The Unquenchable Flame
"You're going to tell me about attributes now?"
Raon frowned at Rimer's disheveled hair and rumpled clothes. The man didn't look remotely trustworthy.
"That's the look you give a con artist."
Rimer bent slightly at the waist and snickered.
"I might be a bit lazy, but my teaching's solid, isn't it?"
"……."
That much was true. Rimer's methods couldn't take on many students — but the few he did take, he saw through to real growth.
"Stop doubting me and come on out."
"We're not doing this here?"
"Of course not. Get yourself ready and follow me."
"…Understood."
Raon went into his room and pulled out an outer coat.
Running into the pointy-ear at the crack of dawn… today's going to be unlucky.
We've run into him plenty of times. What's the difference?
He threw on the coat and left the Annex.
"Where are we going?"
"Bukmang Mountain."
Rimer pointed to the mountain rising behind the Annex — a vast range that encircled all of Zieghart, connecting not only to the Annex but to the Main House as well.
"Let's go."
"Yes, sir."
Raon followed Rimer up the mountain.
"This should do it."
After about twenty minutes of climbing, Rimer stopped. The ground here was flat, and no trees grew — a clearing, of sorts.
"Why here?"
Raon's voice was even, but inwardly he was already braced to react no matter how Rimer moved.
"No need to be so tense. I just want you to feel something."
"Feel something?"
"That's right."
A deep green wind rose with Rimer's smile.
"Trust me and stay right where you are."
"Even if you tell me to trust you… hm?"
A breeze stirred his bangs, as gentle as the scent of spring erasing winter. Behind it came a cool wind like the kind that rolls through a summer forest, settling a body heated by the climb. The third was winter. A chill like a killing frost pressed against his skin, aching down to the bone.
Then the wind changed again.
The deep green gale that had held all four seasons became a keen blade, wrapping itself around Raon.
"I wanted to forge a blade of wind that would protect my lord."
Rimer's voice drifted through the tidal surge of green wind.
A storm of blades tore through everything around them — but Raon neither retreated nor stepped forward.
"This is the wind I chose."
Raon stood his ground and felt the green storm.
The fierce wind died away, and a sly smile crept onto Rimer's lips.
"Weren't you scared?"
"You had no intention of attacking, Instructor. And you told me not to move."
"No matter how I look at you, you're not thirteen."
Rimer snorted a laugh and flicked his fingers. The wind lingering around them vanished completely.
"A cultivation art carrying an attribute can unleash far greater power than an ordinary one — but it's not easy to master."
The wind rippled at his quiet voice, as if dancing.
"I was born an elf, so I've felt the wind since the day I came into this world. You're human. That's different. And with your mana circuits packed full of cold, it'll be even harder."
"That's true."
Raon nodded. The Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames was already an esoteric art — and he had to circulate an energy that ran directly against the frost he'd carried since birth. Of course it would be harder.
"There are kinds of wind, too. Warm. Cold. Sharp. I wanted a sword of wind that could pierce through anything — and I made it."
When he spoke of it in the past tense, Rimer's expression was not sorrowful so much as proud.
"You have to find yours as well. Think carefully about the image of fire you'll take as your own."
"An image…"
"To build an image, the most important thing is to feel the attribute."
"But this is the North. Unless we set the mountain on fire, it's hard to see a proper flame."
"Do that and you and I will both lose our heads, nice and neat."
Rimer chuckled and waved a hand. Green wind stirred at his feet.
"Follow me."
"Where are we going now?"
"You've felt the wind. Now we go see fire."
Raon ran after Rimer through the mountain. After roughly twenty minutes, Rimer's stride slowed.
Heat haze shimmered up through the freezing forest, as if a blast of hot wind had just torn past. The temperature was nothing like what they'd felt until now; Raon's skin prickled.
There.
A house of red brick stood joined to a gray kiln. The heat was pouring from inside that kiln.
It's hot.
This was the North — the coldest place on the continent — and it was still this warm. That told him just how vicious the heat rising from that kiln really was.
"Hey, old man! I'm here!"
Rimer strode forward as if the place were his own house. Raon followed.
The closer they drew to the kiln, the stronger the heat became. Sweat soaked through his clothes.
"Nnh…"
The unfamiliar heat sent the frost inside his mana circuits into a frenzy. He frowned against the worsening pain and stepped into the house.
There was only one thing inside.
