The Crimson Flame Gorge lay in the southwest quadrant of the Myriad Beast Mountains. Its name came from the strange scarlet fire that burned, eternal and soundless, in the canyon’s deepest throat.
The cliffs on either side climbed like sheer red knives. Centuries of searing heat had scorched their surfaces into dark-maroon glass, so hot the very air wavered in trembling waves.
Few plants dared survive here. Only fire-loving ferns and crusts of copper-green lichen clung stubbornly to cracks in the stone, their presence a quiet testament to nature’s will to live. Clara led Paxton and the battered remnants of the Myriad Beast Sect through that furnace of stone.
By the time they reached the gorge’s final chamber, every step felt like dragging lead. Days of pursuit, nerves stretched taut, wounds left half-dressed—the price showed in their eyes, drained hope hanging by a frayed thread.
At last, they stopped before a wall of red crystal that soared three hundred feet, polished smooth as a mirror. It was not ordinary rock but Crimson Flame Crystal, veined with sparks of molten gold.
A thin film of pale-gold fire crawled across its face—quiet, nearly gentle, and yet so hot that even the air buckled and writhed. This was the hidden gate into the Blazefire Secret Realm.
“Here…” she whispered, voice cracking but resolute. Her cheeks were flushed an unhealthy rose from the heat, yet a fragile spark of hope lit her eyes. Turning to her weary companions, she managed a steady nod. “Give me a moment. I’ll open the way.”
Paxton and the other beasts stared at that burning wall. Roaring, unspent fire-energy pulsed behind the crystal—raw, pure, and powerful enough to cloak them from any hunter.
Perhaps, they dared to believe, the secret realm could become a refuge no Infinite Soul Demon Sect hound would sniff out.
Clara took a deep breath, swallowed pain and exhaustion, stepped within ten paces of the wall, and produced a pendant shaped like a crimson feather—an identical twin to the one she had once entrusted to Jared.
Forming quick seals, she transmuted the last of her sword energy into blazing spiritual fire and poured it into the talisman.
A phoenix cry rang out. Scarlet light erupted, spearing into the heart of the flaming wall. At the same time, her mind etched a complicated sigil, line after luminous line, across the surface of her own soul.
Just as the final stroke brightened and the flames on the wall began to pulse in rhythmic waves, an outline of a doorway shimmered into existence.
A single, cold snort cracked through the gorge like thunder, harsh enough to rattle bones. The sound carried a spear-point of soul-piercing power and blistering sword intent.
Clara took the blow full on. Agony detonated behind her eyes, shattering the sigil she was weaving.
She gasped, a thin thread of blood slipping from the corner of her mouth, and staggered backward. The talisman’s glow guttered, then died. The half-formed gateway crumbled, flames rushing back to erase every trace of passage. Hope winked out with it.
“Who’s there?!”
Paxton forced breath into his lungs and stepped between Clara and the unseen threat, silver pupils sweeping the gorge like blades. The remaining disciples rallied behind him, knuckles white on weapons, forming a ragged shield around Clara.
A deep, imperious voice answered, dripping with reproach. “Clara, how dare you?!”
Space rippled before the flaming wall, like water parting, until the silhouette of a man materialized, haloed by the eternal fire as though the gorge itself bowed to his arrival.
A man in late middle age strode out of the swirling dusk, his crimson robe blazing with gold-thread flames that seemed to dance on the cloth.
Across his back lay an ancient scarlet sword. Even sheathed, it bled heat, an invisible furnace of killing intent that hissed against the evening air as though it might scorch the canyon clean.
The pressure rolling off him dwarfed anything Paxton had ever felt. The man stood at the very summit of the Heavenly Immortal Realm, perhaps Level Eight, perhaps Nine, and every heartbeat in the gorge quickened beneath the weight of that mastery.
“Master!” Clara dropped to one knee so quickly her already-torn shoulder screamed. Blood still rimmed her lips, yet she bowed low, hands pressed to the cold stone.
This was Reiner Asher, Clara’s master, the former prodigy of the Mystic Sky Sword Sect, and the wanderer who later carved his legend across a dozen realms, granted the title Flame-Sword Venerable.
His eyes flashed over Clara; a flicker of pain softened the hard heat, then vanished beneath a storm of anger. He turned that storm on Paxton and the battered beasts behind the girl.
None carried swords, all carried wounds, and their beast auras stank of desperation. Reiner’s face darkened until the air itself felt wet with impending rain.
“Clara…” his voice cut like frost laid over fire. “Have you forgotten my law? The Blazefire Secret Realm is my place of seclusion. No outsider may so much as touch its threshold…”
“You slipped away to meddle in that petty war between Mystic Sky and the Demon Sect; I let that pass. Yet you dare drag these… these stray creatures here and even dream of opening the sanctum?”
“Do you not care about my rules? Do you not care about the Mystic Sky Sword Sect’s discipline?”
“Master, please calm your anger… I was wrong,” Clara cried, forehead pressing to stone. “The Myriad Beast Sect was ambushed by the Infinite Soul Demon Sect and traitors within. The sect fell in a night. Mr. Paxton Riftclaw and the survivors broke through with their lives…”
“Pursuers close behind, nowhere safe ahead—my heart could not watch them slaughtered. I beg you, grant them shelter until the hunt passes. My father has given his approval.”
“Linden agreed? That is his affair.” Reiner’s brows twitched, but the furnace in his voice only blazed higher. “This place is mine. I forged the rule. Not your father, not the shades of our ancestors risen from the grave, will alter it.”
He faced the refugees as though they were insects crawling across a prayer mat. “A pack of whipped dogs dares profane my retreat? Leave at once, or learn what mercy my sword denies.”
“Sir!” Paxton, hair matted with dried blood, stepped forward, bowed until his great shoulders shook. “I am Paxton Riftclaw, head of the Myriad Beast Sect. Disaster drove us here; offense was never meant. If you allow us a few days’ refuge, every remaining treasure of our sect is yours. In the future, should you speak a command, the Myriad Beast Sect will obey, even unto death.”
Reiner laughed. “A sect that cannot guard its own gate thinks to bargain with me? Your baubles are dust in my eyes. Crawl out of this canyon now, or I will carry you out on my sword’s edge!”
