The ashes had not yet settled.
Zhu Yan stood amidst the scorched clearing, steam rising from his skin. Wrathfire still pulsed faintly within his veins, though the initial fury had dimmed into a deep, smoldering burn—a presence that whispered beneath his flesh.
The remnants of the First Gate ceremony clung to the air: burned grass, scorched earth, and the metallic scent of blood. Around him, silence.
But within, chaos.
"Still yourself," he whispered. His voice came out hoarse, each syllable like gravel scraping through a broken pipe. He forced his breath into rhythm. One inhale. One exhale. Each one fanning the flames deeper into his core.
He dropped to one knee. His body felt like it had been torn apart and stitched together again with molten iron. Every nerve sparked with pain. Every muscle trembled with rebirth.
Yet he felt... whole.
"The Wrathfire Veins," he murmured. "They live."
His hand reached toward the scroll once more, now blank and brittle like ancient parchment left under the sun for centuries. Whatever knowledge had been inscribed upon it was now inside him. Burned into marrow, etched into soul.
But that was only the First Gate.
His eyes narrowed.
What of the Second?
He turned his head slowly. The forest that surrounded the clearing was thick with mist. Trees stood like silent sentinels, branches weighed with dew. Somewhere in that veil of green and fog, the next trial awaited.
Yet before he could take a step, the wind shifted.
A scent.
Blood.
And something fouler—something that didn't belong to beasts or men.
He pivoted instinctively, summoning his meager strength. His hand flared with a faint glow of Wrathfire, a flicker of crimson-black aura swirling around his knuckles.
The trees rustled.
Then, silence again.
Then—
A shriek.
Something lunged from the mist, too fast to see. A blur of limbs and fangs. It slammed into Zhu Yan, knocking him backward into the charred earth.
Pain flared. Bones groaned.
But Zhu Yan moved. Faster than instinct. As if guided by something older than memory. The flames roared from his veins, engulfing his arm as he struck back with a scream of his own.
The creature shrieked in return—a sound like rusted metal dragged against stone. It reared back, its form now visible.
A Hollow Beast.
But not just any kind. This one had remnants of robes fused into its flesh. A once-human face twisted beyond recognition. Eyes that burned with void.
"A corrupted cultivator," Zhu Yan whispered. "One who failed the Manual."
He rose slowly, Wrathfire coiling around his form. The Hollow Beast circled, cautious now. It remembered pain. Fire. Rejection.
And Zhu Yan... was its mirror.
They clashed.
Again and again. Wrathfire against corruption. The clearing became a storm of shadows and flame, of snarls and screams.
At last, with a final roar, Zhu Yan drove his fist into the creature's core. The flame surged. The Hollow Beast ignited from within, shrieking as it was reduced to embers.
Then—stillness.
Zhu Yan stood over the ashes, panting. Blood trickled from his mouth.
He had survived.
But more than that... he had chosen.
The path of demons did not forgive. It did not grant second chances.
Yet he walked it.
And he would walk it alone if he had to.
As the first light of dawn pierced the mist, Zhu Yan turned toward the north—where legend spoke of the Second Gate. Of bones that sang. Of a mountain carved from screaming souls.
He took one step forward.
The Wrathfire whispered within him.
It did not fade.
It only waited.