The Phoenix of the Slums

The dinghy rocked violently as Tianming steered it across the churning waves. Behind them, the mountain that once cradled the ancient lab smoldered with a quiet, ominous glow. Xiaoqing clutched the edge of the boat, her knuckles white, eyes fixed on the now-distant shore. Neither spoke. The silence was not peace—it was the kind that came before a storm.

The sea winds tasted like rust and ozone. In the distance, the first sirens of Tiangang’s coastal patrols began to howl faintly. But it was already too late. The cradle had cracked. Whatever was inside that tank—whatever the Keymaster had tried to awaken—it had stirred.

Tianming’s fingers trembled slightly as he checked his wrist console. His pulse was off the charts. Not from fear. From the residual effect of activating the second seal of the Old Tong scroll. That power… it didn’t just boost his speed. It did something to his senses. For a few seconds in the lab, the world had slowed. He’d felt the creature’s breath before it shattered the glass. He’d heard the Keymaster’s chant echo from dimensions deeper than sound.

He needed answers. Now.

They landed near the southern wharf, hidden behind the hull of an abandoned shipping crate. Tianming cloaked the boat with a camo tarp and waved Xiaoqing forward. They moved swiftly through the dockside ruins, into the underbelly of Tiangang’s warehouse district—an area riddled with smuggler tunnels and forgotten surveillance lines.

Fang Yao was already waiting inside a shuttered warehouse. His laptop glowed dimly on a crate. “I picked up the energy surge from the Cradle,” he said without looking up. “Sat-feeds lit up for about six minutes. Then… blackout. Like someone erased it all.”

“Yurei?” Tianming asked.

Fang Yao shook his head. “Maybe. But I think this goes beyond her. This was pre-programmed. They wanted it hidden.”

Xiaoqing stepped forward, still pale. “That thing. The one in the tank. They called it Ancestor Prototype: Type-O. It was human once… maybe. But they turned it into something else.”

Tianming paced the floor. “We need to find the Keymaster again. And we need to find Madam Yurei. She’s still moving pieces behind the scenes.”

“I ran a trace on the symbols etched into that Oni mask,” Fang Yao said, turning his screen toward them. “They’re not just ceremonial. They're coordinates. Layers of ancient dialects stacked into a pattern—like an address.”

Tianming narrowed his eyes. “Where?”

“A monastery. Deep inland. North of Feizhou. It's not even on maps anymore. But satellite imaging shows unnatural architecture—old, but active.”

Tianming stared at the image. He felt it again—that chill from the cave. This wasn’t just a lab or a cult. This was a belief system… a design centuries in the making.

[Author’s Note: If you're enjoying this journey so far, drop a comment or rate this chapter—it helps a lot with motivation and visibility. Thanks for sticking with me!]

He rolled his shoulders and looked at Xiaoqing. “Pack light. We move by dawn.”

The next day, the team left Tiangang behind, disguised as a freight crew. A long-haul truck carried them inland under false manifests. Along the way, Fang Yao briefed them on the monastery—code-named House of the Withered Root. According to fragmented files, it had once been a private dojo for a martial order during the late Qing era, then repurposed as a cult site by Black Falcon members nearly eighty years ago.

No known survivors had ever returned after visiting it.

By dusk, they reached the edge of a burned forest. Smoke still lingered in the trees. The monastery lay beyond a shallow river and a line of stone torii gates half-swallowed by vines. As they approached, Tianming caught sight of flickering lanterns inside. Not electric. Flame-lit.

“Movement,” Xiaoqing whispered. “One sentry at the rear bridge. Another on the roof.”

“I’ll take the one on the roof,” Tianming said. “Give me thirty seconds.”

He vanished into the trees like mist.

Up above, the wind stirred. The sentry on the roof adjusted his coat. Then something brushed his throat.

He looked down—only to see a thread of silver wire digging into his neck.

Tianming dragged him silently over the ridge and left him unconscious. Below, Xiaoqing had already sedated the bridge guard.

They breached the monastery through an old storm drain. Inside, the walls were covered with muralized scriptures—black dragons coiled around bleeding moons. Rooms glowed with ritual candles, and strange instruments hummed with low-frequency resonance. As they crept through the halls, a whispering chant began to echo softly through the stones.

Suddenly, a shriek pierced the silence.

A monk burst through a paper door, wielding a hooked staff.

Tianming reacted instantly, spinning low and catching the monk’s ankle with a sweeping kick. As the man fell, Tianming slammed a palm into his solar plexus, knocking the wind from his lungs. Another came running—this one with a curved dao—but Xiaoqing intercepted him mid-charge, her baton electrified and slamming into his ribs.

The hallway exploded with motion. Five more monks emerged. Fang Yao triggered a smoke pellet and lobbed it forward. The corridor filled with gray mist. Screams and footfalls collided.

Tianming darted forward, fists like hammers. He parried one staff strike, ducked beneath a second, and elbowed a masked figure across the jaw. He moved like a storm—fluid, devastating. One monk screamed as his own weapon was twisted and turned back on him. Another staggered back as Xiaoqing struck his knee, shattering it cleanly.

When the smoke cleared, the team stood among seven unconscious bodies.

But they hadn’t made it to the shrine yet.

Tianming moved toward the central staircase. Stone steps rose in a spiral, each carved with names long lost to history. At the top stood a door made of obsidian. No handle. Just a single red palmprint in the center.

Without hesitating, Tianming stepped forward and pressed his own hand against it.

The door clicked.

It opened with a whisper.

Inside was not a shrine—but a laboratory.

Glass tanks. Data cores. Sealed books.

And in the middle—on a pedestal—sat an ancient scroll wrapped in dragonhide.

Fang Yao stepped forward. “That symbol. That’s the same as the Old Tong seal.”

Tianming’s heart pounded. “Then this… is the next piece.”

Suddenly, a voice echoed from above.

“You’ve come too far, Tianming.”

They looked up.

The Keymaster stood on a balcony, flanked by two monks with blackened eyes. “This place is not for the living. You seek the Sovereign Flame—but you do not understand what it costs.”

Tianming’s eyes narrowed. “Then teach me.”

The Keymaster raised his hand.

Flames danced from the scroll.

The trial had begun.