Author: Yay we are preparing...
_________________________________
The first light of dawn crept through the cracks in Liang Feng's quarters, casting pale streaks of gold across the worn surface of his desk. Sprawled before him was an old map of the Flame Ridge Mountains, its edges frayed and its markings faded with age. He'd spent the night pouring over its details, committing every ridge and valley to memory. The cursed flame in his palm pulsed faintly, as if impatient for the journey ahead.
Liang's fingers traced the crude lines marking his path. He muttered softly, "No room for error." The map spoke of treacherous terrain and sparse landmarks, but it also hinted at the trial site—the legendary domain of the Phoenix Clan. Though the elders dismissed it as myth, Liang could not ignore the flame's reaction to the name. It was as if the cursed fire itself knew where it needed to go.
The map itself had been a discovery shrouded in risk. Liang had stumbled across it weeks earlier in the restricted archives of the sect library. The memory of that night was as vivid as the flame in his palm. Desperate for answers, he'd waited until the library was deserted, slipping past the guards with practiced ease. The dim glow of spirit lanterns had illuminated rows of ancient scrolls and tomes, each exuding an aura of secrecy.
His heart had pounded as he ventured deeper into the forbidden section, the oppressive silence amplifying every creak of the floorboards beneath his feet. Then he'd seen it: a weathered scroll tucked among a cluster of irrelevant texts. The title, faint but legible, had sent a jolt through him—Legends of the Phoenix Clan.
Liang's hands had trembled as he unrolled the scroll, his eyes scanning the faded ink. It detailed the Flame Ridge Mountains, the rumored location of the Phoenix Clan's trial site, and the ancient techniques said to be hidden there. He'd barely begun to absorb the information when the faint sound of approaching footsteps had sent him into a panic.
Clutching the scroll, Liang had extinguished his cursed flame and darted into the shadows. He'd held his breath, pressing himself against the cold stone wall as a robed elder entered the chamber, his gaze sweeping the room. "Who's there?" the elder had called, his voice sharp with suspicion.
For what felt like an eternity, Liang had remained motionless, his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The elder's footsteps grew louder, then paused mere paces from Liang's hiding spot. Just as the tension became unbearable, a distant clatter elsewhere in the library drew the elder's attention. Muttering under his breath, the man had turned and left.
Liang had exhaled shakily, his grip on the scroll ironclad. He'd waited several minutes before slipping out of the library, his movements swift and silent. Back in his quarters, he'd pored over the map and accompanying text, piecing together a plan that now guided his every step.
His satchel sat open beside him, its contents meticulously chosen. Liang had packed rations of dried fruit and cured meat, a flask of water, and a small bundle of cultivation pills—enough to sustain him for the journey but not enough to weigh him down. Nestled among the essentials was his blade, its steel honed to a razor edge. It wasn't the best weapon in the sect's armory, but it had served him well in the past.
As he tied the satchel shut, Liang's gaze lingered on the sparse room around him. This was the only home he'd known since his childhood, yet it offered no sense of comfort. The walls bore the faint marks of his training, scars left behind by years of failed attempts to control the flame. The desk, cluttered with inkstones and scrolls, was a testament to his desperation. Each text he had scoured promised answers but delivered only frustration.
He stood, shouldering the satchel and casting one last glance at the desk. A single scroll remained unfurled, its ink faint but legible: Legends of the Phoenix Clan. Liang hesitated, then rolled it up and tucked it into the satchel. "If the elders won't help, I'll find the answers myself," he murmured.
The Celestial Radiance Sect was still shrouded in pre-dawn quiet as Liang stepped into the corridor. The faint glow of spirit lanterns illuminated his path, their light casting long, flickering shadows against the stone walls. He moved silently, his steps careful and deliberate. Years of navigating the sect as an outcast had taught him how to avoid unwanted attention.
Reaching the library's restricted section had not been his only act of defiance. Over the past month, Liang had eavesdropped on countless conversations, piecing together fragments of information about the Phoenix Clan. The elders spoke of it sparingly, their tones dismissive yet tinged with unease. The sect's older disciples whispered tales of fiery trials and ancient ruins, though few believed the stories held truth.
One rumor, however, had caught Liang's attention: a hidden path leading into the Flame Ridge Mountains, accessible only to those willing to defy the sect's rules. Though unverified, it aligned with the map he had found, reinforcing his resolve to act.
Liang's preparations extended beyond gathering supplies. For weeks, he'd practiced channeling the cursed flame in his palm, pushing its boundaries while keeping it under control. The flame's unpredictable nature had always been his greatest challenge, but he couldn't afford hesitation. If the trial site truly held techniques capable of taming such power, he needed to be ready to face it.
At the outer gate, two guards stood at their posts, their postures lax in the stillness of the early hour. Liang paused, retreating into the shadows to assess the situation. His heart pounded, each beat a reminder of what was at stake. He couldn't afford to be seen; the sect would never allow him to leave willingly.
From his satchel, Liang retrieved a talisman etched with faint runes. He'd crafted it during one of his many sleepless nights, a simple device designed to emit a harmless burst of light. With a whispered incantation, he activated the talisman and tossed it toward the far end of the courtyard.
A sudden flash illuminated the area, drawing the guards' attention. "What was that?" one of them muttered, already moving to investigate. The other followed, their focus diverted.
Liang slipped through the gate, his movements swift and precise. The cool air outside hit him like a shock, sharp and invigorating. He exhaled slowly, a mixture of relief and anticipation washing over him. But as his steps carried him into the shadows, the stillness shattered. A faint voice cut through the night: "Who goes there?"
Liang froze mid-step, the words igniting a surge of panic. His heartbeat thundered in his chest as the voice came again, louder this time, laced with suspicion. Behind him, the faint clink of armor echoed as the guards stirred.
He tightened his grip on his satchel and darted into the underbrush, the cursed flame flickering wildly in his palm. The forest's shadows closed around him, offering fleeting cover. But then a new sound emerged—closer, deliberate—the crack of a twig underfoot. Liang turned sharply, his breath catching, and saw nothing but darkness. Yet, the feeling of being watched crept over him like a predator's gaze.
A soft whisper, chilling and unfamiliar, drifted through the trees: "You can't outrun what you are."