The firelight on Greenstone Cliff went out.
It had not been extinguished, but had—quietly faded from sight.
Nian Sheng burned his own portrait, tore apart the golden seal of the "Fire-Speaker," sealed the fragments of the Flame Blade in an earthenware jar, and buried it in the deepest reaches of the Civilization Stele Forest. He changed into coarse brown hemp clothes, smeared ash on his face, wrapped his hands in tattered cloth, shouldered an old copper pot, and walked alone among the common people of the Nine Provinces.
He no longer called himself "Nian Sheng," saying only, "I am the Fire Servant."
He no longer dwelled on lofty terraces, but slept beneath bridges, in cave dwellings, and in ruined temples; he no longer ate delicacies, but gnawed cold steamed bread and drank snowmelt. He mingled with farmers forced to pay the fire tax, crouched outside the Fire Smith Alliance's workshops, and watched overseers whip youths who secretly learned Fire Principles.
"Fire belongs to the alliance. You want to learn? Are you worthy?" an overseer sneered.
The boy curled up on the ground, the words "fire thief" branded into his palm.
The Fire Servant approached, crouched down, and used his finger as a brush to trace a fire pattern on the ground. "If you truly want to learn, I'll teach you—fire has never acknowledged a master."
That night, North Village's first "People's Fire Workshop" quietly rose.
There were no high walls, no heavily armed guards—only a furnace, a pot, and a well of Heart Flame. The Fire Servant taught Fire Principles, speaking not of secret arts, but only of "why fire burns, and how to use it." He taught people to judge temperature by the color of fire, to hear changes in its sound, and to sense its ailments by touching