Ronan: The Spark Beneath Stone

He didn’t talk much. Not because he couldn’t — Ronan just didn’t see the point. When your classmates think you're weird for reading manga during lunch, and your teachers stop calling on you halfway through the semester, silence becomes second nature. He liked it that way. It gave him time to lose himself in the pages of his favorite series — the one where the hero kicked fire out of his legs and saved people with a grin that could punch through walls. In that world, fire was freedom. In this one? It just got you burned. The final bell rang, and Ronan didn’t rush. He never did. While the other students poured out like a busted fire hydrant, laughing, shouting, pairing off in their little packs, Ronan just slid his hands in his pockets and walked. No one said goodbye. No one ever did. He passed the front gates, the cracked sidewalks, the vending machine that always ate his money. Same route. Same silence. Until today. The alley wasn’t on his usual path — but he liked shortcuts. Less people. Less noise. He was halfway through when he heard the voices: low, fast, sharp. Then a shout. Then running. He barely had time to turn before a fist slammed into his face, and the world tilted. Someone yelled, “It’s a setup!” Another grabbed him by the collar. “Grab the kid!” He didn’t resist. What was the point? They shoved him against the wall, hands shaking more from panic than rage. One of them yanked his phone out of his pocket, flicked through contacts, and found the number labeled Mom (Wendy). “Call her. Now,” the man barked. Ronan hesitated. Another blow to the ribs. He coughed and obeyed. The phone rang twice before a voice answered, firm and professional.

“This is Chief Reeves.”

Silence.

Then panic comes in

One of them muttered, “Chief?” The phone clattered to the ground, face-first on the concrete. “No way... this kid’s a cop’s son?” Another stepped back like Ronan had suddenly grown horns. For a split second, it was like no one knew what to do. Ronan blinked through the blood in his eye, watching them turn from confusion to anger. Not fear. Not guilt. Just pure survival instinct in human form.

“Kill him.”

The first kick came fast. The second cracked something deep. Then came fists, boots, rage with no plan. He didn’t cry out. There wasn’t time. Just flashes — the manga in his bag, the vending machine, the way the sun looked today. Then darkness, closing in fast.

So this is it, he thought. Not fire. Not glory. Just... asphalt and assholes. He fell for what felt like forever. Just darkness. Heavy, weightless, quiet. No pain. No wind. Just... falling. Minutes passed, maybe ten, maybe more — and then suddenly, it stopped. Not like hitting a wall. More like the world itself blinked, and so did he. When his eyes opened again, he was lying on a bed. A real bed. Soft sheets, sunlight bleeding through curtains. For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling, waiting for something — a nurse, a beep, a white void, something.

“Am I dead?” he whispered. “...Is this heaven?”

He didn’t believe in much. Not God, not fate, not happy endings. Ronan was grounded. Reality only ever offered one thing: facts. This? This wasn’t a fact. This was insane. He stood slowly, expecting a limp, maybe bruises — but his body felt... fine. Better than fine. Light. Stronger. He opened the door and stepped outside. The air hit him like a dream. The sky was wide and violet-blue, dotted with floating islands and streaks of glowing clouds. Children flew past him — not in planes or with jetpacks — just... flew. Laughing.

Ronan blinked.

“What the fuck,” he muttered.

He bent his knees, jumped, and flailed midair like a cartoon. No flight. Just gravity. He hit the dirt and rolled, humiliated, brushing off grass with a grimace.

“Nope. Back inside,” he growled, walking straight into the house and slamming the door shut. He paced, sat, stood again. “Okay. Maybe I’m dreaming. Or in a coma. Or someone laced my ramen.” He flopped onto the bed again and closed his eyes, trying to force the dream to end. Just wake up, Ronan. But then —

BANG! BANG! BANG!

A voice roared through the door: “Sakuta Nowasgi! Rent’s due! Open the damn door!”

Ronan shot up, heart kicking. Sakuta? Who the hell is Sakuta? He cracked open the door to find a guy towering over him — had to be 6’3 at least. Buzzed hair, square jaw, broad shoulders wrapped in what looked like a dark navy uniform. The guy looked down at him, squinting.

“You’re not Sakuta,” the man growled. “Who the hell are you, frail-ass kid?”

Ronan just stared. Words refused to form. His mind ran loops trying to piece this together, but none of it made sense. He shut the door.

Hard. He slumped against it, trying to breathe. It was too much. Too fast. Ronan didn’t panic — ever. But this? This was different. He felt small. Unanchored. Everything he thought he knew was unraveling like thread.

