And the stranger dreamed.
* * *
The flickering light of spirit lamps danced across the inner chapel’s stone walls, casting long shadows over the solemn space. The faint scent of incense lingered, mingling with the cool, dry air. Fenna knelt beside her son, her soft brown eyes filled with warmth and concern as she brushed a lock of dark hair from his forehead.
“Ciaran,” she said gently, her voice a soothing murmur, “are you ready?”
The boy, barely eight, nodded, though his wide blue eyes betrayed his nervousness. “I think so, Mother. I’ve done everything you and Father told me. My center is full… but it feels so tight. Like it’s about to burst.”
Fenna’s lips curved into a small, reassuring smile, though her heart clenched. He’s so young. Too young. She reached out, placing a hand over his navel, just above where his lower dantian rested. “That’s a good sign. It means you’ve done well with the Celestial Draw. The qi has gathered as it should.”
“But what if it bursts?” Ciaran asked, his voice trembling slightly.
“It won’t,” Fenna assured him, though a flicker of doubt gnawed at the edge of her mind. “That’s why we’re here, together. I’ll guide you through it, step by step, just as we practiced.”
Ciaran nodded again, more confidently this time. He trusted her implicitly, and she felt the weight of that trust pressing on her shoulders.
From across the chapel, Nevan’s voice rang out, deep and steady. “The formation is ready.” He stood in the center of an intricate array etched into the floor, the lines glowing faintly with a soft golden light. His tall frame was cloaked in a simple robe, though his proud posture and sharp features gave him an air of nobility that hadn’t dimmed, despite their family’s fall from grace.
Ciaran’s face lit up. “Father, can I see it?”
Nevan chuckled, beckoning his son over. “Of course, lad. Come, and see what I’ve prepared for you.”
Fenna held back a sigh as Ciaran bounded toward his father, his excitement momentarily eclipsing his anxiety. She rose to her feet, following at a slower pace. As much as she loved her husband, his boundless ambition for their son made her uneasy. He saw Ciaran as the family’s hope, the boy who might restore their once-mighty house to its former glory. But Fenna saw only her child, fragile and precious.
When she reached the array, Nevan was crouched beside Ciaran, explaining the formation’s design with the fervor of a craftsman unveiling his masterpiece. “This is a Qi Stabilization Formation,” he said, gesturing to the glowing sigils. “It will help you balance the energy as you kindle your inner flame. See these lines here?” He traced a segment with his finger. “They’ll channel excess qi outward if it becomes too unstable.”
Ciaran nodded eagerly, his earlier apprehension forgotten in the face of his father’s confidence. “And the candles?” he asked, pointing to the four spirit candles placed at each cardinal point.
“They anchor the formation,” Nevan explained. “When the ritual begins, their light will guide your energy, ensuring it flows correctly.”
Fenna’s fingers tightened around the shawl draped over her shoulders. “Nevan,” she said softly, “are you certain this is necessary? He’s only eight. Most children don’t attempt this until they’re ten, at the earliest.”
Nevan straightened, his expression firm. “Fenna, our son is gifted. His control over the Celestial Draw is exceptional, far beyond his years. Waiting would only hold him back.”
Fenna bit back a retort. She didn’t want to argue, not here, not now. Instead, she turned to Ciaran, crouching to meet his gaze. “Remember, my darling, this isn’t a race. What matters is doing it right, not doing it quickly.”
“I’ll do my best, Mother,” Ciaran said earnestly, his small hands curling into fists at his sides. “I promise.”
Her heart ached with pride and fear. She kissed his forehead, lingering for a moment before standing. “Then let’s begin.”
Nevan nodded, stepping back to light the candles. Their flames flared to life, steady and bright, casting a warm glow over the formation. “Ciaran,” he said, his voice resonating with quiet authority, “take your place in the center.”
The boy obeyed, his movements hesitant but determined. He settled into the lotus position, his small figure dwarfed by the array’s grandeur. The golden lines pulsed faintly as he exhaled, aligning with the rhythm of his breath.
“Close your eyes,” Fenna instructed gently, kneeling just outside the array. “Focus on your center. Feel the qi you’ve gathered there.”
Ciaran’s brow furrowed as he concentrated. “It’s... so much,” he murmured. “It feels like a ball, but it’s too tight.”
“That’s good,” Fenna said. “Now, remember what we talked about. Use your spiritual sense to press against it, evenly from all sides. Squeeze it gently, but firmly.”
