Firelands of Cold Flames
The Firelands of Cold Flames existed in a place untouched by haste.
They were not carved by violence nor born from catastrophe, but shaped through ages of refinement, where flame learned restraint and cold learned mercy. From above, the cultivation grounds resembled a vast celestial amphitheater—layer upon layer of curved terraces floating gently in midair, each one separated by measured distances, as if even space itself obeyed discipline here.
Cold flames drifted through the air like slow-moving spirits, pale blue and translucent, their glow soft enough not to blind, bright enough to guide. They did not consume oxygen, nor did they scorch the skin. Instead, they carried a peculiar clarity—one that settled the mind and sharpened awareness.
Wherever the flames passed, the air shimmered faintly, not from heat but from balance.
This was a place meant for learning.
Rong Qi hovered above his assigned seat, carefully maintaining his position. The platform beneath him was carved from pale jade stone, smooth and flawless, its surface etched with intricate formation lines in silver and frost-gold. Phoenix feathers intertwined with dragon scales formed a repeating pattern—neither dominating the other, neither diminished.
The seat was beautiful.
But it was not made for him.
There was no hollow for a feather. No groove to cradle something weightless. No warmth meant for one who could not sit.
So Rong Qi floated.
A single phoenix feather, suspended just above the stone.
It took effort—constant, unacknowledged effort—to remain steady. He had learned long ago how to adjust to the slightest currents, how to keep himself from drifting too far, how to avoid rising instinctively whenever emotion stirred. Still, the strain lingered quietly, like a dull ache one stopped noticing only because it had been there for too long.
Around him, the other cultivators settled into their places.
Young dragons coiled themselves neatly upon their platforms, tails tucked with habitual grace. Their scales reflected the cold flame's glow in soft gradients of azure, pearl, and pale gold. Ifrits sat upright, their inner fire dimmed and refined, eyes closed as they followed the rhythm of their breath.
Some were older. Some younger.
All were whole.
No one stared at Rong Qi.
No one whispered.
And yet, he felt exposed in a way he hadn't anticipated.
Among them all, he was the only phoenix.
And the only one without a body.
The Phoenix Scroll manifested before him, unfurling just enough for its glyphs to become legible. Its presence was quiet, respectful. The ancient characters shimmered softly, reacting to the cold flames as if recognizing a familiar kinship. It did not press instructions into his mind. It did not demand obedience.
It waited.
That patience unsettled him more than command ever could.
At the front of the terrace stood Bai Weiwei.
She was young—young enough that the ridges of her horns were still smooth, unmarked by age or battle. Her hair fell loose down her back, dark as polished ink, catching hints of blue from the surrounding flames. When she inhaled, a wisp of pale smoke escaped her lips instead of fire, dispersing quietly into the air.
A dragon who had not yet mastered her flame.
Yet when she stood, there was nothing uncertain about her presence.
Her posture was straight, her gaze attentive, her expression composed. She looked at the gathered cultivators not with superiority, but with responsibility.
"This is the Firelands of Cold Flames," she began, her voice calm and measured. "Here, flame does not exist to dominate. It exists to refine."
The words carried easily across the terraces.
"Cold flame responds to clarity of intent. The more turbulent your thoughts, the less it will answer you. Those who try to force it will find nothing but resistance."
Rong Qi listened closely.
He had known fire in many forms—raging infernos that devoured cities, sacred flames that marked rebirth, gentle warmth shared between kin. But this… this was different.
"This is not a place to prove strength," Bai Weiwei continued. "It is a place to learn restraint."
Her gaze passed briefly over Rong Qi—not lingering, not assessing—just acknowledging. And something inside him eased.
She did not see him as broken.
She saw him as unfinished.
"Begin by circulating your essence," she instructed. "Do not imagine fire as heat. Imagine it as memory. Fire remembers what it once was—and what it may become again."
Memory.
The word struck him harder than flame ever could.
Rong Qi felt his essence tremble faintly.
Memory was dangerous.
Memory carried the weight of wings he no longer possessed, skies he once ruled, voices long silenced. It carried the echo of a phoenix's cry that once split the heavens—and the emptiness that followed when that cry faded.
Still, he followed her instructions.
Slowly, carefully, he adjusted his essence, guiding it along the pathways Bai Weiwei described. Without a body, the sensation was strange—circulation felt less like movement and more like alignment, as though he were adjusting himself to an unseen current rather than flowing through one.
The cold flames responded almost immediately.
They drifted closer, brushing against his feather with gentle insistence. There was no pain. No shock. Just awareness.