Just one more minute...

BOOM!

The door exploded inward, a wave of rock magic punching through it and launching Ronan across the room like a ragdoll. He hit the wall hard, coughing on dust and shock.

The man stepped through, stone still floating around his fists. “What the hell’s your problem slamming the door on an officer? You wanna die, kid?”

More boots stomped in behind him — uniformed, armed, glaring.

Before Ronan could even speak, they had him surrounded. Before he could even react, a sharp punch snapped his head sideways. Pain exploded through his skull as his body crumpled to the floor. Darkness crept in fast — quicker than before.

When Ronan started to wake up, everything was blurry. His vision swam, edges darkened, and a heavy ache pulsed behind his eye socket. He tried to lift his head but it felt like lead. A low murmur echoed nearby.

“No system records on this guy,” a voice said, flat and confused.

“Where is Sakuta?” came a sharper, more dominant tone.

“He’s just a child. And you beat him to a pulp?”

The sound of stones grinding together filled the air, followed by a sickening splat that echoed like final judgment.

“Get the fuck out of my sight, all of you.”

As the voices faded, Ronan’s vision sharpened enough to see a man standing just outside the cell. He smiled — a slow, knowing smile — blood dripping down one cheek. Behind him, in the dim hallway, lay a fresh corpse. No head. Blood pooled around it like a dark river.

The man looked down at him, eyes glinting with cold amusement. “What’s your name, kid?”

Ronan’s throat was dry, his body trembling from shock and pain. But as the tension settled, the calm, biting sarcasm he was known for started to resurface. He croaked out, “Ronan Reeves.”

The man laughed softly. “What a weird name...” He stretched out a hand, voice heavy with authority. “I’m Molgrin Dureth... The Stone Champion.”

Ronan felt the weight behind the man’s voice and title, but the meaning was still lost on him. He didn’t know if he should ask what it meant or just stay quiet.

“I can tell you don’t know what that is, Ronan,” 

“A Champion,” Molgrin said with a low chuckle, “are the pillars of society, the rulers of nations. Some even call us gods. Now, I wouldn’t go that far, but yeah... we’re the strongest.”

Molgrin gave Ronan a curt nod. “Don’t worry about rent for now. Just get settled, kid.” With that, the tall man turned on his heel and vanished down the hallway, leaving Ronan alone in the quiet house.

Stepping inside, Ronan immediately noticed how the air felt heavier here — thick with the weight of mana, dense and almost electric, like static humming beneath his skin. The scent of damp stone and ancient earth filled the room, grounding him in this strange new reality. He flexed his fingers, surprised to feel subtle new strength blooming beneath his skin. His arms carried a faint ache — muscle forming where there had been none.

Wandering outside, the town around him was a mix of rugged stone buildings and narrow streets dusted with dirt. A faint glow pulsed from veins in the walls — the telltale shimmer of earth magic— and every breath tasted faintly mineral, like biting into a cold rock. When he reached his house again, he saw the stubborn rock magic still embedded in the doorframe, solid and unyielding like a silent sentinel.

Closing the door behind him, Ronan sank against the rough wood and let his thoughts spiral. I’m really here. I’m really alive again. The truth hit him with a weight that made his chest tighten — this was no dream, no illusion. He was reincarnated. A cold clarity settled over him, equal parts relief and uncertainty. He didn’t know what lay ahead, but one thing was clear: he had to survive, to grow stronger, or be crushed under the weight of this world.

He spent the next week relentlessly chipping away at the rock magic binding his door — every strike sending shocks of pain through his hands, but also sparking something fierce inside him. The rough texture of stone bit into his palms, and sweat stung his eyes as he pushed through exhaustion.

After another week, he had forged a sword from the shattered rock — its surface cool and jagged, humming faintly with the same earth energy that filled the air. Holding it, Ronan felt a strange pride well up — this blade was his own creation, a weapon born from struggle and grit.

Inside his sparse house, he found a small pile of coins tucked in a drawer. Enough to buy a sheath and strap. Simple things, but they felt like tools to carry not just his sword, but his new life itself.

Two weeks in, and the changes were undeniable. His arms flexed with newfound definition — muscles that ached but promised power. This world was reshaping him — body, mind, and soul — whether he liked it or not. The sword clinked gently against his back with each step as Ronan wandered through the town’s winding paths, still trying to piece together the rules of this world. Word of Molgrin's intervention had spread fast — not everyone dared to approach him, but eyes lingered, and whispers trailed behind. He wasn’t just some stray anymore.