Ciaran nodded, his breathing slow and deliberate. A faint shimmer of energy began to rise around him, the first sign of his spiritual sense taking shape. Fenna held her breath, her eyes never leaving him.
“Steady,” Nevan said from his position near the formation’s edge. His voice was calm, but his hands were clasped tightly behind his back. “Don’t rush. Let the energy guide you.”
For several long moments, the only sound in the chapel was the crackle of the candles and the faint hum of the formation. Then, suddenly, Ciaran gasped. His small body tensed, and a burst of light erupted from his lower dantian, spreading outward in a brilliant flash.
“Ciaran!” Fenna surged forward, but Nevan held out a hand, stopping her.
“Wait,” he said, his eyes locked on their son. “Give him a moment.”
The light subsided, revealing Ciaran still seated in the center of the array. His eyes fluttered open, wide with wonder. “I... I did it,” he whispered. “It’s burning. I can feel it!”
Fenna exhaled shakily, tears pricking her eyes. “You’re sure? It’s stable?”
Ciaran nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “It’s warm, like a little flame inside me. But it’s not too hot.”
Nevan laughed, the sound rich with pride. “That’s my boy!” He strode forward, lifting Ciaran into his arms. “At eight years old, you’ve done what most can’t manage until their teens. Our house will rise again, thanks to you.”
Fenna joined them, her hands trembling as she touched Ciaran’s cheek. “You scared me,” she admitted, her voice thick with emotion. “But I’m so proud of you.”
Ciaran beamed, his small chest puffing with pride. “Thank you, Mother. Thank you, Father.”
As Nevan set him down, Fenna pulled him into a tight embrace. “You’re everything to me,” she whispered. “Promise me you’ll be careful as you continue this journey.”
“I promise,” Ciaran said softly, his arms wrapping around her.
In that moment, as the chapel’s light bathed them in warmth, Fenna allowed herself to hope. Her son had taken his first step into a world of immense power and danger. But for now, he was safe. For now, he was hers.
* * *
The clouds swirled lazily around the peaks of the floating mountain, their edges glowing with golden sunlight. On this serene perch in the heavens, a family of Felispegisorns moved with regal grace. Felisor, his magnificent silver wings folded neatly against his sides, lay on a wide, sun-warmed ledge overlooking the expanse below. His horn gleamed like a shard of the moon, and his thick, snow-white fur rippled in the gentle breeze.
Nearby, his daughter Felisara prowled with restless energy. Her sleek black coat shimmered like obsidian, and her amber eyes burned with a fierce intensity. She flicked her tail irritably, glancing toward the small cave entrance behind them.
Inside, the young one, Celestrix, whom Felisara affectionately called Cinderpaw, slept fitfully, her tiny frame occasionally twitching as her developing essence stirred within.
“She is nearing the awakening,” Felisara said, her voice low and firm. “I can feel it in her aura.”
Felisor nodded, his feline features grave as he stared into the horizon, contemplating the uncertain path that lay ahead. “It is inevitable. She has consumed enough spirit beast cores to bring her essence to the threshold. The qi saturating her body grows heavier by the day.”
“Too heavy,” Felisara murmured, her ears twitching nervously. “She’s so small, Father. What if her body cannot withstand the surge? What if—”
“She will endure,” Felisor interrupted, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “She is of our bloodline, Felisara. The lineage of the Felispegisorns is as ancient and powerful as the dragons and phoenixes. She is stronger than you think.”
Felisara hesitated, her gaze softening as she looked toward the cave. “I know,” she admitted. “But this is such a dangerous time. Without control over her qi, she is vulnerable. The awakening will draw attention. You’ve said it yourself, other spirit beasts can sense it, and some will see her as an easy target.”
Felisor’s eyes darkened, his horn glinting as a faint pulse of his own essence flickered around him. “Let them come,” he said simply. “They will find our family is not so easily trifled with.”
Felisara huffed, though the flicker of a smile betrayed her. “Bold as always, Father.”
“It is not boldness,” Felisor replied, his voice steady. “It is the truth. We are guardians of this cloud mountain, keepers of the sky. The storms themselves answer our call. If any dare challenge us, they will meet their end.”
A soft rustling from within the cave drew both their attention. Celestrix stirred, her small wings fluttering weakly as if in the throes of a dream. Her dark gray fur, speckled with fiery orange streaks, shimmered in the dim light. Even now, her qi flickered like embers, glowing faintly beneath her skin.
