Yhe wind howled across the blackened canyon, carrying with it the stench of scorched stone and the distant whisper of screams long buried beneath the ash. Po stood at the edge of the gorge, staring into the jagged maw of the land. Behind him, the sky was bruised red, lit by the twin suns that hung low in the distance. Before him, the path twisted downward into the throat of a world that felt abandoned by both gods and demons.
"This is it," murmured Elder Khenra, her voice barely a breeze. She stepped beside him, her staff sinking slightly into the cracked earth. "The Trial of Memory."
Po's fingers clenched around the hilt of the Emberblade, the weapon still warm from the last trial. Scars lined his forearms now—etched by fire, by will, by regret. He had seen illusions tear apart his sense of self. He had fought the Ash-Warden of the Sunken Forge. And now, the final path lay ahead before he could reach Skyreach and fulfill the ancient rite.
"What's inside?" Po asked, his voice more steady than he expected.
Khenra turned to him, her eyes gleaming beneath her obsidian veil. "Not what, who. You'll see them. Those you've lost. Those you failed. Every oath broken. Every promise burned."
Po swallowed. "So… my past?"
"No," Khenra said softly. "Your truth."
And with that, she raised her staff. The canyon trembled as runes carved themselves into the stone, pulsing with dull red light. A bridge of flame arced across the chasm, its ends tethered to reality by sheer will. The fire didn't burn—it beckoned.
Po took a breath and stepped forward.
With each stride across the flame-bridge, memories pressed against his mind like smoke. Not visions—emotions. Regret. Anger. Grief. The laughter of his mother before the plague. The face of Master Renji turning away as the elders banished him from the Crimson Cloud Sect. And worst of all, the flicker of disappointment in Layen's eyes—the only disciple who had ever believed in him.
The bridge ended in silence. He stood in a circular chamber carved from black stone, its walls slick with molten veins. In the center: a pyre.
A figure knelt before it.
Po's breath caught. "No…"
It was him. A younger Po. Dressed in the pristine robes of a sect disciple, eyes full of hunger and pride. The figure looked up, and the fire caught his face—unburned, untouched, innocent.
"You came," the younger Po said. "I didn't think you had the courage."
"This isn't real," Po said.
"You wish it wasn't," his past self snapped. "You've burned bridges. Destroyed chances. Lied to people who trusted you. All in the name of strength."
Po clenched his jaw. "I did what I had to."
"And look where it brought you." The figure rose. "Alone. Feared. Unwanted. You think passing trials and wielding flames makes you worthy?"
"I am worthy," Po said, stepping closer. "I've changed."
"Then prove it." The figure drew a mirrored Emberblade—identical to Po's. "Fight me. Not to win. To forgive."
The blade blazed.
Po's heart thundered. Not because of fear. But because, deep down, he understood. This wasn't a trial of might. It was a trial of absolution.
They clashed.
Steel met steel, fire met fire. Sparks danced across the chamber as their blades screamed. The younger Po was faster, sharper, unburdened by pain. But Po had something else—resolve. He moved with purpose, not rage. Every strike, a memory. Every block, a lesson. Every breath, a reckoning.
"I hated you," Po said through gritted teeth. "For being weak. For dreaming."
"I hated you," his younger self replied. "For forgetting what mattered."
Their blades locked. The fire surged between them—until Po dropped his sword.
The chamber fell still.
"I forgive you," he whispered.
The younger Po's eyes widened. The flames around him flickered, then dimmed. He staggered, then smiled—gently, like a ghost finally freed.
"You remember now."
He stepped backward into the pyre.
Light exploded.
When it faded, Po stood alone. The Emberblade had changed—it pulsed with a deeper hue, its core forged from something more than flame.
Truth.
Khenra's voice echoed from beyond the chamber. "You have passed the Burning Oath. The Gate to Skyreach awaits."
But Po didn't move.
He looked down at his hands—scorched, scarred, real.
He had walked through his past and emerged whole.
But the fire had only just begun to burn.
The gates to Skyreach rose like jagged shards of obsidian cutting into the sky, framed by swirling storms that never touched the ground. Po stepped through the crumbling threshold of the canyon, into a vast, charred field at the base of the floating city.
Above him, Skyreach hovered, its spires suspended in a halo of golden energy, trailing threads of fire and smoke. Lightning arced beneath its belly like veins in a beating heart. Floating platforms circled slowly, each carrying fire-forged monuments, statues of past Flamebearers—and warriors who had fallen before the final rite.