That’s when he saw the towering structure in the distance — sleek stone walls infused with glowing relic runes that pulsed like beating hearts. A massive obelisk carved from crystal rose from its center, surrounded by fluttering banners that read:

Relicspire Institute – Where Bond Meets Power.

The name stuck in his mind.

Asking around confirmed it. This was the place. The academy where individuals came to earn their relic — not just be handed one. It was part school, part testing ground, part gateway to a new life. Here, hopefuls would learn the art of channeling, the laws of relic combat, the deep histories tied to each elemental nation, and most importantly — undergo the Awakening Exam to receive their first relic.

It was exactly what Ronan needed.

After some grueling paperwork, an awkward magical scan, and a confused conversation with the admissions officer about “lack of prior world records,” Ronan was accepted under special grounds — Molgrin’s name carrying more weight than Ronan had guessed.

They handed him a bronze tag, etched with his name.

"Ronan Reeves – Applicant."

The relic ceremony would take place in two weeks, giving him time to train, study, and catch up. Most of the others were younger than him, village-born teens who had grown up dreaming of relics their whole lives. Ronan? He was just trying to survive, but deep down, something flickered — that same excitement he felt reading manga as a kid.

Power was real now.

Adventure was real.

And for the first time since waking in this world... so was the purpose. As the sun dipped low, casting long golden beams across the cobblestone paths, Ronan made his way back home. The weight of the day sat on his shoulders—but not heavy, more like an awareness that life was moving, and he was no longer a bystander.

That’s when he saw him.

A boy, maybe fifteen at most, sat on the edge of a low wall, legs dangling, a tattered manga spread open in his hands. His hair was silver-blonde, slightly messy, and his cloak was dusted with road dirt—clearly a wanderer or a misfit, just like him. But it wasn’t the appearance that struck Ronan.

It was the timing.

Without lifting his head, the boy spoke aloud, almost as if reciting a prophecy.

"And he was reincarnated to be a powerful knight under the eyes of fate. Watching him closely were the Gods of this new world."

The breeze stilled.

Birdsong stopped.

Even the ambient hum of the city seemed to take a breath.

Ronan’s brow furrowed. He slowed his walk, eyes shifting cautiously to the boy. He glanced around—no one else was near enough to hear. The kid still hadn’t looked at him. Just flipped another page casually, as if reading out loud to himself.

Then the boy’s eyes slowly rose, locking onto Ronan’s.

Piercing. Pale. Like two moons reflecting firelight.

And he smiled.

“Your story’s a strange one,” the kid said softly, closing the manga with a snap. “But it’s not really yours anymore, is it?”

Ronan froze.

Something about this moment felt... off. Not dangerous, but ancient. Unwritten. Like this conversation wasn’t supposed to happen yet.

“Who are you?” Ronan asked, but it came out quieter than he meant.

The boy didn’t answer.

Instead, he tucked the manga under his arm, hopped off the wall, and began walking away.

“You should hurry,” the boy added over his shoulder. “Relic Day is coming. Would be a shame if you missed your awakening.”

And just like that, he was gone—blending into the thinning crowd, like he’d never been there at all.

Ronan stood there for a while.

Something in his gut twisted—not in fear, but in curiosity. Like he’d just turned a page and realized the story wasn’t what he thought it was.

The two weeks at Relica Academy passed faster than Ronan expected—partly because it was the first time since arriving in this world that he felt like he had a purpose, even if it was just listening in class and pretending to take notes while drawing half-assed sword concepts in the margins.

They covered history, relic theory, basic mana control, and combat theory. But none of it compared to the lesson on the Three Legendary Relics.

“The Creation Relic was the first,” the instructor explained, his voice deep, steady. “It shaped the land, sky, seas, and beasts. From it spawned all other relics: fire, water, wind, stone, shadow, light... all fragments of its divine essence. Its counterpart, the Destruction Relic, was made to ensure balance—and the Time Relic, to record and preserve.”

Ronan had blinked at that. So all relics are just... hand-me-downs from some ancient godlike tool?

But it wasn’t until they covered the Champions that something inside him actually stirred.

“There are five current Champions, each ruling an elemental empire. They are the strongest in their domain, chosen by the most powerful relics of their type. Some see them as gods, others as tyrants.”

Photos were passed around, glowing names listed under stoic portraits and blurred action shots of combat. But the moment Ronan’s eyes landed on a name—

Kaer Sythren. The Flame Champion.

His interest sparked.

