The Phoenix of the Slums

The scroll burst into flames—but it didn’t burn. The fire licked its edges, glowing red-gold like molten blood, suspended in mid-air as if obeying a will of its own. Tianming didn’t flinch. He stepped toward the pedestal slowly, eyes fixed on the blazing artifact.

Above him, the Keymaster raised both hands and began to chant in a deep, guttural tongue. The walls of the hidden chamber trembled. Strange runes carved into the stone began to glow with pulsating light—red, then black, then a hollow white like bleached bone.

“The Sovereign Flame tests not your strength,” the Keymaster boomed, “but your resolve. Touch it unworthy, and your soul burns to ash.”

Fang Yao whispered, “We don’t have time for riddles, Tianming. The place is rigged—those symbols, they're sigils. If the trial fails, this entire chamber might collapse.”

“I know,” Tianming said, and kept walking.

Xiaoqing stepped beside him. “Let me go first.”

“No.” His voice was firm. “This is my path. My fire.”

With each step toward the scroll, the heat grew more intense—not just physical, but emotional. Memories surged. The night of the orphanage fire. The face of his mother, half-burned into shadow. The laughter of Song Rui echoing from behind that steel door in Denghai. The cold breath of the Lotus Clan assassin as he whispered about the bloodline that never should have existed.

Each memory ignited inside him.

Tianming stopped an arm’s length from the floating scroll.

The flames parted like water.

He reached forward—and touched it.

The moment his skin met the surface, a shockwave erupted through the chamber. Fang Yao was thrown backward. Xiaoqing dropped to her knees, clutching her chest. The Keymaster staggered, one hand gripping the balcony rail as energy spiraled around Tianming in violent, coiling rings.

Tianming was no longer in the room.

He stood in a desert of fire. The sky above was crimson, and the ground cracked with rivers of lava. Before him loomed a tower of ash, and atop it, a throne of bones.

A figure sat there—its face covered in a veil of flame. Not a god. Not a demon.

Himself.

Or rather, a version of him. Scarred. Hardened. Eyes like molten gold.

“What is this?” Tianming asked, breathless.

The flaming figure spoke in his voice. “This is the price. Power without sacrifice is delusion. You seek revenge, but revenge reshapes the soul. Will you burn yourself clean—or will you burn the world?”

Tianming clenched his fists. “I’ll burn through every lie, every chain. I don’t fear the fire.”

The flame-Tianming smiled. “Then face it.”

Flames surged upward. A massive beast rose from the lava behind the throne—a tiger made of living fire, its ribs open like a furnace, eyes smoking with hatred.

The trial had a form.

And it was war.

Tianming dropped into a fighting stance. The beast roared, hurling a column of fire toward him. He rolled aside, then leapt into the air, driving his heel into the side of the monster’s head. His leg passed through—not air, but plasma. The pain seared into his nerves.

The tiger turned and pounced. Tianming twisted, using the scroll’s energy to amplify his motion. His body moved with terrifying speed—ghost-like, heat-resistant. He jabbed a fist into the beast’s underbelly, channeling pure will.

The tiger’s chest exploded in embers.

But it reformed.

Again and again he struck, and again it returned.

Because the fire wasn’t the enemy.

He was.

He stopped fighting.

Closed his eyes.

And stepped forward—into the flames.

The fire engulfed him completely.

In the real world, the scroll dimmed. The runes stopped glowing. The chamber fell into a tense silence.

Then the scroll opened.

Tianming dropped to his knees, panting, skin steaming but unburnt. His eyes glowed faintly gold for a moment before returning to black.

He had passed.

The Sovereign Flame was his.

Xiaoqing rushed to him. “Are you okay?”

He nodded slowly. “It showed me… what I could become.”

Fang Yao stared at the opened scroll. “It’s not just scripture. It’s coordinates. Weapons. Techniques. Secrets from the old dynasties.”

The Keymaster dropped from the balcony, kneeling slowly. “You are the first in over two centuries to awaken it.”

Tianming stood, still trembling. “Then tell me what I am. Why me?”

The Keymaster’s eyes burned with grim truth. “You are Ash-Born. The child of the bloodline that survived the Phoenix Purge. The last survivor of the Eighteen Scorched Gates.”

Tianming’s heart thundered.

The Eighteen Scorched Gates were a myth. A sect believed to have been wiped out centuries ago by imperial decree—hunted, burned alive for guarding techniques too dangerous to exist.

But now it made sense.

The strange mark on his shoulder. The fire that never harmed him. The way even the Lotus Clan feared what flowed through his veins.

“Why didn’t my mother tell me?” he whispered.

“She died protecting the truth,” the Keymaster said. “But the time has come. The Lotus Clan seeks to reawaken the Sovereign Arsenal—ancient weapons lost in the Phoenix Era. You, Tianming, are the only one who can unlock them. But beware… others know now.”

Tianming stared at the scroll in his hand.

A key.

A curse.

A path forward.

He closed his fingers around it. “Then I’ll make them remember the ashes they tried to bury.”