“She’s so young,” Felisara said, her voice barely above a whisper. “I remember my awakening. It was terrifying.”
Felisor’s gaze softened as he regarded his daughter. “As it is for all of us. The creation of an essence nexus is no simple feat. It is the moment we transcend sentience and step into sapience. The very essence of what we are shifts. That change is bound to be frightening.”
Felisara turned back to him, her expression thoughtful. “And it is also the moment our primary bloodline abilities awaken,” she said. “What do you think Cinderpaw will inherit?”
Felisor’s lips curled into a faint smile. “That is for her to discover. Perhaps she will wield the Stormcall, as I do, or the Shadowstep, like your mother. Or perhaps she will forge something entirely her own.”
Felisara nodded, though her thoughts seemed to drift. “I’ve been thinking about the tri-forged races,” she said after a moment. “The humans, elves, and dwarves. They have something similar to our awakening, don’t they? What do they call it?”
“Seeding the spirit,” Felisor said. “Though their methods are... peculiar.”
Felisara snorted. “Peculiar is putting it lightly. They don’t even consume spirit beast cores. Instead, they perform strange rituals like meditation, incantations, even drinking odd concoctions.”
Felisor chuckled, a deep, resonant sound. “True. Their ways are foreign to us, but they achieve the same result. By seeding their spirit, they awaken their essence, aligning their bodies, minds, and souls. It is their path to sapience, just as our essence nexus is ours.”
“It’s strange to think about,” Felisara mused. “That we, the great Felispegisorns, share a common thread with the tri-forged races. Yet their young are born weak and helpless. They have to grow into their strength, while we... we are born strong.”
Felisor’s expression grew serious. “Strength is relative, my daughter. The tri-forged races may begin their journeys as mortals, but their potential is vast. Some rise to power that rivals even our own. Never underestimate what they can achieve.”
Felisara nodded slowly, though her focus remained on the cave. “Do you think they feel the same fear during their awakenings?” she asked. “Do their children tremble as we do, knowing that one wrong move could shatter everything?”
“Perhaps,” Felisor said. “But fear is a teacher, Felisara. It sharpens the mind and tempers the spirit. It is through fear that we grow stronger.”
A sudden surge of qi from within the cave interrupted their conversation. Both Felisor and Felisara tensed, their eyes snapping toward the entrance. The air grew heavy, vibrating with a raw, untamed energy that crackled like distant thunder.
“She’s starting,” Felisara whispered.
Felisor rose to his full height, his wings spreading slightly as he prepared himself. “Stay close,” he said. “And watch carefully. This is a moment that will define her.”
From within the cave, a low growl resonated, followed by a burst of light that spilled out like molten gold. Celestrix’s small form was silhouetted against the brilliance, her tiny wings flaring as her qi erupted in a cascade of fiery sparks. The light pulsed, growing brighter with each heartbeat, until it filled the cave and spilled out onto the ledge.
“She’s strong,” Felisara said, her voice filled with awe.
“Yes,” Felisor agreed, his gaze unyielding. “But the real test begins now.”
The light dimmed slightly, revealing Celestrix’s trembling form. Her breathing was labored, her body wracked with the strain of the awakening. For a moment, the energy around her wavered, flickering like a candle in the wind.
“Hold on, Cinderpaw,” Felisara murmured, her voice filled with quiet encouragement. “You can do this.”
Celestrix let out a sharp cry, her eyes snapping open as the qi within her coalesced. A blinding flash erupted from her chest, and when the light faded, a small, glowing orb floated just above her sternum. It pulsed with a steady rhythm, a testament to her newly-formed essence nexus.
“She’s done it,” Felisara breathed, relief washing over her.
Felisor nodded, a proud smile spreading across his face. “She has taken her first step.”
As the light slowly dimmed until it could no longer be seen within her, Celestrix looked up at them, her eyes now shimmering with an intelligence that hadn’t been there before. She opened her mouth, and though her voice was faint and uncertain, the word she spoke was clear:
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“Father?”
Felisor stepped forward, lowering his head to nuzzle her gently. “Yes, little one. I am here.”
Felisara joined them, her heart swelling with pride and relief. “Welcome to the world, Cinderpaw,” she said softly.
And for the first time, Celestrix smiled.
