The Phoenix of the Slums

The road to Guzhan Fortress was long, winding through forgotten valleys and scorched plateaus. Tianming, Xiaoqing, and Fang Yao traveled by night, resting only in shadowed ravines. Drones occasionally zipped overhead—silent, black, and insectile—scouting the territory. But Fang Yao’s modified tracker was always a step ahead, jamming signals and distorting their trail.

As they crossed into the outer perimeter of Guzhan, a strange silence swallowed the land. Trees no longer grew. The wind felt static. The soil was littered with brittle glass and twisted metal—remnants of an explosion that had melted the ground a century ago.

Tianming crouched near a skeletal watchtower half-buried in sand. “This used to be an Orchid Society installation?”

Fang Yao nodded grimly. “Before the split. Before the Lotus Clan rose from its ashes. This was the proving ground for the earliest weapons built from the scrolls. Most of them were too unstable to survive their own power.”

Xiaoqing shuddered as she examined the blackened stones. “Then what are we walking into?”

“Not just ruins,” Tianming said. “A graveyard of gods.”

They made their way through a shattered gate, rusted hinges creaking. Beneath the fortress lay a descending passage flanked by lion statues with missing faces. Carved into the walls were faded words, barely visible under layers of soot:

“Only those who burn may enter the Ash Vault.”

Tianming ran his hand across the phrase. His mark flared—and the gate trembled. Dust fell. Then the stone parted with a groan, revealing stairs chiseled into the earth.

The temperature dropped as they descended. Air became heavier, metallic. Lights flickered overhead, powered by what should have been a long-dead generator. But somehow, the fortress breathed again.

They reached a hall shaped like a crucible. At the center stood a podium, and upon it, a bronze plate bearing a handprint—one that pulsed faintly as Tianming approached.

“Wait,” Fang Yao warned. “It could be a trap.”

“It is,” Tianming said. “But not for me.”

He placed his hand on the plate. The mark on his arm responded, glowing like coal under pressure. The room lit up. Walls shifted, revealing mural-like engravings. Human figures. Battles. Scrolls wielded like weapons. Ashes rising into shapes of beasts and cities.

Then the platform beneath them began to lower.

They descended slowly into a subterranean dome unlike anything they had seen—twenty meters wide, ringed with hollow statues made of black glass. In the center stood a sealed pod.

Fang Yao approached the nearest statue. “They’re armor suits,” he said. “Ash Walkers. Old prototype exo-suits powered by the Sovereign Scroll’s energy. They were supposed to amplify reflexes and resistance.”

Xiaoqing tapped one. It shattered instantly into dust.

“Clearly unstable,” she muttered.

Tianming approached the central pod. A glyph on its surface blinked faintly. He recognized it—it was the same symbol that had appeared on the scroll after the Flame Trial.

He looked over his shoulder. “This is it. The second Arsenal.”

He activated the glyph.

The pod hissed open, releasing a wave of cold steam. Inside was a narrow coffin-like structure—and within, a weapon.

It was a blade. But unlike any Tianming had ever seen.

Forged of layered obsidian and white alloy, it was sheathed in a ribbed casing shaped like bone. The handle was wrapped in burnt silk, and embedded near its base was a dormant crystal, faintly pulsing with power.

Tianming reached out—and the moment his fingers touched it, the entire dome flickered.

The crystal lit up. A voice echoed through the room—not a mechanical voice, but human. Recorded long ago.

“If you have found this, it means the Ash-Born has awakened. This blade is not just a weapon—it is memory. Every life it takes is remembered. Every injustice it cuts through leaves a mark.”

“Its name is Huoxue—Bloodfire.”

As Tianming unsheathed it, heat surged down his arm. The blade responded to his mark, the black lines along his skin extending briefly to his fingertips.

Fang Yao stepped back. “That sword… It’s alive.”

Tianming nodded, gripping it tightly. “Then let it burn.”

Suddenly, the chamber trembled. Sirens blared.

“Unwelcome presence detected,” a synthetic voice declared. “Initiating protocol: Ashfall.”

Steel slabs slid shut across the dome entrance. From the side walls, vents opened—and black mist began to pour in.

Fang Yao cursed. “Toxin gas. We need to move—now.”

Tianming spun toward the exit panel. “Xiaoqing, override the seal!”

She ran to the console. “Give me fifteen seconds!”

They held their breath as the mist crept closer. But then, from the far side of the dome, they heard something worse than the gas—a sound like bone grinding against stone.

A shape rose from beneath the floor.

It was humanoid, standing nearly three meters tall, wrapped in plates of tarnished metal. Its eyes glowed orange. And on its chest was the insignia of the Orchid Society—crossed out, slashed through, replaced by the crimson lotus of the enemy.

An Ash Walker.

Reactivated.

Tianming raised Huoxue, its crystal pulsing. “Fang, left flank. I’ll draw it.”

The Ash Walker charged, faster than it should have moved. Tianming ducked under the first strike, blade flashing in an arc that sparked against its armor.

The blade hummed.

Then it burned.

Huoxue cut through the steel with a hiss of fire, and the Walker staggered, roaring in static pain. Fang Yao launched a shoulder cannon blast into its back, and it fell—but not for long.

It regenerated.

Xiaoqing shouted, “Exit open! Go!”

They sprinted through the gas-choked tunnel, the Walker rising behind them. But this time, Tianming turned.

He whispered to the blade, “Remember this.”

And he hurled it.

Huoxue struck the Walker’s chest—and the crystal detonated.

The explosion was silent but bright, a white-hot flash that reduced the creature to molten ash. The tunnel caved behind them as they escaped.

Outside, as they collapsed into the sand, panting, Tianming picked up the blade. It was whole. Unscathed.

And somehow… warmer.

Fang Yao chuckled breathlessly. “That’s two Arsenals. How many more?”

“Four,” Tianming said. “But each one changes me.”

Xiaoqing looked at him, eyes filled with quiet awe. “Maybe that’s the point.”