Flames, huh?
Even just skimming the brief paragraph and half-charred image of Kaer mid-battle, flames wrapped around his arm like they were alive—Ronan felt something stir in his chest.

He’s gotta be the coolest one. No contest.

A grin tugged at the corner of his lips. I’m definitely going to the Flame Empire one day.
No doubt about it.

The day finally arrived.

The Relic Awakening Ceremony.

A quiet tension filled the air, like the whole city was holding its breath. Ronan stood among a crowd of other first-year students, now taller—5'10 at least—his body still lean but more honed, like something inside him had finally begun syncing with the mana-rich air of this world. He didn’t look like a seasoned warrior, but he didn’t look like some confused Earth kid anymore either.

He was adapting.

And fast.

First came the written exam. Ronan barely read the questions. He didn’t need to. He remembered everything that actually mattered, and what didn’t, he bullshitted with such confidence that it felt criminal.

But that wasn’t what he was here for.

The real test—the part everyone whispered about—was next.

The Hall of Relics.

A massive, sacred room carved from obsidian and glowing with ancient runes. Inside sat hundreds of relics—each sealed in a unique casing of energy, stone, flame, crystal, or shadow. Some floated, some hummed, and some pulsed like they were alive.

They said relics choose you—that once you stepped into the hall, one would call to you.

Ronan cracked his knuckles and exhaled.

“Alright... let’s see what fate thinks of me.”

The boy’s shoulder brushes Ronan’s as they enter the massive Hall of Relics. The air inside is electric, buzzing with tension and magic. Ronan glances over, that weird silver-blond hair catching his eye again.

“Watch where you're going, Ronan.”

Ronan freezes.
How the hell does he know my name?

He turns, a little sharper than he means to. “How do you know me?”

The boy doesn’t even look up from his manga. “We had classes together. You never noticed.”
His voice is flat, almost bored. Ronan squints—he honestly doesn’t remember the guy—but the vibe? Yeah, he buys it.

They walk together in silence, stepping into the radiant dome of the Hall. Marble floors, floating runes, and a crystal ceiling that refracts the light like they’re inside a kaleidoscope. Around 200 other students fill the space—each one buzzing with excitement, nerves, or ego.

An old man, hunched but powerful in presence, raises his hand from the balcony above. The chatter stops. His voice is rough like sandpaper, but commanding.

“You have entered the Hall of Relics. This sacred room will test your soul and offer you a match. Some will receive nothing. Some will awaken greatness. Let fate speak.”

The enchantment begins.

Glowing sigils circle overhead. Magic flows down like thin strands of smoke, entering each person’s chest. Some burst into light, falling to their knees as relics materialize—swords, staves, gauntlets, even floating gems. Others stand empty-handed, eyes downcast.

Then, Ronan feels it.
A pull, like someone yanked on his spine. He stumbles forward, light swirling around his hand. It's warm. Ancient. Familiar. A shape begins to take form in his palm.

When the magic fades…
He's holding a charred, blackened chain, about six feet long. Faint magical runes glow along each link, flickering like dying embers.

Ronan blinks. “...Seriously?”

The silver-haired kid peeks over. “Did you get chosen?”

Ronan sighs, annoyed and embarrassed. “Oh yeah. Definitely got chosen.”

A voice rings out nearby, loud and obnoxious.

“Oh shit, why is there a slave in here??”

Laughter erupts. Mocking. Unfiltered. The chain clinks softly in Ronan’s grip as dozens of eyes turn to him—pointing, laughing, sneering.

Everyone laughs… except the silver-haired boy beside him.
And a few others who watch in silence.

Ronan exhales slowly, gripping the chain tighter.
No rage. Just focus.

He leans into the boy and mutters, “I swear, this better have some kind of secret transformation or I'm gonna be pissed.” As the laughter dies down, Ronan adjusts the Cinder Coil on his hip. The weight of it doesn’t bother him—but the weight of the stares does. He grits his teeth and lets out a breath. Whatever. Screw ‘em.

Then he notices something.

No aura.
No light.
Nothing.

But the silver-haired kid beside him now holds something in his hand—his relic. No one’s looking his way. No one's reacting at all. Not even the instructors.

But Ronan?
Ronan feels something. Something off.

His eyes narrow. “...What the hell are you?”

The boy turns slightly, slowly, his gaze locking onto Ronan.

Those eyes.
Bright silver—cold and sharp like a blade. No anger. No threat.
Just silence so intense it feels like Ronan's being seen through.

“What’s your name?” Ronan asks, trying not to flinch.