* * *
The thick air of the swamp clung to Wigulmir’s skin, the scent of moss and damp earth mingling with the distant croaks of frogs and hum of insects. Despite the oppressive humidity, the estate’s hidden courtyard felt like a haven. Ancient stone pathways wove between twisted trees and luminous flowers that pulsed softly in the dim light. The walls of the estate were overgrown with creeping vines, blending seamlessly into the wilds, yet they exuded an air of quiet strength.
Astilja stood at the center of the courtyard, her presence commanding yet serene. Her flowing silver robes shimmered faintly, and her long white hair cascaded down her back like a waterfall of starlight. Her gaze was fixed on Wigulmir, who sat cross-legged on a stone dais before her, his expression both eager and cautious.
“You have done well to reach this stage, Wigulmir,” Astilja said, her voice carrying the weight of centuries. “To be twelve years old and prepared to awaken your soul seed speaks to both your talent and our bloodline’s resilience.”
Wigulmir straightened, his youthful face bright with pride, though his amber eyes betrayed a hint of uncertainty. “Thank you, Ancestor Astilja. I will strive to honor our lineage.”
Astilja’s lips curved into a small smile, though her tone remained measured. “Words are easy, child. Actions are what shape a cultivator’s path. And the path I am about to show you is not an easy one.”
Wigulmir tilted his head, curiosity sparking in his gaze. “The path to awaken my soul seed?”
“Not quite,” Astilja replied, stepping closer. “This is about enlarging your soul seed before it awakens. It is a rare and dangerous method I discovered by accident during my own cultivation journey.”
Wigulmir’s eyes widened. “Enlarge it? I thought that wasn’t possible until after awakening.”
“It is not,” Astilja said, her tone firm. “Not through normal means. What I will teach you is an unconventional technique, one that requires precision and patience. If done incorrectly, it could cripple your cultivation permanently.”
The boy swallowed hard, but he nodded resolutely. “I’m ready.”
Astilja’s gaze softened, and for a moment, her centuries-old veneer of detachment seemed to falter. “I hope so, Wigulmir,” she said quietly. “For your sake, and for the future of our bloodline.”
She lowered herself gracefully onto a nearby stone bench, her eyes distant as memories surfaced. “When I was your age, I had no mentor. My parents were mortals, and while they supported me as best they could, they knew nothing of cultivation. I reached the point of awakening alone, mostly through trial and error.”
“What happened?” Wigulmir asked, his voice tinged with awe.
Astilja’s expression grew somber. “When the time came to awaken my soul seed, I made a mistake. Instead of compressing it as I should have, I pulsed it outward, over and over. I thought I was failing, every attempt seemed to scatter the qi I had so painstakingly gathered. But I persisted, driven by desperation.”
She paused, her silver eyes locking onto Wigulmir’s. “It was not until much later that I realized what I had done. By repeatedly expanding my soul seed, I had enlarged it beyond what is natural for a cultivator at my stage. When I finally awakened it, the flame that kindled was immense. It granted me an extraordinary foundation, but it also caused no small amount of instability.”
Wigulmir frowned, his brow furrowing. “Instability? What kind?”
“Fluctuating qi flows, difficulty balancing my meridians, and a vulnerability to backlash,” Astilja said. “But with time and experimentation, I mastered it. And when I reached the Core Formation stage, I understood the significance of what I had done. A larger soul seed allowed me to store more qi, cultivate faster, and channel greater power. It became a strength unlike any other.”
“Did you teach this to others?” Wigulmir asked.
Astilja nodded. “In time. I observed young cultivators on the verge of awakening, guiding them through the process. Not all succeeded, and I only attempted it with those I deemed capable. But those who succeeded achieved remarkable results.”
She leaned forward, her gaze piercing. “This is not a method to be undertaken lightly, Wigulmir. It requires absolute focus, control, and trust in my guidance. Do you understand?”
Wigulmir met her gaze steadily. “I understand.”
“Good,” Astilja said, standing. She gestured for him to rise. “Let us begin.”
Astilja led Wigulmir to the center of the courtyard, where a circular formation was etched into the stone. Runes carved with intricate precision glowed faintly as she activated the array with a flick of her hand. “This formation will stabilize your qi and protect your meridians from excessive strain,” she explained. “Sit within it.”
Wigulmir obeyed, settling into the lotus position. The formation’s gentle hum filled the air, its golden light bathing him in warmth.
