Author Note: this chapter will be boring
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Liang Feng was once a name spoken with awe. At just nine years old, he had stood before the elders of the Celestial Radiance Sect with a soul flame so bright and pure that even the most seasoned cultivators had marveled. His fire had danced crimson and gold, vibrant and alive, a promise of unparalleled power. "A prodigy," they had called him, their eyes gleaming with ambition. "Destined to lead us into a new golden age."
But now, the title was little more than ash in the wind.
As the morning sun bathed the sect in soft light, Liang stood at the edge of the training grounds, where the shadows lingered longest. He watched the disciples sparring in pairs, their movements sharp and calculated, their auras glowing with the disciplined power of radiant cultivation. Once, he would have been among them, his every step accompanied by whispered admiration. Now, they didn't even spare him a glance.
Liang let out a slow breath, his fingers brushing over the faint mark on his palm where the cursed flame resided. It wasn't visible to the naked eye, but he could feel it—always feel it. A faint heat simmered beneath his skin, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. Sometimes, it felt like a living thing, coiled in his core, waiting for a moment of weakness to consume him whole.
He clenched his fist. Weakness. The word tasted bitter. The sect might see him as weak now, a failure, but they didn't understand. They couldn't. The flame had taken everything from him—his strength, his future, even his place among his peers—but it hadn't extinguished his will.
Not yet.
Liang's gaze drifted to the towering spires of the sect's central hall, where the elders conducted their daily affairs. How many times had he stood in that hall as a boy, their praises ringing in his ears? "Liang Feng, the Flame Prodigy," they had called him. He had believed them. He had believed in his own destiny, in the promise of greatness that seemed etched into his very soul.
But the flame had betrayed him.
It had started subtly at first, a flicker of instability during training sessions. He had dismissed it as nerves, as overexertion. But the instability grew, the flame turning wilder, harder to control. By the time he was sixteen, the truth was undeniable: his soul flame wasn't a gift. It was a curse.
The elders had tried to suppress it, to tame it. They had subjected him to endless rituals, exhausting cultivation methods, and painful experiments. But nothing worked. The flame consumed more energy than it gave, draining him until he could barely stand after a session. Worse, it had begun to weaken his body itself, leaving him with bouts of fatigue and searing pain that no healer could explain.
By eighteen, the elders had given up. "He's dangerous," Liang had overheard one of them whisper. "The flame will kill him—and possibly us along with him."
They hadn't expelled him, but only because they feared what his cursed flame might do if left unchecked. Instead, they had allowed him to stay within the sect's walls, not as a disciple but as a liability. A research subject. A burden.
The whispers had started soon after.
Liang forced himself to look away from the training grounds. He couldn't dwell on the past, not now. He wasn't that naïve boy anymore, full of hope and promise. He had learned the hard way that the sect's respect was as fickle as the wind.
The cursed flame flickered in his palm, a faint pulse that sent warmth coursing through his veins. Liang glanced down, his brow furrowing. Sometimes, he swore the flame could sense his thoughts, as if it were mocking him. It was a constant reminder of his failures, of what he had lost. But it was also his only chance at reclaiming what had been stolen from him.
If he could master it.
For years, he had scoured the sect's libraries, poring over ancient texts and forbidden scrolls in search of answers. Most of the information he found was contradictory at best, useless at worst. The cursed flame was a rare phenomenon, poorly understood even by the greatest scholars. But there was one name that kept appearing in the old stories, one legend that refused to fade: the Phoenix Clan.
The Phoenix Clan, whose mastery over flames had been unparalleled. The Phoenix Clan, who had once wielded the power to purify even the most volatile soul flames. The Phoenix Clan, who had vanished centuries ago, leaving behind only whispers of their techniques and their trial sites.
Liang's grip tightened on the hilt of his practice sword. He had heard rumors of one such trial site, buried deep within the Flame Ridge Mountains. The elders dismissed it as myth, a fanciful tale to entertain children. But Liang couldn't ignore the stories—not when the cursed flame in his palm pulsed faintly every time he thought of the Phoenix Clan.
It was as if the flame itself was calling him there.
A sharp gust of wind swept through the training grounds, carrying with it the faint scent of ash. Liang's eyes narrowed. He wasn't foolish enough to believe in destiny anymore, but he couldn't deny the pull he felt. The Phoenix Clan's techniques might be the key to taming his flame, to breaking the curse that had stolen his future. If the trial site truly existed, he had to find it.
He turned his gaze back to the training grounds, his expression unreadable. The other disciples moved with confidence, their flames bright and controlled. They were everything he had once been—and everything he could be again, if he succeeded.
The cursed flame flickered faintly in his palm, its heat a quiet reminder of the stakes. Liang closed his fist, extinguishing the light. He didn't need the sect's approval. He didn't need their help. All he needed was time—and the courage to take the first step.