Chapter 8: Panic in the Flame Domain

Panic did not first spread among the upper echelons of the Flame Domain.

It spread from the bottom.

And the first to collapse were not the strong—

but those who had wagered everything on flame.

In the southern reaches of the Flame Domain, within a mid‑sized sect.

Morning cultivation, as usual.

Outer disciples sat cross‑legged, drawing flame into their bodies.

The first breath—normal.
The second—flame power trembled.
The third—

The flame cut out.

Not interrupted.

Extinguished—like a candle pinched between fingers.

One disciple snapped his eyes open, his face drained of color.

“M‑my… my flame…”

He circulated his Flame Art again.

No response.

Panic spread instantly.

Some thought the formation had malfunctioned. Others rushed toward the flame array’s core.

The core was intact.
The flame ore was still there.
Flame qi still filled the air.

But flame itself—

Refused to respond.

A quarter of an hour later, an elder intervened personally.

Flame Soul Realm aura unfurled. A high‑level Flame Art was activated.

The instant the flame power took shape—

It collapsed.

Everyone saw it.

This was not failure.

It was flame being denied the very moment it came into existence—erased by some invisible rule.

No one spoke.

Because they all realized the same thing—

This was not an isolated accident.

Similar scenes played out across the Flame Domain.

Different cities.
Different sects.
Different levels of cultivation.

All anomalies shared a single trait:

The flame order was intact—but flame refused to function.

For the first time, a crack appeared in the foundation of the Flame Domain.

An emergency convocation of the Flame Domain Council.

Nine Flame Sovereigns gathered.

The first time in centuries.

The ancient Flame Order Disk was activated. Layers of flame patterns unfolded, projecting the flow of flame across the entire domain.

At first, everything appeared normal.

Flame order stable.
Flame spectrum complete.

Until one Flame Sovereign noticed a detail.

“Here.”

He pointed toward a region at the edge of the domain.

“The flame flow… detours around it.”

All Flame Sovereigns looked at once.

That region showed no abnormal data.

No riots.
No backlash.
No contamination.

Yet when flame passed through that area—

It automatically diverted.

Like water avoiding empty space.

“It’s not a forbidden zone,” one Sovereign said softly.

“It’s… incompatible.”

The moment that word was spoken, the council chamber fell dead silent.

Incompatible.

Meaning—

Flame was not the only way the world could function.

Every Flame Sovereign thought of the same name.

No one said it.

But the air grew heavy.

The Flame Domain began sealing information.

Records of the Flame‑less Day were erased.
Anomalies were labeled “cultivation accidents.”
Affected regions were classified as temporary flame‑disaster observation zones.

But the tighter the lockdown, the greater the unease.

Because ordinary flame cultivators were discovering—

Their failures were no longer isolated.

Flame Arts grew unstable.
Flame tools required constant recalibration.
Flame pill success rates plummeted.

A question began circulating in whispers:

What if one day… flame completely fails?

There was no answer.

The black market responded first.

A fragmented technique called the Flame‑less Body Method began circulating.

No flame cultivation.
No fire drawing.

Only tempering the body, perception, and breath.

At first, it was mocked.

But soon, people noticed—

In certain anomalous regions, this method was more stable than Flame Arts.

Prices skyrocketed.

The first true crack appeared in the order of the Flame Domain.

At the same time.

Beyond the Flame Domain.

The Flame‑Outer Wasteland.

Lin Jin sat atop a rock, quietly watching a distant storm.

He had been awake for three days.

No flame power.
No flame sense.
Nothing inside him at all.

Yet he was not weak.

On the contrary—

He could clearly sense air currents, ground vibrations, even the heartbeats of distant creatures.

A clarity he had never known before.

The black flame did not appear again.

But he knew—

It had not vanished.

It had only retreated deeper.

“They’re starting to be afraid,” Lin Jin said softly.

No one answered.

But the words were not meant for himself.

Far away, at the center of the Flame Domain, a Flame Sovereign suddenly opened his eyes.

A faint pain pierced his chest.

As if something had looked at him across an impossible distance.

He frowned, murmuring to himself.

“Impossible.”

“He already… no longer exists.”