A furnace. A kiln-hearth that poured out such staggering heat the entire house seemed to warp around it.
In front of the furnace sat an old man, his hair gone white, his face a map of wrinkles. Sweat had soaked him through, but he never took his eyes off the fire.
Is this even the same fire I know?
Raon swallowed dryly. In his previous life he had seen countless flames — from campfires he'd lit with his own hands to high-tier fire magic roaring from a mage's palm. None of it seemed like it could match the heat surging from this furnace.
The frost in his mana circuits screamed. Mana around him stirred, following the flow of the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames — an art he had not even learned yet. The roar of the fire pounded against his eardrums. His heart hammered with every surge of heat. He couldn't tear his eyes from the furnace, as if something had possessed him.
"Your focus is as sharp as ever, old man."
Rimer cooled the heat with a wash of green wind and shook out his hands.
"The heat dies because of you, you brat."
"Looking at you, today's another failure anyway."
"Kh…"
The old man glared at Rimer, then sighed and shoved a gray lump of something into the furnace.
The heat that had seemed ready to melt the earth itself subsided. The flames sank to something merely warm.
"Ah…"
A breath escaped Raon. The instant the fire died, the flow of the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames racing through his mana circuits scattered. His fingertips trembled with the loss.
"What did you drag in this time? What's that?"
The old man squinted at Raon. The downturned mouth and sharply raised brows said everything about how stubborn he was.
"Hey! 'That'? Watch your mouth — that's the Patriarch's grandson!"
Rimer, who had been speaking informally and treating the old man like dirt himself, was now demanding manners.
"Hmph. I'm a retired old man. Unless the Patriarch comes here in person… hm?"
He started to rise, then stopped, looking at Raon's eyes and hair.
"Blonde hair, red eyes? And that face…"
"Looks like the Patriarch, doesn't he? Though Raon's a lot better looking."
"Mm."
The old man gave a small nod, as if he agreed.
"Name's Vulcan. If you want manners, go somewhere else."
Vulcan!
Raon tightened his mouth as he looked into the old man's faded eyes — eyes like burnt-out charcoal.
He was here all along.
A master craftsman. A man who held the title of Continental Master Blacksmith, famous across the world — the one who had forged Glenn Zieghart's Heavenly True Sword. His last known work had been thirty years ago, and after the Heavenly True Sword he had never produced another blade worthy of being called a masterpiece.
"Raon Zieghart."
Raon paid no mind to Vulcan's informal speech and bowed his head. It was the respect due a giant who had reached the end of his path.
"Mm…"
The courteous greeting eased the old man's crumpled expression, if only a little.
"You told him about me…"
"Not a word."
Rimer shook his head and turned away.
"This old man is Zieghart's master smith."
"Retired."
"Right. Retired master smith. Anyway, he's been tending a fire here for over ten years."
Rimer turned, pointing at the dead furnace.
"This is the hottest, most passionate fire you can feel in the entire North."
"A fire-attribute cultivation art, is it…"
Vulcan frowned as he listened to Rimer's explanation.
"So that's why you brought him here?"
"You spend the whole year raising embers in this place. Where else am I supposed to let him feel a proper fire?"
"The blacksmiths have workshops."
"Too many eyes there. Until he masters that art, I'd rather he not be seen."
"Rather not?"
"Because Raon is Sylvia's child."
At the words Sylvia's child, Vulcan's gaze swept over Raon once more.
"Hah…"
He turned, as if thinking it over, and looked at the burning crimson embers.
"I won't get in your way. Please — just let me feel the fire."
Raon bowed his head to Vulcan.
I want to see it again.
When Vulcan had been feeding the embers, Raon's heart had pounded and his mana circuits had surged. He wanted to feel the breath of that flame once more.
"I'm just making charcoal."
"Charcoal?"
"Gold Charcoal. It produces heat far more powerful than white charcoal or black. As long as you don't interfere with that work, I don't care what you do."
"Thank you."
"Hmph…"
Raon bowed again. The even deeper courtesy seemed to embarrass Vulcan; he turned his head away.
"He said yes, so that's that. Raon — come here during your dawn cultivation hours and train the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames. There's no one around, and this old man doesn't know the first thing about cultivation arts, so you don't need to worry."
"Understood."
Raon nodded. Just as Rimer said, he couldn't sense even a trace of mana from Vulcan.
"Old man, a word."
