fists clenched, memories of foster home enforcers flashing through his mind. The Ashen Crucible wasn't just a world of fire—it was a world of chains.
Zhara moved with purpose, her armor glinting, the girl—whose name, Zane learned, was Lira—struggling to keep up. "Korran's an Emberkin," Lira whispered, her voice trembling. "He hates Ashborn, especially ones who pass the trials. He says Zhara's too soft, claiming you."
Zhara snorted. "Korran's a coward who kisses Flameheart boots. He'll learn his place." Her tone was fierce, but Zane caught a flicker of worry in her eyes. She wasn't invincible, and defying an overseer had consequences.
They reached a cavernous chamber where Ashborn toiled, hauling ore from a lava-lit mine. Korran, a wiry Emberkin with a sneer and a whip coiled at his belt, stood on a platform, barking orders. His armor was polished, his Core pulsing with a sickly yellow glow. A group of Ashborn knelt before him, their hands bound, their faces bruised. One, a boy no older than fourteen, bled from a gash on his forehead.
"This is what happens to defiance!" Korran roared, cracking his whip. The boy flinched, and the crowd of Ashborn shrank back. "Zhara thinks she can coddle you filth, but I'll burn that weakness out!"
Zane's blood boiled. He stepped forward, but Zhara grabbed his arm. "Not yet," she hissed. "He's baiting us."
Korran's eyes locked onto them. "Zhara Emberkin," he drawled, his sneer widening. "And her pet Ashborn. Come to save your strays?" He gestured to the bound Ashborn. "These rats stole ore. Punishment is death."
"They're children," Zhara said, her voice cold. "They were hungry. Your rations starve them."
Korran laughed, his Core flaring. "Starve? They're lucky to breathe our air!" He raised his whip, aiming for the boy. Zane moved before he could think, his MMA instincts kicking in. He lunged, catching the whip mid-air, the leather biting into his palm. The crowd gasped, Korran's face twisting with rage.
"You dare?" Korran snarled, his Core surging. A wave of heat slammed into Zane, but his own Core flared, shielding him. He yanked the whip, pulling Korran off balance, and threw a jab to his chest. The punch, infused with a spark of molten energy, sent Korran stumbling.
Zhara stepped forward, her katana drawn, flames roaring. "Touch him again, Korran, and you'll answer to me." Her voice was a blade, and the Emberkin hesitated, his bravado faltering.
Korran recovered, his sneer returning. "You'll regret this, Flameheart. The Solar Sovereigns will hear of your treason." He signaled his guards, who released the bound Ashborn but glared at Zane and Zhara. The crowd dispersed, whispers spreading. Lira helped the boy stand, her eyes shining with gratitude.
Zhara sheathed her katana, her expression stormy. "You're reckless," she told Zane, but her tone held a trace of approval. "Korran's connected. This isn't over."
"Good," Zane said, flexing his bloodied hand. "I'm not here to play nice." Zhara's gaze lingered, a spark of admiration—and something warmer—passing between them. She turned away, motioning for him to follow. "Come. We're not done training."
As they left, Lira caught Zane's arm. "Thank you," she whispered. "For the trial, for this. You're not like the others." Zane nodded, his guarded heart softening. He wasn't just fighting for himself anymore.
Back in the training chamber, Zhara pushed Zane harder. The lava stream's heat was suffocating, but Zane thrived under pressure. Zhara demonstrated techniques—molten punches that scorched the air, kicks that unleashed lava arcs. "Your Core's power comes from will," she said, striking a dummy with a flaming fist. "Focus your intent. Make it yours."
Zane mimicked her, his punches growing sharper, each strike cracking stone. His Core surged, but it was erratic, flaring too hot, then fading. Zhara noticed, stepping close. "You're fighting it," she said, her hand on his shoulder, steadying him. "Let it flow. Like breathing."
Her touch grounded him, and Zane closed his eyes, visualizing his MMA forms—jab, cross, hook, the rhythm of combat. The Core responded, a steady pulse of molten energy. He struck again, his fist igniting with a controlled blaze, shattering a dummy. Zhara nodded, impressed. "Better. You're learning fast."
