Night in Cloudspire Sect was never truly dark.
Even now, long after the last disciple had left the Lower Ember Plaza, the mountain glowed faintly beneath the stars. Lava rivers pulsed through their channels like the veins of a sleeping beast, casting a soft orange haze over the stone walkways.
Lin Xuan stood alone at the edge of a cliff, his robes catching the wind. Below him, distant flame forges hissed and roared, keeping the sect's furnaces alive through the night.
He had not returned to the dormitory.
He didn't want to hear more whispers. He didn't want to lie awake with Zhao Kuan's laughter bouncing off the stone walls, or Meng Fei's worried glances waiting for an explanation he couldn't give.
Instead, he walked. Past the torchlit courtyards and inner disciple gardens. Past the outer alchemy hall and the crimson koi pools. Past everything.
Until he reached the place no one else went.
The old scripture vaults.
They sat carved into the side of the mountain, tucked beneath a jagged overhang that had once borne a grand brazier — now long extinguished. The vault doors were stone, scored by time and heat, and sealed by crumbling chains no one had bothered to replace.
The area was silent.
Lin Xuan pushed open the smaller inner gate and stepped inside. Ash coated the floor like snow. The walls were lined with broken shelves and half-burned scrolls, their scripts too faded to read. Faint glyphs pulsed along the stone, marking this place as once sacred — and now forgotten.
Here, at least, he wasn't watched.
Here, the fire didn't judge him.
He sat cross-legged beneath the cracked remains of a mural. Once, it had shown a phoenix in flight, trailing a storm of golden flames. Now, only the bird's charred wings remained, and even they were fading.
Lin Xuan closed his eyes. Breathed in.
The air was thin on qi, but not empty. Faint. Strange. Old.
He began to cycle his breathing method. Slow. Repetitive. His bones ached from the day's tension. His chest still burned with the memory of the crowd's whispers.
Zhao Kuan's voice echoed in his mind again.
"Ash-Blood."
He exhaled sharply.
A pulse.
His eyes snapped open.
The mural. It had shimmered — just for a second. A faint flicker of gold beneath the char.
He rose slowly. Reached forward.
His fingers brushed against the wall. Nothing.
Then—
A click beneath his feet.
The stone gave way slightly under his weight. A glyph flared under his palm, barely bright enough to be seen.
And the ground opened.
A soft rumble echoed through the chamber as a small square of floor sank inward. Dust plumed around him. Beneath the stone was a stair — steep, narrow, and carved with flame runes so old they looked more like cracks.
A cold draft rose from below.
Lin Xuan hesitated.
He knew this was the kind of moment that would change things. Sect law forbade entering sealed areas, especially ones untouched for generations. But no one had ever stopped him from walking into empty rooms before.
No one had expected anything of him.
No one had warned him about doors like this.
So, Lin Xuan stepped forward — and began to descend.
The stair spiraled downward for far longer than Lin Xuan expected. Dust filled the air like ancient breath. At first, there was only silence — then faint vibrations, like the beating of a heart deep within the mountain.
He paused.
No formation traps. No seals that snapped or flared. Just stone… and something waiting beneath it.
At the bottom of the stairs, the narrow hall opened into a round chamber. It was barely lit — not by flame, but by an eerie glow, pale and steady, from crystal veins that spiderwebbed the walls.
In the center of the room stood a low altar.
It wasn't grand. Just four black stone blocks arranged in a square, surrounding a broken lantern resting atop a pedestal.
The lantern was shaped like a teardrop. Thin, fragile glass. And inside — nothing.
No flame.
No wick.
Only dust.
Lin Xuan stepped closer.
As he did, the dust within the lantern shifted.
A small flicker bloomed.
Not fire. Not yet. Just light.
It pulsed once. Then faded.
But Lin Xuan felt something in that flicker — something that reached through the marrow of his bones and stirred the silence in his mind.
A voice. Or something like a voice.
"It burned. And it burned. And it burned."
He stumbled back. The sound wasn't loud. It was like a memory — not his — dragged across a blade.
When he looked again, the lantern was dim.
Nothing moved.
But Lin Xuan's heartbeat was racing, and there was a strange heat in his chest. Not qi. Not inner flame.
Something else.
He reached forward and touched the edge of the altar.
The stone rippled like disturbed water.
Suddenly, he was somewhere else.
He stood on black rock under a red sky.
Ash fell like snow. Mountains burned in the distance. Rivers of molten gold split the earth. And before him stood a figure, silhouetted by fire.
Tall. Straight-backed. A white robe scorched at the sleeves. Hair bound in silver thread.
He did not turn.
But Lin Xuan could feel the weight of him — as if this figure had burned entire heavens, then buried the ashes beneath his feet.
The wind whispered:
"He became fire. But the candle burned down."
The vision shattered.
Lin Xuan gasped, stumbling backward. He was back in the chamber.
His breath came in sharp pulls. Sweat clung to his brow.
The altar sat unchanged.
The lantern, still unlit.
But at its base, something new had appeared.
A scroll. Old. Faded. Bound in string. Its title, etched in the faintest characters:
"Candlelight Void Scripture"
Lin Xuan stared at it.
There was no flame here. No heat. No grandeur. No welcoming force or glowing aura.
Only this scroll.
Only silence.
Only ash.
He should have turned back. Reported the discovery. Told a sect elder.
Instead, he reached down and picked it up.
The moment his fingers touched the parchment, he felt it — a tug at something inside him. A flicker that wasn't quite light. A memory that wasn't quite his.
A spark.
Lin Xuan left the chamber with the scroll tucked inside his robe. He said nothing to the night. Nothing to the sect.
He returned to his quarters before sunrise.
And in the cold gray before morning, with his candle burning low, he unrolled the first page.
There were no diagrams.
No complex meridian charts.
Just words.
"To have no fire is not failure."
"To burn what you have is enough."
"But be warned.""The candle does not last."