Dawn never arrived that morning.
Not because of clouds or storms, but because the sun itself seemed to hold its breath—hung on the horizon, frozen in place, unsure whether to rise on what was coming.
The boy didn't notice.
He was already outside.
Blades in both hands, he danced across the clearing with movements that were more than just training—they were language. A conversation with the wind, the trees, the world itself.
Each strike was precise. Each step, deliberate. He wasn't just practicing forms.
He was pushing back against something.
Something inside.
He'd been hearing it for days now.
A heartbeat that wasn't his own.
Not loud. Not fast. Just... steady.
And angry.
It echoed in his bones when he breathed too deep.
It flickered in his eyes when he blinked too slow.
But he hadn't told anyone. Not his mother. Not his father. Not even his sister.
Because a part of him liked it.
The way it hummed when he got angry.
The way his blades sparked when he wanted them to stay sheathed.
The way fire no longer burned him—but seemed to wait for instruction.
It wasn't cultivation.
It was something else.
And this morning, it whispered again.
"Stop hiding."
He exhaled and stabbed both blades into the ground.
"All right," he muttered. "Show me."
He didn't expect the answer to come as a crash.
The tree line exploded inwards, bark and leaves flung like shrapnel, and from the smoke stepped a figure wrapped in flames.
Not ordinary fire.
This fire screamed.
It hissed against the grass, searing symbols into the earth.
The figure inside stood tall, armored in scorched black and pulsing with heat. Their face was veiled in shadow, but their eyes blazed like twin suns.
The boy raised a blade.
"Who are you?"
The figure's voice rumbled like an earthquake beneath lava.
"You are my heir."
The boy narrowed his gaze. "Heir to what?"
"To me. To Rage."
Far above, in the cracked silence of Heaven, a bell rang.
Not one made of metal or spell, but something woven into the foundation of the sky itself.
The archangels stirred.
A second truth had begun to awaken.
"Rage has found a vessel."
"It's the boy."
"Then it's happening faster than we feared."
"If he accepts it, nothing will stop the Hollow Star."
The boy held his stance as the fire-born figure stepped closer.
"Get out," he warned.
But the figure ignored the threat.
Instead, it knelt.
"You are strong," it said, voice dropping to something quieter. "But strength without fury is fragile. And you are not fragile."
The boy's hand tightened around his sword.
"I don't want your power."
"You already have it. It was born with you. It waits."
"I said—"
The flames roared louder, cutting him off.
"Then let it wait no longer!"
The blaze surged into him.
Not around.
Into.
His body convulsed. His mind cracked.
And then—
Silence.
He stood in a memory that wasn't his.
A battlefield of ash.
A sky on fire.
Mountains toppled.
Armies screaming.
And in the center of it all, a child. His age. Holding two burning swords in fists slick with blood.
That child turned.
Same face.
Same eyes.
But where his eyes held questions, the other boy's eyes held answers—and those answers were made of fire.
"You're me?" the boy asked.
The other smiled.
"No. I'm what you'll become when you stop pretending to be good."
The boy shook his head. "I'm not like you."
"You're already more," the other whispered. "But if you want to protect her—your sister—your mother—him—then stop clinging to restraint."
The fire surged again.
This time, it didn't hurt.
It felt like coming home.
Back in the waking world, his body dropped to one knee as steam rose off his skin. The figure of fire stepped back, nodding once.
"You've accepted it," the avatar of Rage said.
The boy stood.
And when he opened his eyes…
They were no longer brown.
They were molten gold.
The sword in his hand ignited, and a ring of scorched earth spread out beneath his feet.
"I don't want war," he said.
"Then why do you look like you were born for it?" the figure asked.
Miles away, in the village below, cultivators stopped mid-task.
Birds stopped singing.
Dogs howled.
Because in that moment, a pressure swept the valley.
Not spiritual.
Not demonic.
Just... raw will.
It spread without intention, yet forced even seasoned warriors to their knees.
And at its center?
A boy.
No longer training.
No longer searching.
But found.
He returned home just before sunset, blades sheathed, steps slow.
His father was already waiting on the porch.
Their eyes met.
Neither spoke for a long time.
Then—
"You felt it," the boy said.
His father nodded. "All of Heaven felt it."
"I didn't ask for this."
"No one ever does."
The boy sat beside him.
"I think... something's coming."
"It is."
"Should I stop it?"
The man placed a hand on his son's shoulder.
"You might not be able to."
He looked up.
"Then what should I do?"
The demon king smiled faintly.
"When it comes—burn it faster than it can spread."
In the highest court of Heaven, the Mirror of Aethrin began to fracture again.
And in the deepest pit of the Demon World, ancient chains trembled.
Two truths had awakened.
Ten more remained.
And the Hollow Star?
It was starting to glow.