They trained for hours, Zane's body aching but his mind alive. Zhara shared more about the Ashen Crucible: clans warring for volcanic territories, Solar Sovereigns cultivating godlike Cores, Nexus Points destabilizing the world. "The Loom's breaking," she said, her voice low. "Nexus Points are its wounds. Something's tearing the threads apart."
Zane's vision flashed—the misty city, the other Zane. He told Zhara, his words halting. She listened, her expression grave. "The Loom's legends speak of fractured souls," she said. "Warriors born across worlds, tied by threads. If that's you…" She trailed off, her hand brushing his chest again, over the Core. "You're more than Ashborn, Zane."
The moment was electric, her closeness stirring something in Zane he hadn't felt in years. He stepped back, guarding his heart. "If I'm more, then I need to be stronger," he said, his voice firm. Zhara nodded, a flicker of disappointment in her eyes, but she respected his focus.
Their training was interrupted by a tremor, the chamber shaking. Alarms blared, and a Flameheart burst in. "Zhara! Rift creatures at the eastern gate! Korran's leading the defense, but it's chaos!"
Zhara cursed, drawing her katana. "Stay here, Zane. You're not ready."
"Like hell," Zane said, his Core flaring. "I'm coming." Zhara sighed but didn't argue, leading the way. Zane's pulse roared, ready for battle, but the vision's whisper echoed: Find the others.
The eastern gate was a warzone. Rift creatures—molten-scaled beasts with gear-driven limbs—swarmed the citadel's walls, their roars shaking the ground. Flamehearts fought, their blades carving through flesh and metal, but the creatures kept coming, spilling from a swirling Nexus Point in the sky. Korran stood at the forefront, his whip replaced by a flaming spear, his Core blazing. He glanced at Zane, his sneer venomous. "Stay out of this, filth."
Zane ignored him, his Core surging. Zhara fought beside him, her katana a blur of fire, slicing a beast in half. "Stay close!" she shouted. Zane nodded, his MMA instincts guiding him. He dodged a creature's claw, striking its flank with a molten punch. The beast roared, gears grinding, and Zane followed with a kick, his Core flaring to scorch its hide.
The battle was brutal, the air thick with ash and blood. Zane fought with Zhara, their movements syncing—her blade clearing paths, his fists breaking defenses. Lira appeared, wielding a stolen Emberkin dagger, her Core sparking. "I want to help!" she said, her voice fierce. Zane nodded, shielding her from a stray claw.
As they fought, the Nexus Point pulsed, and Zane's vision returned. He saw himself in Veil of Whispers, casting glowing symbols, then in Iron Lotus Dominion, wielding a cybernetic blade. The whisper grew louder: You are the key. His Core surged, and a faint thread of white-gold light—Thread Energy—sparked from his fist, slicing a creature clean through. The Flamehearts stared, Korran's face twisting with fear and envy.
Zhara grabbed Zane's arm, her eyes wide. "What was that?"
"I don't know," Zane said, his voice strained. The rift's pull was stronger, tugging at his soul. He stumbled, the vision intensifying. Zhara steadied him, her touch anchoring him. "Focus, Zane. Whatever's happening, you're still here."
The rift pulsed again, and a massive creature emerged—a dragon-like beast with molten wings and circuit-veined eyes. Korran charged, his spear useless against its hide. Zhara cursed, rallying the Flamehearts. Zane's Core roared, and he moved without thinking, his Thread Energy sparking. He struck the beast's chest, the thread slicing deep, and Zhara followed, her katana piercing its heart. The creature collapsed, the rift flickering.
The Flamehearts cheered, but Korran's glare was murderous. "This isn't over, Ashborn," he spat, retreating. Zhara ignored him, her hand on Zane's shoulder. "You're full of surprises," she said, her voice warm, her eyes holding his. The moment was brief, but it lingered, a promise of more.
As the rift stabilized, Zane felt the vision's pull fade, but the whisper remained: Find the others. He looked at Zhara, Lira, the citadel's glowing walls. This was his world now, but it was only the beginning. He'd master his Core, uncover the Loom's truth, and find the other Zanes—no matter the cost.