“Close your eyes,” Astilja instructed. “Focus on your soul seed. Feel the qi you have gathered there.”
Wigulmir did as he was told, his breathing slow and deliberate. His spiritual sense extended inward, and he felt the dense sphere of energy at his core. It pulsed faintly, like a dormant ember waiting to ignite.
“Now,” Astilja continued, her voice calm but commanding, “instead of compressing it, I want you to push it outward. Imagine it expanding, stretching its boundaries. But do so gently, as too much force will rupture it.”
Wigulmir nodded, his brow furrowing in concentration. He visualized his soul seed swelling outward, and the qi responded sluggishly at first. But as he persisted, the sphere began to expand, its edges shimmering like the surface of a bubble.
“Good,” Astilja said. “Now retract it, bringing it back to its original size. Then expand it again.”
Wigulmir’s face tightened with effort as he followed her instructions. Each expansion and contraction sent waves of energy through his body, the strain building with each repetition.
“Breathe,” Astilja reminded him. “Control is key. If you let your emotions waver, the qi will destabilize.”
The boy took a deep breath, steadying himself. He continued the pulsing rhythm, his soul seed gradually growing larger with each cycle. Sweat beaded on his forehead, but he didn’t stop.
Astilja watched him intently, her hands clasped behind her back. “You are doing well,” she said. “Remember, this process is not meant to be rushed. It took me weeks to achieve significant results. Patience is your ally.”
Wigulmir nodded faintly, though his focus remained inward. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as he worked, his qi flowing steadily under Astilja’s guidance.
Finally, he exhaled sharply, his eyes fluttering open. “It’s... bigger,” he said, his voice tinged with amazement. “I can feel it.”
Astilja smiled, a rare expression of genuine pride. “You have taken the first step. But there is still much work to be done.”
“Will it be enough?” Wigulmir asked, his youthful face earnest. “Will it help me become strong, like you?”
Astilja’s smile softened. “Strength is more than the size of your soul seed, child. It is resilience, wisdom, and the ability to learn from your failures. But this foundation will give you an advantage, one that I hope you will use wisely.”
She placed a hand on his shoulder, her touch light but reassuring. “Rest for now. Tomorrow, we will continue.”
Wigulmir nodded, exhaustion finally catching up with him. As he rose from the formation, Astilja watched him with a mixture of hope and determination. For over a thousand years, she had carried the weight of her lineage. Now, in this young boy, she saw the spark of a brighter future.
* * *
Xuan Lei crouched in the narrow alley, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. His small hands shook, clutching the meager scraps of bread he had stolen just moments ago. At only six winters old, he was small for his age, his thin frame a result of too many hungry nights. He didn’t understand why these menacing figures looming over him couldn’t just leave him alone. They had always been the same in this part of the capital, an unspoken hierarchy of bullies and thieves, their actions as predictable as the sun rising and setting. But today, he just needed to get back to Fanghua.
Her face swam in his mind, pale and damp with sweat, her lips cracking as she whispered, "Don’t worry about me, Xuan Lei." But he did worry. He always worried. If she didn’t eat, she wouldn’t last the night. And if she didn’t last, what was left for him?
The air was thick with tension, the alley suffocating in its darkness. He could already feel the sweat trickling down his neck, his heart pounding in his chest like a drum. A soft rustle of movement in the shadows announced their arrival, and Xuan Lei’s breath caught in his throat. The boys had found him again, and he had no place to run.
"Well, well, look who it is," came a voice from the front of the group. A tall, older boy stepped forward, his face hard as stone, lips curling into a sneer. The others followed, some snickering, others glaring with malice.
"Thought you could steal from us without giving a share, huh?" the older boy said, cracking his knuckles. His name was Kai, and he was the leader of this ragtag gang of street thugs. "You’ve been lucky for too long, kid. But your luck’s about to run out."
Xuan Lei swallowed hard, his small body trembling. He had stolen food before, but this time had felt different. This part of the city, Yuanze District, was a place where the poor scraped by, and the law was a joke. There were rumors of gangs fighting over territory, of families desperate to survive, but none of that mattered to Xuan Lei. He needed to get back to his friend.
Fanghua needed this. She was waiting for him in the quiet corner of the temple, where the old priest had let her stay. The bread wasn’t much, but it was all he could manage. He couldn’t fail her now.
Kai’s voice snapped him back to the present. “What’s the matter, kid? Cat got your tongue?”