They were testing him.
Rong Qi held his breath—an old habit, though he no longer needed to breathe.
The flames did not reject him.
They curled around his feather delicately, tracing its edges, responding to the rhythm of his essence. For a brief, fragile moment, he felt… acknowledged.
Not tolerated.
Not pitied.
Acknowledged.
The realization left him unsteady.
He had expected humiliation here. Expected to feel smaller than ever. Instead, he felt seen in a way that did not diminish him.
Still, doubt lingered.
He was older than many of these cultivators. Stronger, once. He had known power in its most unrestrained form. And now he hovered here, terrified that a careless breeze might scatter him into nothingness.
The thought returned unbidden:
You should not be here like this.
And then—another voice, careless and infuriating, echoed in his mind.
"Pretend you don't know me."
Jiang Yunxian.
That shameless man who laughed at rules and walked through danger as if it were a tavern doorway. The man who had treated emperors like drinking companions and fate like a poor joke.
Rong Qi's essence flickered.
He had agreed too easily.
Perhaps because part of him had known—this was something he could not avoid forever.
He had spent his life following others. First his monarch, then circumstance, then Jiang Yunxian's relentless momentum. It had been easier that way. Safer.
Here, there was no one to hide behind.
Only cultivation. Only truth.
Bai Weiwei moved among the terraces, offering quiet guidance. She corrected posture with words alone, adjusted breathing with subtle hand signs. When she reached Rong Qi, she paused.
"You're stabilizing well," she said softly. "But you're holding back."
Rong Qi didn't answer.
He wasn't sure how.
"You're afraid of dispersing," she continued, not unkindly. "That fear is natural. But cold flame does not scatter what is sincere."
Her words settled deep.
Slowly, cautiously, he loosened his control.
The cold flames responded, their glow brightening slightly as they circled him more fully. The sensation was overwhelming—not painful, but intense. His essence stretched, resonated, remembered.
For a fleeting instant, he felt the echo of wings.
Not real. Not yet.
But possible.
Tears—if a feather could cry—would have fallen then.
He steadied himself.
He was still afraid. Still fragile. Still incomplete.
But for the first time since losing his body, he felt something else beneath it all.
Resolve.
He would endure this.
He would learn.
And when next he stood beside Jiang Yunxian—
He would do so not as something carried in a lapel, nor as a relic of past glory.
But as himself.
A phoenix, reborn through patience.
---
The terraces of the Firelands stretched endlessly in pale, cold light, the soft glow of cold flames brushing against every carved stone and floating platform. Even in stillness, the flames were alive—swaying, curling, whispering a language that felt both ancient and intimate. Each flicker of blue, each wisp of pale smoke, seemed attuned to the thoughts of those who walked among them.
Rong Qi hovered atop his jade seat, the Phoenix Scroll folded neatly before him. Though it remained invisible to any eye but his own, its faint aura hummed softly, a subtle vibration against his feathered essence. His eyes were fixed on the soft spiral of cold flame encircling Bai Weiwei, her presence as steady and measured as the rhythm of the universe itself.
"Why do you hesitate?" Bai Weiwei asked, her voice a calm ripple across the terrace, carrying no judgment, only curiosity. She stood a few feet away, her gaze sliding over the pale glow that traced his feathered form. "You fear dispersal, do you not?"
Rong Qi stiffened. He wanted to argue, to feign confidence, to assert that fear had no place in him. Yet the cold flame brushed against the edges of his essence, probing the fractures he had long ignored.
"I… I am not used to this," he admitted quietly, the sound a ghost of a whisper, as if even the terrace might judge him. "I have… lived in footsteps, not in freedom. Always behind someone, always being carried. How am I to stand alone, even for a moment?"
Bai Weiwei tilted her head, letting her dark hair shift like ink in water. A faint puff of smoke escaped her lips, winding toward the cold flames, carrying a scent that reminded him vaguely of ironwood and frost. "To follow is easy," she said softly, "but to stand alone is where one begins to know oneself. You do not need to fear dispersal, Rong Qi. You need only embrace what you are."
He flinched slightly at her use of his name. Few ever dared call him so without reverence—or fear. The sound of it, spoken calmly, without awe or hesitation, struck a chord deep in his essence.
"Embrace…" he echoed, almost to himself. "I have forgotten what that feels like. I know only restraint… and imitation."