Rimer clapped his hands as if everything had gone perfectly and led Vulcan outside.
"You're still a bleeding heart."
Rimer slung an arm over Vulcan's shoulder and grinned.
"Look after Raon well and I'll bring you some good liquor later. You like fruit wine, right?"
"It's not because of you."
"Hm?"
"When that boy arrived, the embers in the furnace flared up bigger. The sudden heat nearly ruined the charcoal."
Vulcan narrowed his eyes at a piece of charcoal burned yellow.
"It's been a long, long time since I've seen a color like this."
"So you felt it too."
"I'm a craftsman. The fire I've watched my entire life stirred — how could I not know?"
Vulcan's gray eyes, which had looked like nothing but ash, flickered.
"That child's breath holds the power to move flame."
The next dawn.
Raon ran to Vulcan's charcoal kiln before the sun rose. Finding it in the dark mountain was easy — a red heat bloomed through the trees.
Vulcan heard his footsteps and still didn't look at him. He only stared into the furnace.
The way he never took his eyes off the fire, sweat pouring down his face, made it clear the title of Continental Master Blacksmith had not been given lightly.
This heat…
Raon went and stood where the heat burned thickest.
A violent blast of hot wind lifted his clothes. His skin stung as it flushed with heat. The frost in his mana circuits stabbed at him in a frenzy.
"Hhk…"
Pain clenched his teeth together. Gray breath spilled from his mouth.
It hurt enough that he wanted to run — but his heart hammered with the thrill of feeling the flame.
A fierce joy settled in his chest. Through the pain, he followed the breath of the fire and recited the formula of the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames.
The mana he drew in carried a scorching breath. The air he exhaled carried murky energy out with it.
Raon closed his eyes. He turned the Ring of Fire and circulated the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames.
As his focus reached its peak, the pain vanished. Only the rapture coming off the heat filled his chest.
"……."
Vulcan turned. Watching Raon breathe with his eyes closed, the old man's hands grew a little gentler.
In front of the furnace where the two of them stood, the only sound was the quiet crackle of burning wood.
Three months had passed since Raon began coming to Vulcan's charcoal kiln for aura cultivation.
The mountain path was familiar now. He could reach the kiln in ten minutes.
The kiln poured out a firepower even more intense than when he'd first seen it, crushing the space around it. Finger-thick heat haze filled the air.
Same as ever.
Vulcan knew he was there and still didn't turn around, still didn't open his mouth. He only stared into the furnace, absorbed.
Raon approached without a sound.
With every step toward the kiln, searing air wrapped around his whole body. His breath caught in his throat. Sweat soaked his back. The frost in his mana circuits snarled like a beast's maw.
"Hah…"
The pain never grew familiar — but Raon smiled. Now, just looking at the fire made his chest pound.
Fire…
He was starting to understand.
Just as Rimer had said, spending time with fire had taught him what fire was.
People called fire the most fearsome, most powerful attribute of all. But handled properly, it was more stable than any other.
Feeling heat that seemed ready to scorch his skin, he took another step closer.
The energy of the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames — still unmastered — woke of its own accord and drew in the heat baking the earth. As if answering that mana, the embers in the furnace surged up scarlet, like a demon's tongue.
"Hah…"
Raon emptied the breath left in his lungs and took in the fully ripened mana.
He drew the boiling, lava-hot mana into his circuits. The frost that had been fleeing the heat was pulled toward his dantian along the flow of the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames.
The image.
Once the cultivation found its rhythm, Raon thought of Rimer's advice. He had said Raon needed to draw the image he wanted.
The fire I need is…
He thought of his goal.
Raising Sylvia to the direct line. Taking Derus Robert's head. It would be as hard as walking a darkness where you couldn't see an inch ahead.
He needed a fire that could be a torch to light the path — and a sword to slay the beasts in it.
Even if it snowed. Even if it rained. The fire must not go out. A flame that never dies. That was the fire he chose.
The moment a clear image of fire took hold, lightning struck through his mind and his heart surged. His mana circuits expanded and contracted, goading the frozen frost. Heat stretched out like lava melting a glacier, punched through his mana circuits, and at last reached his dantian.
Just as the energy of the Cultivation of Ten Thousand Flames condensed, about to form a sphere of aura, a ghastly voice rang through his mind.
A chill crawled up the back of Raon, who had been lost in a trance.