The gang spread out, their movements deliberate, cutting off any hope of escape. The dim light from the street cast jagged shadows on their faces, making their eyes gleam like those of predators circling their prey. Xuan Lei’s chest tightened as panic set in. His heart raced, but beneath the fear, something else stirred. A strange heat simmered in his belly, faint but insistent, like a spark waiting for kindling.
"I didn’t mean to—" Xuan Lei started, his voice trembling, but Kai interrupted with a harsh laugh.
"Didn’t mean to? You don’t get to take what’s ours without paying the price," Kai said, stepping closer. He grabbed Xuan Lei by the collar and slammed him against the wall. The force knocked the scraps of bread from his hands, scattering them onto the filthy ground.
“No!” Xuan Lei cried out, reaching for the bread, but the other boys were on him in an instant. Hands grabbed his arms, yanking him back, pinning him down. He struggled, kicking and twisting, but he was too small, too weak.
Kai sneered, leaning in close. “You should’ve known better, kid. This is our turf.”
The first punch landed hard in Xuan Lei’s stomach, driving the air from his lungs. The second hit his side, sharp and brutal. He cried out, curling into a ball, trying desperately to protect himself. But the blows kept coming, each one sending waves of pain through his small frame.
This can’t be it. I can’t die here. Not like this.
Tears streamed down his face as he thought of Fanghua. Who will take care of her if I’m gone? She’s all I have left.
Another punch landed, and Xuan Lei gasped, his vision blurring. His thoughts drifted to something deeper, something distant. A memory? No, a feeling—something important, something he couldn’t name.
The strange heat in his belly grew stronger, swelling with each beat of his heart. It wasn’t just fear or desperation—it was something more. Something powerful.
The next punch never landed.
A pulse of energy erupted from Xuan Lei’s body, sending the boys flying backward. They hit the alley walls with sickening thuds, their cries of pain drowned out by a roaring sound that filled the air. The heat inside Xuan Lei ignited, a brilliant, searing force that consumed him from within. His dantian burned like a star, and for the first time, he felt its presence—a wellspring of power deep within him, raw and untamed.
He staggered to his feet, his small frame trembling. The gang lay scattered around him, groaning and motionless. Kai’s eyes were wide with terror as he scrambled backward, clutching his side. “What... what are you?” he stammered.
Xuan Lei didn’t answer. He didn’t know what had just happened, didn’t understand the fire coursing through his veins. All he knew was that he had to get away.
But as he turned to run, his eyes caught the glint of something on the ground—the scraps of bread he had stolen. He hesitated for a moment, his chest still heaving, his mind racing with the chaos of what had just happened. Then he dropped to his knees, his small hands gathering the precious pieces as quickly as he could.
The bread was dirty now, smeared with grime from the alley floor, but Xuan Lei didn’t care. He cradled it in his hands, holding it close to his chest as if it were the most valuable thing in the world.
He straightened, clutching the bread tightly, and glanced back at the gang. None of them moved to stop him. They were too afraid, their faces pale as they stared at him in shock and confusion.
Xuan Lei turned and ran, his bare feet slapping against the cobblestones. The heat inside him dimmed slightly, but it was still there, a flickering flame that refused to go out. His thoughts raced as he weaved through the narrow streets, the city’s chaos blurring around him.
When he finally reached the small, crumbling temple where Fanghua waited, he paused to catch his breath. The bread in his hands was dirty, but it was intact. A small smile tugged at his lips as he pushed open the creaking wooden door.
She’ll eat tonight, he thought, a spark of hope igniting within him. We’ll both survive another day.
* * *
The Infernal Plane roiled in endless chaos, a churning expanse of flame and shadow. Rivers of molten rock carved jagged paths through fields of cracked obsidian, their surfaces slick with oozing crimson ichor. The air was heavy with ash and the acrid tang of sulfur, each breath a struggle against the oppressive heat. Above, the sky burned, a searing expanse of fiery clouds streaked with blood-red lightning.
Here, in this domain of destruction, the larvae writhed.
Thousands of them squirmed across the jagged ground, their shapeless forms glistening with the viscous fluids of their unholy birth. They were horrors of unformed flesh and fragmented limbs, their grotesque bodies constantly shifting as they devoured whatever they could grasp, including shards of bone, fragments of decaying creatures, even each other. The weak were torn apart without hesitation, their essence consumed to fuel the growth of the strong.