Bai Weiwei stepped closer, her talon-like fingers tracing faint sigils in the air as the cold flames mirrored her gestures, swirling in delicate spirals around him. "What you call imitation is survival. But survival alone is not enough. You are not meant merely to exist. You are meant to awaken, to refine, to become. That requires honesty… with yourself, above all else."
Rong Qi's essence trembled. Memories he had locked away clawed at the edges—the echoes of ancestors' wings, the faint warmth of kin long vanished, the knowledge of skies he had never truly seen. The Firelands of Cold Flames seemed to respond, the pale blue light deepening, wrapping him gently as if to whisper: You are seen. You are remembered.
"I do not know if I can," he confessed, voice trembling slightly. "I have followed a man—a careless, shameless human—through battles, through laughter, through… everything. And yet here I am, alone. I am not even sure I know myself anymore. How can I awaken when my own mind feels… hollow?"
Bai Weiwei's gaze softened. Her smoke curled around his essence, tracing gentle lines that seemed almost protective. "Hollow is not emptiness," she said. "It is space waiting to be filled. The world did not take from you—it prepared you. You have survived. That alone is a foundation stronger than most can imagine. Do not confuse quietness with weakness, Rong Qi. The phoenix endures because it knows it must, even when nothing surrounds it but silence."
He exhaled, the sound faint, almost imperceptible. "And yet… I am afraid," he admitted finally, the truth spilling from him in a way he had not allowed for centuries. "I am afraid that when I try to awaken, I will fail. That I will scatter, that I will be… nothing."
A small smile touched Bai Weiwei's lips, almost imperceptible. "That is the path of every phoenix," she said. "Every phoenix fears dispersal before rebirth. The difference is this: you are aware of your fear. That awareness… is what makes awakening possible. To ignore fear is to be crushed by it. To acknowledge it… is to bend it into purpose."
Rong Qi's essence shivered, and for a moment he could see the flames bending toward him, curling around him protectively, almost coaxingly. He wanted to speak, to ask for guidance, for a formula, for a method that could assure him of success. But Bai Weiwei did not offer instructions—not in the way a teacher might. She offered presence, patience, understanding.
"Do you know why the Firelands are named so?" she asked after a pause. "Cold Flames are not destructive. They do not burn indiscriminately. They refine, they reveal. They demand discipline but reward clarity. They reflect the practitioner as they truly are. If you cannot stand before them with honesty, you will be lost. But if you can… they will illuminate your path."
Rong Qi considered this. The pale flames coiled lazily around his feather, their cold light like water upon scales, like frost upon petals. For the first time in centuries, he felt the weight of his mistakes—the moments he had followed blindly, the moments he had hidden, the moments he had been silent. Yet, for the first time, he also felt the possibility of choice.
"I… I want to awaken," he said finally, more firmly than before. "I want to understand who I am… without following, without hiding."
Bai Weiwei nodded once, sharply. "Then begin. Let the cold flames judge not your power, but your intent. Let them trace your truth. And if you falter, do not fear the fall—it will not consume you, only reveal where you must refine."
A silence fell over the terraces. Even the pale flames seemed to hold their breath. Rong Qi inhaled—if a feather could inhale—and slowly let his essence stretch outward, reaching tentatively for the cold fire. The sensation was electric, ethereal, like touching the memory of wind itself.
The flames responded immediately. They did not burn. They did not push. They whispered, gently, as if reminding him: You are more than what you have been told. You are more than what you remember. You are more than the man who follows.
Tears—small, invisible, felt rather than seen—stung his core. Not from sadness, but from recognition. From relief. From the quiet surge of hope that had been buried under centuries of obedience and fear.
"I feel…" Rong Qi began, his essence trembling like the surface of a still pond disturbed by a single pebble, "I feel… alive."
"Good," Bai Weiwei said, her voice steady. "That is the first step. The Firelands do not grant power. They grant truth. And only by embracing truth can a phoenix truly rise."
For a long time, neither spoke. Cold flames licked the terraces, curling lazily around the distant forms of dragons and Ifrits, leaving their essence alone but not abandoned. The Firelands were not a battlefield. They were not a proving ground. They were a place to become.
And in that moment, Rong Qi understood.
He could no longer hide. He could no longer pretend. And perhaps, he did not need to.
A soft, almost imperceptible smile crept across what could be considered the edge of his consciousness. The weight of the past—the shame, the servitude, the endless following—did not vanish. But it no longer suffocated him. It became a foundation.
He would endure.
He would awaken.
And one day, he would stand—not behind anyone, not beneath anyone—but as himself. A phoenix, complete and luminous, in the light of the cold flames.