The boy blinks. Then, with a voice low and even, he responds:
“Jiro.”

He turns and walks away toward the exit, calm and ghostlike.

Ronan, gears turning, follows behind. “Hey—wait. What kind of relic did you get?”

Jiro doesn’t answer at first. He keeps walking until they’re just beyond the crowd, alone in the corridor. Then he stops. Slowly lifts his hand.

“Let’s see,” he says.

A soft mist unfurls around him—white, light-bending, almost like fog and glass combined. His entire form seems to flicker—transparent, like an echo of himself. You can still see him, but it’s as if his body has become part of the air, his presence warping reality.

Then—his eyes glow pure white.

Ronan takes a step back. It’s not fear. It’s instinct.
That feeling again. That quiet, choking tension. Like staring into a void that watches back.

Then, as quickly as it started, the mist fades. Jiro blinks once and mutters:

“Hmph.”

“That’s... cool,” Ronan says, blinking. “Creepy. But cool.”

Jiro looks at him again. “You’re not like the others.”

“Yeah?” Ronan shrugs. “You mean because I got the relic version of slave cuffs?”

“No.”
A pause.
“You don’t lie to yourself.”

Ronan doesn’t respond right away.
He just watches Jiro walk off.

Who the hell is this guy?

We follow Jiro through the winding, stone-laid streets of the Stone Empire's inner district. The sky above is dust-orange, the sun dragging its last rays over the towering cliffs.

He walks in silence, shoulders relaxed, eyes half-lidded, expression unreadable.
His hand brushes the old wooden gate, and he pushes it open.

A voice is waiting on the other side.

“What relic did you get?”

Standing just outside the doorway is a boy maybe two or three years older, built broader, slightly taller—but the resemblance is unmistakable. Same silver hair. Same pale eyes.
Only the expression is different. Where Jiro is calm, this one is sharp. Tense. Resentful.

Jiro says nothing. Walks past him.

The older boy grabs his shoulder and yanks him back. “I said what relic did you get, freak?”

His voice echoes through the stone-walled house.
Footsteps click hurriedly above.

“Boys—please,” a woman says, rushing down the stairs. Her long black hair is swept over one shoulder, but her eyes—her eyes carry years of weight. Sleepless nights.
A mother pulled in two different directions.

“Let’s just calm down—”

“Shut up!” the older boy snaps. “This is important!”

He turns back to Jiro. His grip tightens again.

Then—

The door opens.

And he steps through.

Mulgrin.

The man’s presence silences everything. His shadow swallows the entryway, shoulders broad enough to block the setting sun. There’s dust on his cloak, a dried trace of blood near his boots.

He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t need to.

“...You’re home already?” His tone is casual. Controlled. “What’s your relic?”

Jiro meets his gaze. There’s no fear. No hesitation. Just a quiet, firm answer:

“I don’t know.”

Mulgrin studies him for a long moment. Then he gives a small nod.

“That’s fine,” he says. “We’ll see in the exams. But whatever ‘I don’t know’ is—”
He steps closer, voice dropping. “You’d better start training with it.”

He walks off without another word.

The older brother watches him go, shoulders slowly relaxing. Then he turns back to Jiro.

As he walks past, he shoulder-checks him hard into the stone wall.

Jiro doesn’t react. Not a word. Not a flinch.

He just slides his hand into his pocket and stares forward, watching the hallway as if no one had touched him at all.

The sun was dipping low, washing the rocky horizon in amber.

Ronan wiped sweat from his brow, his shirt damp from relentless training. He’d been working with Cinder Coil — sharpening its accuracy, speed, and responsiveness, teaching it to bend with his will instead of just reacting. A rhythm was building. He felt it — the quiet understanding between man and relic.

Then a sound.

Not of nature, not of wind.

Metal. Chains.

He froze.

Curious, cautious, he moved through the tree line until the world opened just enough to give him a clear view of the road below.

His breath hitched.

A procession of slaves.

Shackled at the ankles, wrists, and necks. Dozens of them. Dirty. Weak. Limping. Some with bruises so deep they’d gone black. Others were children — barely able to keep up. When one lagged behind, the chain at his neck yanked him forward like a dog.

At the front, riding on a beast-drawn platform, calm and unreadable as ever, was Mulgrin — Champion of the Stone Empire. No crown, no throne… just dominance.

He wasn’t whipping them. He didn’t need to.

His silence did more damage.

Ronan gritted his teeth. His fists clenched so hard the edge of the chain bit into his palm. He looked for anyone who might help. There were none. No resistance. No protest.

