Rummaging through this footstool—one of those cheap, pressed-wood boxes covered in rough cloth, hollow with a removable lid for storage—I'm searching for that Dollar Store box of "emergency candles" I bought three years ago. In this narrow one-bedroom apartment, with less square footage than a department store bathroom, storage is a premium. So, I've become an expert at cramming stuff into every available nook and cranny. Apartment living, right? It usually makes things hard to find, though, since I'm not exactly working with the Dewey Decimal system here.

Ah, here we go—half a candle, rolling around loose among the random debris. Not sure why it's the last one left—or why it's snapped in half—but I guess it'll do. After dragging the coffee table back in front of the couch, I sit down and set the flat side of the candle on one of those "thirsty stone" coasters. Not sure they're as "thirsty" as advertised, though—seems like the water just pools on top before evaporating. But whatever.

So, how exactly do I go about creating fire? I guess the name of the game here would be to project this mana outside of my body, right? If those cultivation cycles taught me anything, it's that the further I have to push it out, the harder it gets. Maybe I'll channel the energy just beyond the tip of my finger, and if I hold it close enough to the candle—it'll heat up enough to combust. Well, no time like the present, right?

I stretch out my finger until it's practically touching the top of the candle and begin to concentrate. Just like before with the bottle cap, I imagine forcing the mana to the tip of my finger, but this time, visualize it exiting in the form of heat. As expected, the flow drops by half as it reaches my elbow and halves again at my fingertip—there's definitely a pattern here. And as if to prove my point, by the time the energy exits my finger, it feels like the flow has halved yet again.

If the energy I sent to my arm was one-hundred "units" of mana—Uhh, I guess I'll call it Mana Points, or MP for short. I know, I know—but what do you expect from a chronic RPG fan? Anyway, fifty MP makes it to my elbow, twenty-five to my finger, and a dismal twelve-point-five MP actually exits my fingertip. That's practically a one-to-ten ratio, and I'm guessing there are even more losses when it converts to heat.

Note to self: the novels were right again. Internal arts are a lot easier than external arts, huh? No wonder all the beginner cultivators in those stories focus on the basics of speed and strength. Creating a flame out of nothing probably isn't going to happen, good thing I decided to just focus on heat then right? The candle has to retain some of the heat I pass to it, right? If I can just feed it heat faster than it loses it, eventually it should get warm enough to combust on its own.

Huh—I guess this still counts as superhuman, but my power being worse than a Zippo lighter is still disappointing. Whatever—everyone has to start somewhere. Is the candle even getting warm? I gently poke it, half-expecting it to be warm, but... I'm not sure I'm feeling much. Maybe it's warmer—but—not by a significant amount. Sure wish I had a temperature gun right about now. Not actually leave the house and go buy one—wish—but still.

Wait, how dumb can I be? It's not like I only have one finger, right? I'm already sending mana down my whole arm—so why limit myself? Actually, who says I even need to use my fingers? It only halves once it reaches my fingers. I could just release the energy directly from my palm. That would be more efficient—50 MP straight from my hand—but it wouldn't necessarily produce more energy.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

But, it's a trade-off: 100 MP for 50 output from my hand at 50% efficiency, or 500 MP—100 for each finger—for 125 output, but at a miserable 25% efficiency.

But now the question is—is it worth being two and a half times hotter at the cost of five times the mana? In this case, I'm not sure it is. I don't need a big blast of energy all at once; I just need to build it up faster than it can be lost. Why burn twice the gas to go the same distance if time isn't a factor? I think slow and steady wins the race here. To begin with, I don't have much "gas" in the first place, so it's not exactly the time to be wasteful.

Reaching back out to the candle, I sort of cup my hand around it, almost as if I'm shielding an imaginary flame from the wind. There's something incredibly primal about tending to fire. Just like my countless ancestors, I slowly tend to this soon to be flame, this source of heat—my light in the darkness. Okay, that's a bit dramatic—I do have a lamp in the corner of my room—but sometimes it's important to set the mood.

That extra twenty-five percent is really making a difference this time—I can practically feel the heat building up on the candle. Reassured, I double my concentration, focusing with all my might. I try to heighten my imagination to its fullest potential. What is heat? And what am I trying to do with it? Warmth isn't enough—I'm not seeking comfort. I'm seeking power! The power to burn, the power to destroy. Hotter—it has to get even hotter. Like the combustion of flammable gas exposed to a spark, like the fusion of hydrogen fueling the sun. The kind of heat that grows into an unwavering inferno—a recursive function feeding into itself, a destructive cycle. Fire begets fire. One flame becomes two. Two becomes three. And from three—comes the destruction of everything!

The true nature of Yang itself—destruction, light, heat, and fire—the embodiment of man's willpower, his drive to impose order, and his capacity to break down whatever stands before him. Yang is relentless, consuming everything in its path, forging power from chaos. As I focus on this intent, I feel the fire within me flicker and grow. This is no longer just about lighting a candle—it's about tapping into something far deeper, a force that connects me to the very fabric of existence.

My palm feels as though it could ignite the very air. My breath quickens as I imagine the power coursing through my veins—acting as an extension of the universe's boundless energy, an inferno ready to be unleashed. And then, without thinking, I do it. I scream at the candle before me.

"Burn!"

To my shock, it does.

Perhaps with a bit too much power—it's hot! I quickly yank my hand back as I feel the flame lick against my palm. Not burned, but definitely startled, I lose track of time, staring blankly at the flame as it dances atop the candle. My eyes are wider than they've ever been—both literally and metaphorically. It feels as though, for the first time, I've caught a glimpse of truth. Even though my heart pounds in my chest, a strange serenity washes over me, the kind of stillness that only comes in moments of profound enlightenment.

I know, even now, that this single moment will be etched deeply into my mind. Though I'm living it right now, it already feels like something I'll look back on with nostalgia and wonder. It's the oddest sensation of disembodiment—like an even more intense sense of déjà vu. Past, present, and future seem to blur together, distilling into this singular experience. In that moment, I almost forget who I am—my entire sense of self nearly dissolves into the flame.

"Who am I?" The words escape my lips, though I don't even remember saying them—it doesn't feel like I'm in my own body anymore. I can practically see myself sitting there, as if my soul has left me, hovering just above, watching from a distance.

Suddenly, a sense of urgency floods through me. I realize this is a pivotal moment—a crossroads. If I don't answer now, I'll lose everything. It's as if the very heavens themselves are holding me at gunpoint, demanding an answer to this one question.

I steel myself, feeling a surge of resolve—perhaps the strongest I've ever felt. The words gather at the tip of my tongue, ready to spill out as I—