Chapter 5: Ember of the Pyreblood

The days grew darker as the trio—Aran, Renka, and Kaizen—crossed the scorched plains leading toward Pyresummit, the sacred mountain of the Red Flame Clan. A towering monument of obsidian rock and ash-stained cliffs, Pyresummit was known as the heart of the Red Flame’s fury. Legends told of rivers of lava running beneath it and the roaring cries of ancient flame beasts that once guarded the mountain. Few dared approach; none returned unchanged.

Aran’s gaze was fixed ahead, his golden flame pulsing with purpose. This was not just another journey. This was a declaration. The Red Flame Clan had long ruled with an iron grip over the southern flame territories. Their leader, Kazan the Pyreblood King, was said to be unstoppable—a walking inferno born of war and fire. And Aran intended to challenge him.

Renka walked beside him, her blue flame flickering low. “You’re not ready,” she whispered.

Aran didn’t respond.

“I mean it,” she continued, louder this time. “You may have beaten Taizen and claimed Kaizen, but the Pyrebloods are not like anything we’ve faced. They’re not assassins. They’re warriors forged by chaos.”

“I don’t care,” Aran replied, his voice flat. “Kazan stands in our way. And if I want to reach Aurumfall—if I want to understand what I truly am—I need to face him.”

Renka stopped. “You don’t even know what’s at Aurumfall. You keep talking about power, but what about your humanity? What about the soul you’re losing piece by piece?”

Aran’s steps slowed. He turned toward her, golden eyes glowing in the dim light. “You think I haven’t noticed? You think I haven’t felt it—how I’m slipping?” He paused. “That’s the price. And I’ll pay it. Because if I don’t, someone else will pay it for me.”

Renka clenched her fists. She wanted to argue, to pull him back. But she knew this path had no detour. Not anymore.

Kaizen, as silent as ever, stepped ahead of them and raised a hand.

“Something’s coming,” he said simply.

The ground trembled.

Suddenly, from the ash-covered hills, a fiery gust erupted. The sky turned crimson as flames rained down like meteor showers. Out of the smoke walked three silhouettes, draped in blood-red armor, their eyes gleaming like molten metal. Pyrebloods.

At their center stood a tall figure, his chest bare, muscles carved like stone, long red hair tied in a high warrior’s knot, and his hands wrapped in seared cloth. His body was covered in flame-tattoos that moved—alive with heat.

“I am Hōjin of the Pyreblood Guard,” the man announced, his voice like thunder. “And you, Gold Flame, walk too far into territory that does not welcome your kind.”

Aran stepped forward without flinching. “I’m not here for welcome. I’m here for your king.”

The Pyreblood warriors laughed, but Hōjin didn’t. His expression remained still. “Then you walk into your grave.”

Aran didn’t respond with words. His golden flame surged forward, expanding around him in a vortex. Kaizen readied his blade. Renka’s blue aura rippled as she took a fighting stance, her eyes locked on the enemy.

Hōjin’s own flames erupted—bright red, but darker at the core, like burning blood. “I’ll enjoy silencing you, boy.”

They clashed like gods.

Hōjin’s fists, coated in Red Flame Soulsteel, collided with Aran’s golden armguards, sparks flying with every strike. The force of their battle split the earth around them. Lava cracked through the surface, geysers of fire erupting in their wake.

Kaizen engaged the other two Pyrebloods, his movements mechanical but brutal. Even in death, he fought with unmatched precision. One Pyreblood was cleaved in seconds, his scream swallowed by flame. The second barely held Kaizen back.

Renka, meanwhile, faced an approaching wave of flame. Hōjin wasn’t just fighting Aran—his energy reached outward, disrupting the world around them. But Renka’s soul had steadied. Her blue flame pulsed like ice-fire, and with a cry, she unleashed a tidal strike of spiritual pressure that cooled the incoming wave and bought Aran space.

Still, Hōjin was relentless. He struck Aran again and again, forcing him back.

“You don’t understand what the Red Flame is, do you?” Hōjin roared. “It’s not rage. It’s legacy! Kazan gave me my power so I could crush false kings!”

Aran wiped blood from his mouth, his flame intensifying. “Then I’ll carve my own legacy from yours.”

He raised both arms. The air around him warped as soul sigils glowed beneath his feet. From the earth, golden hands erupted—not of flesh, but of condensed soul matter. His first true Soul Technique: Eclipse Grasp.

Hōjin’s eyes widened. The golden hands latched onto his arms and legs, pinning him mid-air. Aran leapt forward, twisting in the air, and slammed his fist into Hōjin’s chest with a force that sent a shockwave across the plain.

Boom.

The impact cracked the hill they stood on, sending debris flying. Hōjin’s body was thrown like a comet, crashing through rock and smoke. He didn’t rise.

The battle had ended—but Aran stood, barely. His body trembled, eyes still glowing but distant. He had won... but something had awakened. Something deeper. When he looked at his own hands, he saw not victory—but something darker.

Behind him, Renka rushed to his side. “You used a Soul Technique,” she whispered.

“I did,” he replied, breathless.

“Are you okay?”

Aran looked at her and said, “I don’t know.”

The horizon burned with the echoes of the battle. This was only the beginning.

And Kazan... was watching.

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