Khenra's silhouette appeared beside him, her cloak swept by ashwinds. "Very few make it this far."
"I thought that was the last trial," Po said, wiping soot from his brow. "The Burning Oath."
Khenra didn't look at him. "It was the last trial of self. Now comes the trial of purpose."
Po's gaze narrowed. "You mean Varik."
At the mention of the name, the storm above crackled louder.
Khenra nodded. "He waits beyond the Skybridge. The final guardian of Skyreach. The one who failed the fire."
Po had heard whispers of Varik. Once a Flamebreaker, chosen by the same rites, stronger than most. But something had changed him. The fire inside had become hunger, his soul consumed by vengeance. He had turned on the council, slaughtered his own brothers, and claimed the Skyforge for himself.
"He is no longer man," Khenra said. "He is flame unbound."
"And I'm supposed to defeat him?" Po asked. "I've only just begun to understand my power."
"You don't have to defeat him," she said. "You have to reach him."
A pulse rang through the field—a low thrum that vibrated in Po's chest. A platform made of scorched stone and molten veins hovered into place at the edge of the field, forming a narrow path upward. The Skybridge.
Po stepped forward, but Khenra held out her staff. "Once you ascend, I cannot follow. Whatever happens there, your fire must be your guide."
He hesitated for only a moment.
Then he stepped onto the platform, and it lifted him into the sky.
The ascent felt endless. As the platform rose, the wind burned hotter, the world below shrinking into insignificance. Pillars of flame spiraled around him, alive and whispering. They called him by name, not with words, but with memory.
Po. Son of fire. Chosen of ash. Do you carry purpose, or only wrath?
He closed his eyes.
"I carry the hopes of those you burned," he whispered. "And the strength of the one I once abandoned."
The fires parted.
At the summit, a vast coliseum stretched beneath Skyreach's throne tower. Its walls pulsed with fire-runes. At its center stood a figure wrapped in living flame, taller than a man, armored in blackened bone. A mask shaped like a phoenix skull concealed his face. His breath boiled the air.
"Po," the figure said. "At last."
Po stepped into the arena. "Varik."
"You carry the Emberblade. The fire accepted you."
Po nodded. "And I carry the truth of what you once were. I saw it in the Flame Archives. You were like me."
Varik tilted his head. "Do not flatter yourself. I was greater than you. Until I realized the fire was a lie."
He lifted his hand, and a sword of flame erupted into existence. "It consumes all. And so shall I."
Po raised his blade, but did not charge.
"I came to end the war, not feed it."
Varik roared, a sound like a volcano cracking open. "Then die with your mercy."
He lunged.
The battle erupted like thunder. Varik was a storm of fury—strikes heavy and endless, flames coiling around his limbs like serpents. Po blocked, parried, ducked. His body screamed under the weight, his scars glowing, the Emberblade flickering.
But as the duel dragged on, Po saw something deeper in Varik's strikes—hesitation. Regret. A flicker in the mask every time their blades met.
"You're not fighting me," Po gasped. "You're fighting yourself."
Varik's blade halted mid-swing.
Po pressed forward. "You burned the world to make it feel your pain. But the fire isn't pain. It's truth. And you're still running from yours."
"I am the truth!" Varik howled. "The only one strong enough to rise when they fell!"
Po's voice was firm. "Then why do you still wear the mask?"
The arena went silent. The flames around Varik slowed. And then… the mask cracked.
Po stepped forward. "Let it end."
Varik fell to one knee, his sword melting away.
The mask shattered.
Beneath it was not a demon, but a man. Worn. Weary. Tears mixing with soot on his cheeks.
"I only wanted to protect them," he whispered. "I failed."
Po knelt beside him. "Then stand with me. Help me protect what remains."
A long silence.
Then Varik nodded.
When Po emerged from the Skyforge, the skies above had cleared. The flames that once cloaked Skyreach now pulsed calmly, the city no longer in mourning.
Khenra awaited him at the landing.
"You passed," she said softly.
Po helped Varik walk beside him. "No. We endured. Together."
The fire inside Po had changed. It no longer raged to consume. It burned to illuminate.
He looked up at the throne spires of Skyreach, now opening for the first time in centuries.
The Flamebreaker had arrived.