Azhao stepped out of the Northern Desert, a fragment of the Flame Blade tied at her waist, without a scabbard, wrapped only in gray cloth, like a wandering monk, like a gatherer of fire. Windblown sand swept past the tips of her hair. A crimson-gold Fire Pattern flickered between her brows, as though a thousand words lay hidden within it. She took no shortcut, but the road mortals walked—a road forgotten beneath the dust of history, yet worn into being by countless glimmers in human palms.
She passed through villages and towns, crossed rivers and climbed mountains. She saw the warm glow of grandparents embracing their grandchildren beside hearths, firelight illuminating innocent smiles. She also saw blood spray three feet in Dou Qi workshops as people fought over fire seeds, the losers' meridians shattered, their fire seeds forcibly torn away. Amid their screams, even the flames keened as though weeping. She saw farmers burn wasteland with ordinary fire to open fields, sowing in spring and harvesting in autumn, fire sustaining their lives. She also saw scions of great families wield fire as blades, burning houses and slaughtering dogs, laughing as they called it "testing the flames." In their hands, fire became a plaything, a murder weapon, a means of flaunting their status.
In the Southern Ridges, she saw Flameglory City towering into the clouds. Its walls were cast from crimson-gold lava, and nine fire towers atop them burned day and night, symbols of "the rightful lineage of heavenly fire." Its lord proclaimed himself the "Flame Venerable," wore crimson robes and a crown of fire, and declared, "All Mortal Flame belongs to the authorities; private fire breeds disorder." He forcibly levied a fire tax on the people. Anyone with flame in their palms had to surrender three qian of fire each