At the center of this writhing mass, one larva pulsed with a deeper hunger.
It squirmed and twitched, its body larger than the others, its surface bubbling with blackened pustules that hissed and popped. The faintest flickers of Abyssal Flame licked across its gelatinous skin, faint streaks of black and red that burned hotter with each moment. This larva was different, its hunger more insatiable, its will more relentless.
It consumed without pause, its grotesque maw tearing into the fleshy masses around it. A smaller larva tried to escape, dragging itself across the ground with its malformed limbs, but the larger one lunged, its tendrils piercing the fleeing creature. The victim convulsed, its body shriveling as its essence was drawn into the growing predator.
And as it fed, the Abyssal Flame within it grew stronger.
The larva’s body began to change. The gelatinous form hardened, its surface cracking like parched earth to reveal blackened, scale-like plates beneath. Horns began to sprout from its head, twisting upward like jagged spears. Its limbs extended, gaining definition, claws tearing free from its once-shapeless appendages. The black and red flames surged, swirling around it, consuming the air with waves of searing heat.
The other larvae sensed the shift and scattered, their primitive instincts screaming of danger. Those too slow to flee were caught in the fiery maelstrom, their bodies igniting as the flames devoured them, their shrieks lost in the roar of destruction.
The newly formed demon rose from the carnage.
Its transformation was not gentle; it was a violent birthing, a creation wrought through agony and fire. Its flesh tore and reformed, molten ichor dripping from its body as it solidified into a monstrous shape. Jagged wings erupted from its back, their span casting a shadow over the field of chaos. Its new form was both terrifying and majestic, a creature of nightmare forged in the crucible of destruction.
The Abyssal Flame pulsed within it, no longer a scattered flicker but a roaring inferno. The demon’s eyes burned with the same unholy light, twin orbs of black fire streaked with crimson. It roared, the sound shaking the very ground beneath it, a primal cry that spoke of newfound power and insatiable hunger.
The landscape around it reflected its birth. The once-writhing field of larvae was now a charred wasteland, the ground cracked and smoldering. Pillars of flame erupted randomly, their heat warping the air. The skies above churned with storms of black ash and red lightning, as if the Infernal Plane itself celebrated the birth of one of its own.
But the demon was not content.
Its hunger still burned, a void that could never truly be filled. It moved through the wasteland with purpose, its massive claws tearing apart the remnants of those too weak to escape. Each kill fed the flames within it, the Abyssal power growing stronger with every soul it consumed. The demon’s form grew larger, more defined, its armor-like scales gleaming with a molten sheen.
The chaos around it seemed to respond, the very air vibrating with a resonance that spoke of destruction and fury. The demon stood tall, surveying the devastation it had wrought, its flames casting long shadows over the hellish landscape.
This was Beelzethor, born of chaos, destruction, and flame.
It roared again, the sound carrying across the endless expanse of the Infernal Plane. It was a cry of dominance, of victory over the countless others who had perished in its ascent. The Abyssal Flame that now burned within it was not merely a tool or a weapon; it was its essence, a primal force that defined its existence.
Around it, the world continued to burn. The rivers of molten rock flowed faster, their glow illuminating the jagged peaks in the distance. The skies thundered with storms of ash and fire, the Infernal Plane itself alive with fury.
And at the center of it all stood Beelzethor, its form wreathed in flames, its eyes burning with unrelenting hunger. It was no longer a helpless larva, scrabbling for survival amidst the chaos. It was a demon, a creature of power and destruction, forged in the flames of the abyss.
For the first time, Beelzethor felt something beyond hunger: purpose. It did not know what the purpose was, but the Abyssal Flame whispered to it, calling it to greater things. The Infernal Plane was vast, its horrors unending, and Beelzethor was ready to carve its place among the terrors of this hellscape.
It stepped forward, the ground cracking beneath its clawed feet, and unleashed a torrent of flames into the air. The fire danced and twisted, a chaotic display of power that lit up the sky. The lesser creatures that still lingered in the shadows fled, their fear a palpable presence in the air.
Beelzethor watched them go, its burning eyes narrowing. It did not care for their fear. It only cared for one thing: to feed the flames within, to grow stronger, to consume everything in its path.
The Abyssal Flame surged, and Beelzethor roared once more, its voice a promise of destruction and chaos. The Infernal Plane trembled in response, as if bowing to its newest child of fire and fury.