The winds and sands of the Northern Desert gradually subsided. The setting sun, red as blood, shone upon the Fire-Speech Bell. It was a colossal bronze bell left behind by the Ancient Emberfolk, its entire surface covered in fire-scorched patterns. For centuries, it had remained silent. Only on nights when the moon waned did whispers seem to flicker within it like flames, yet no one could decipher them.
By the time Nian Sheng reached the Northern Desert, three years had passed.
He had traveled throughout the Nine Provinces, inscribing ten thousand words on stone tablets and recording every sorrow and joy of the mortal world, yet he still could not understand: why could fire hold memories? Why did mortals look upon fire as though seeing an old friend? Why did certain flames bring people to tears for no apparent reason, as though they had heard someone calling?
Until this night—the moon vanished into the sands, the wind fell still over the desert, and the Fire-Speech Bell suddenly trembled.
One toll, like a heart's first kindling flame.
Two tolls, like the murmurs of countless people.
At the third toll, a hairline crack opened in the bell, and a crimson-gold flame seeped through it, fine as silken threads, winding around Nian Sheng's palm. In that instant, he "heard"—
Not sound, but emotion.
Not language, but memory.
An old man's voice rose from the fire: "Do not forget the cold of the Northern Desert. Do not betray the warmth of Ash Kiln... I send this fire as a letter to you a hundred years from now—if you are still tending flames, please embrace the sun a little more for me."
Nian Sheng shook violently and fell to his knees, hot tears streaming down his face.
He "saw"—the old man wore a coarse hemp