The mountain air burned sharper than Kael remembered.
He stood at the edge of the emberwood cliffs, cloaked in mist and the scent of scorched pine. The wind carried flecks of ash even though there was no fire in sight. Far below, the deep chasms of the Infernal Ribs stretched across the land like the scarred backbone of a sleeping god.
And nestled within them—the Ember Fang Sect.
Their fortress was carved into the molten cliffside, crimson towers spiraling upward like burning spines. Lava rivers ran like veins through the black stone architecture, and the sect itself throbbed with power and paranoia.
Kael crouched on a ridge just beyond the outer defense perimeter, one hand resting on the warm earth.
He had healed—mostly.
The Night Throne Requiem had stabilized his wounds, reinforcing his body with shadow-woven threads of qi. But full strength was still days away, and he could feel the blade-slice ache in his ribs whenever he breathed too deep.
He would need to be clever.
Stealth before confrontation.
Knowledge before vengeance.
"Strike only when the shadows can close behind you," he whispered. A memory—or perhaps a lesson—from his past self.
Kael's plan was simple:
The Ember Fang Sect regularly rotated outer disciples through patrol duties—low-level cultivators too arrogant to be cautious and too expendable to be missed. Kael had spotted a lone patrol moving along the eastern ridge, separating from the others to relieve himself near a hot spring.
The opportunity was too perfect.
Like shadows drawn to a flickering candle, Kael moved.
Silent. Precise.
Before the disciple could even react, Kael's hand wrapped around his mouth, and his blade—summoned in a blink of black mist—pierced through the lower spine. Not lethal. Just paralyzing.
The boy crumpled, eyes wide in terror.
Kael stared at him. Young. Barely initiated. Ember sigil half-formed on his collarbone.
He reached down and whispered, "Your silence will be rewarded."
And then the shadows swallowed the boy whole—encasing him in a cocoon of dark sleep. No blood spilled. No trace left. Only the sound of bubbling magma in the distance.
Kael donned the uniform, adjusted the sigil, and wrapped a cloth over his mouth—standard Ember Fang attire during external duties.
He was in.
Inside the Ember stronghold, heat radiated from every surface. Red banners fluttered above cracked stone bridges, and disciples barked at one another, jostling for rank and favor like hounds.
Kael moved through the lower ranks with ease, nodding at greetings, mimicking behavior, eavesdropping as often as he could. He listened for any mention of a hunt. Of a traitor. Of a shadowwalker.
Instead, he heard something else.
Whispers. Confusion. Fear.
"The Sealed Rift pulsed again. They say the Demon Lord's barrier is thinning."
"Nonsense. Only the Five Seals can open that gate. And they've all been lost."
"Someone killed a Skycarve scout team last week. Torn apart. Some say… a specter did it."
Kael's brow tightened. They don't know it was me. Not yet. Good.
But then—he felt it.
A presence, walking the corridor ahead. Not just strong—but monstrous. A core that radiated fire and authority like a sun wrapped in barbed wire.
A sect elder.
Kael bowed low as the elder passed. The man didn't glance at him—but the shadows around Kael's feet recoiled instinctively.
Too close, he thought.
He turned away and blended into the crowds moving toward the Flame Pits—where outer disciples sparred and trained.
It was there, in the cover of chaos, that Kael ducked into a hidden corridor and finally exhaled. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from restraint.
The desire to strike. To burn the whole fortress down in silence. It clawed at him.
But answers first. Vengeance later.
Then, he found it.
A conversation between two inner disciples, cloaked in black-red flame robes, speaking just beyond a cracked brazier alcove.
"The council's nervous. They think the regression event might be real."
"You mean the echo in the Wraith Clock? That was just a spiritual anomaly—"
"No. One of the Flame Seers went mad screaming about a 'throne awakening in shadow.' They had to chain her tongue to stop the chant."
"Then why hasn't the Flame General acted?"
"Because he's dead. Or missing."
Kael's breath caught.
Flame General… dead? He didn't know the name, but it meant something.
Whatever had changed in this timeline wasn't just him.
The pieces were moving already.
Someone else—or something—was also acting in the dark.
As night fell, Kael slipped from the compound through a side gate.
He returned to the outer cliffs just as the sun dipped below the horizon, fire painting the sky like spilled blood.
He hadn't learned everything.
But he had learned enough.
The clans are unstable. The seals are weakening. And they fear what I'm becoming.
He stared down at his hands—where the shadows now curled not as weapons, but as extensions of his will.
"I need to find the other clans," he murmured. "And I need to remember."
Because someone had betrayed him.
And this time, he would not die without knowing why.