Zonaar woke up early, before dawn again — too early for the mines, too early for anything really — but his body didn't know how to rest anymore.
His sister was still asleep on the mat near the wall, tangled in blankets, a line of drool on her cheek. Her hair was a mess, one arm hanging off the bedding.
He didn't wake her. He just smiled and pulled the thin curtain across the entrance so the light wouldn't hit her face.
He stepped outside for air. The wind was damp, tinged with salt, and the sound of distant waves was pleasant — the only thing that hadn't changed in years.
Somewhere past the cliffs, the sea breathed beneath the floating immortal realm — the place where real cultivators lived.
He stretched, shoulders cracking, then walked over to the basin. He splashed his face, scrubbed his hands and arms, and ran wet fingers through his hair to flatten it a little.
No point changing clothes — he'd just get filthy again in the tunnels. But at least he wouldn't smell like sleep and old rice.
Then went back in and rinsed his hands in the cold basin water and got the pot going. Rice, a pinch of dried fish, a little salt, and the last bit of root mash from yesterday.
Not much, but it would hold them till evening.
He glanced back towards his sister.
"You'll sleep all day if I let you, Mira," he muttered under his breath. "But one of us has to make sure we don't starve."
The name felt warm on his tongue. Mira. His sister. His only family.
He set two bowls beside the stove, one covered with a clean cloth to keep it warm for her. Packed a smaller one into his satchel.
As he fastened the satchel flap, something sharp scratched his wrist.
"That damn envelope again."
He pulled it out. Looked at the seal again. A curling ink mark from the outer martial arts school in Reylon Province. Local and respectable.
"Waste of paper."
He had no idea why they sent it.
Still, he flipped it over and read it again — even though he knew exactly what it said.
> "Those aged seventeen and below who have not yet awakened Nirith Fire may attend an introductory observation day at the Shanmir Training Hall. No fee required for first visit. Food provided."
He folded it twice and stuffed it in the side of his boot.
"Not gonna go," he told himself. "I don't need to watch a bunch of robed brats light candles with their breath."
Still… he didn't throw it out.
✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧
The path to the mine was dry. His boots crunched over salty gravel. He passed the old windmill, broken stone posts, the merchant lot — none of it ever changed.
But today, he didn't head to the tunnels.
His feet slowed.
Then turned.
✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧
Shanmir Training Hall was just one of a hundred Outer Path schools scattered across the coast. Most kids dropped out. A few awakened their flame. One in a thousand got noticed.
The School was quiet when he arrived. Training had already started.
He stood across the street from the courtyard, leaning on a fence post, pretending to adjust his satchel. The students didn't notice him.
They were around his age — maybe some younger, and a few older. Dressed in pale robes, sleeves rolled, sweat running down their necks. A teacher walked between them, correcting posture with a light tap of a staff or a quiet nudge.
"Left stance wider," the teacher said. "Weight in the hips. You're not flapping your arms — this is a strike, not a prayer."
The students moved in unison — slow arcs, sharp palms, forward steps. No flame. No glowing relics. Just breathing and movement. The kind of stuff people skipped in storybooks.
But Zonaar couldn't look away.
One boy reset his form, sharp and focused. A girl moved like her arms already knew the rhythm.
There was discipline in it. Precision.
And maybe… something else.
He had seen real cultivators before — flame-touched warriors flying past on windblades, artifacts glowing at their sides. But this felt different.
Grounded.
Reachable.
These weren't heroes.
Just kids — learning the first steps.
"Once your base is set," the teacher was saying, "you'll begin sensing the flame during meditation. It doesn't always come fast. For some, it takes months. Some years and some never."
One of the students raised a hand. "How do you know if you have it?"
"You don't," the teacher replied. "Not right away. Nirith Fire doesn't glow. It stirs — under the ribs, behind the breath, in the soul. You feel it. A warmth when the body is still and the mind is quiet."
"Can others see it?"
"Skilled ones can sense it," the teacher said. "Some can even read your flame's stage through aura detection. But remember — strong cultivators can hide their flame. And liars can fake it."
He paused.
"That's why relics are used to confirm the real thing. But even relics can be tricked, if the soul behind them is."
That got a few laughs.
Zonaar didn't laugh.
He tightened his grip on the fence.
He hadn't even reached the first stir.
His chest never warmed. His breath never changed. He had nothing to hide. Nothing to fake.
But watching them now — fists steady, faces lit with purpose — something else stirred in his own chest.
Not fire.
Just… wanting.
To matter. To learn.
He scratched at his wrist, suddenly aware of the dirt under his nails.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
He'd skipped work for this — and yet, he'd learned something.
He told himself he'd leave in five minutes.
Then a voice caught his attention.
Inside the open corridor, a group sat before a robed elder with a scar down one cheek. His tone wasn't loud, but it carried a calm. Clear.
"You don't cultivate for power. You cultivate to survive. Power is the side effect. Flame doesn't bless those who chase it like a prize. It finds those who carry something heavier."
The old man tapped his staff once on the stone.
"When the soul is heavy enough, the fire lifts it."
Zonaar kept listening.
His stomach growled. Maybe the porridge was wearing off.
Maybe it was something else.
He had once wanted this — flame, power, a future.
Now he just dug for coin and let Mira dream for both of them.
"The sea has always been the keeper of flame," the elder continued. "The breath of the tides. The memory of the body blessed by the gods. That's what Nirith Fire is."
Zonaar looked down at his chest.
Nothing there.
Not even a flicker.
He adjusted his satchel and walked away before anyone noticed.
He wasn't part of that world — just a name on a miner's ledger.
✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧
That evening, Mira was already up when he came back. The bowl he'd left was licked clean and soaking in the basin.
"Hey," she said, pulling her damp hair into a tie. "You're late."
"Had to walk around," he muttered, kicking off his boots.
She raised a brow. "Walk around where?"
"Nowhere."
He dumped his bag and picked up a spare tunic.
"You didn't go to that school thing, did you?"
He paused. "Maybe."
"You hated that idea yesterday."
"Still do."
She didn't push any further. Just smiled and went back to folding the laundry.
✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧
That night, Zonaar lay awake longer than usual.
Eyes on the ceiling. Arms crossed behind his head.
He didn't want to chase stupid dreams.
He wasn't built for that.
But when he closed his eyes, he could still hear the old man's voice.
> "When the soul is heavy enough, the fire lifts it."
He didn't think his soul had any fire left in it.
But maybe it was heavy enough.
And if not yet… then one day.
✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧✧𓂃⋆༶⋆𓂃✧