Just pain, marching forward under the banner of "order."

He didn’t move. Couldn’t. He didn’t know if it was fear, or shock, or simply the impossibility of the moment.

But he stood. Watching. Memorizing every face, every scar, every trembling step.

Mulgrin turned fully now, heavy boots cracking fallen stone beneath him. His cloak shifted like a shadow as he faced Ronan, hands behind his back, calm as ever.

“Is there really a reason?” Ronan asked again, quieter now. “In a world full of people who can use magic… you have slaves?”

Mulgrin studied him. That unreadable gaze, half wisdom, half judgment. Then he stepped closer, stopping just at the edge of arm's reach.

“Reason?” he echoed. “You’re looking for reason in power, Ronan. There isn’t any. Power doesn’t explain itself. It defines itself.”

Ronan’s jaw clenched. His hand gripped the Cinder Coil at his hip, fingers tightening on the warm runes. He remembered how it felt in his palm when the others laughed at him. How he promised himself he’d earn their respect. Now, that same chain sat glowing dimly beside a line of people actually chained.

“That’s not strength,” Ronan said. “That’s fear in uniform.”

Mulgrin raised a brow.

“And yet it keeps order.”

“No,” Ronan stepped forward, eyes locked with the Champion's. “It buries disorder until it burns through. You’re not building a nation, you’re lighting a powder keg.”

Mulgrin tilted his head slightly. The wind shifted. Stone dust rose in the silence between them.

“I could have you killed for talking to me like this.”

“Then do it,” Ronan said, heat in his chest now. Not from anger. From resolve. “Because if I ever become strong enough… I will tear that system down.”

Mulgrin didn’t move. But for the first time, something unreadable crossed his expression. A tension. Recognition.

Then, he exhaled slowly.

“You speak like someone from another world.”

Ronan didn’t respond.

“We’ll see how long that fire lasts once you understand the weight of survival,” Mulgrin said, his voice almost fatherly. Almost. “When the world shows you what it really costs to stay standing... I hope your idealism burns brighter than your chain.”

He walked past him, back toward the empire—toward the city built on stone, silence, and shackles.

Ronan stood alone in the fading light, the Cinder Coil dragging behind him like a serpent of regret. He didn’t move for a long while.

Then, finally, he looked down at the relic in his hand.

A slave’s chain.

And now his weapon.

He closed his fist around it.

“Fine,” he muttered. “Let them laugh.”

“I’ll show them what a chain can do.”

“You’re a shit Champion.”

He said it quietly at first — not out of fear, but out of respect for the weight of the words. The kind of words that don’t get taken back.

Ronan stared out at the trail of blood-stained footprints left by the slave march, the heat rising behind his eyes, not from his relic… but from something deeper.

“Back on Earth, we watched everything die in slow motion. The air, the oceans, the animals, and then—people. Not with bombs, or war, but with silence. With apathy. Climate change, deforestation, pollution… the rot crept in through everything. It wasn’t just buildings that crumbled. It was hearts. It was hope.”

He closed his eyes.

“We used to tell ourselves someone would fix it. A hero. A leader. But nobody came. And in the end... Earth couldn’t be saved.”

His grip tightened around the chain at his side.

“But this world? Maybe it still has a chance.”

He looked up at the sky above the Stone Empire. Beautiful. Unscarred. And still crawling with injustice.

“They call themselves Champions — pillars of society, defenders of order — but all I see are kings sitting on mountains of broken people. They protect the powerful, the privileged. The ones already safe.”

“But what about them?”

His voice trembled now, not from fear… but from fire.

“What about the ones I saw today? Shackled, beaten, nameless. No future. No voice. And you led them like cattle. You stood tall while they were dragged through the dirt.”

He stepped forward, the wind brushing against his cloak.

“You think strength is measured by how many people kneel to you. But you’ve got it backwards.”

“True strength… lies in spirit. In standing when everything tells you to kneel. In carrying people when they can’t walk. In setting yourself on fire… just to light the way for someone else.”

The chain on his hip flickered — a faint glow in its runes. Ash floated around his shoulders, carried on a wind that didn’t exist.

“If that’s what it means to be a Champion… then I’ll tear the word from the stone it’s carved in.”

“I don’t want to be a Flame Champion.”

“I will become the Flame Champion.”

“Not for the titles. Not for the fame. But for the ones no one sees.”

He turned his back to the empire.

“Because fire doesn’t ask permission.”

“It burns.”