The wind of the Northern Desert no longer swept along ashes, but carried sparks. Wherever it passed, grains of sand trembled like fireflies, each wrapped in a faint yet steadfast glow, like seeds quietly sprouting in the dark. That night, Lin Yan had burned his body in sacrifice to the flame, kindling the ashen Emperor Flame with mortal flesh, turning the Ashfolk's sacrifice back upon itself, and wresting Wan Huo from his destined annihilation. His figure had dissolved in crimson-gold waves of fire, like ash scattered on the wind, yet the flames had not died—instead, like seeds taking root, they had sunk deep into the earth's veins and the hearts of countless people, rooting, sprouting, and spreading into a prairie ablaze.
The Nine Provinces trembled.
It was neither thunder nor the earth splitting, but the palms of millions warming at once. At that moment, someone was carrying water, and the buckets suddenly shone gold; someone lay sick in bed, and the blood they coughed onto the ground kindled a small flame that did not burn anyone; someone knelt before an ancestral grave burning paper offerings, and the flame suddenly turned blue-green, becoming a stream of sparks that shot straight into the sky. Fire was no longer something to be controlled. It had become a presence awakened, like spring thunder rousing hibernating creatures, like tides answering the moon, awakening of its own accord.
The well water in Ash Kiln Village began to shimmer faintly. Those who drank it felt warmth arise in their palms, and even crying infants had faint halos of fire glowing at their fingertips. An old frontier soldier coughed blood in the cold night. When the drops struck the ground, they kindled a small flame that burned no one, offering only warmth. He stared at it, tears streaming