The Ascension of the suppressed Dragon

They say the blood of a phoenix burns brighter than any star.

They lied.

It didn’t burn bright.

It burned everything away.

“Breathe, Feng’er.”

My uncle’s voice came to me through the roar in my ears, steady and patient, like a hand pressed gently against my back.

“Slowly,” Ling Zhaoyang said. “In. Then out.”

I tried. The stone altar beneath me was freezing, the chill seeping straight into my bones, yet inside me, heat raged unchecked. It felt like molten metal being poured through my veins, searching for somewhere to escape.

“I am breathing,” I said, my voice strained. “It doesn’t stop the pain.”

Zhaoyang leaned closer. I could smell the faint bitterness of incense on his robes.

“It’s not supposed to,” he replied calmly. “Pain is part of awakening. You’re enduring something generations before you failed to survive.”

My fingers trembled as they dug into the jade edge of the altar.

“It feels like it’s tearing me apart,” I whispered. “Like my body can’t hold it.”

“That means the Phoenix recognizes you.”

Around us, the Ancestral Hall echoed with chanting. Elder voices rose and fell together, ancient words vibrating through the pillars, through my bones, through the glowing Phoenix Totem suspended above my chest. Golden light poured down into me, and I cried out despite myself.

“Easy,” Zhaoyang murmured. “Don’t fight it.”

“I’m scared,” I admitted, my breath coming unevenly. “What if I fail?”

“You won’t,” he said without hesitation. “You’re Ling Feng. You were born for this.”

The words steadied me.

“I just don’t want to disappoint Father,” I said quietly. “Or Mother.”

Zhaoyang’s hand rested on my shoulder. Firm. Comforting.

“They’re very proud of you,” he said. “They always have been.”

The chanting shifted.

Something changed. I felt it before I heard it—a tightening in the air, like the moment before a blade is drawn.

Then came the sound. A faint metallic scrape.

I frowned. “Uncle… what was that?”

His hand didn’t move from my shoulder.

“The elders adjusting the formation,” he said smoothly.

But the sound came again. Closer.

My heart began to pound.

“I can’t move,” I said suddenly. Panic crept into my voice. “Why can’t I move?”

“Don’t struggle,” Zhaoyang said quietly. “You’ll injure yourself.”

“Injure myself how?” I demanded.

He didn’t answer.

Cold brushed my chest.

I looked down.

A needle hovered over my sternum—long, uneven, black runes crawling across its surface like living veins.

My breath caught.

“That’s not part of the Awakening,” I said. “The scrolls—”

“The scrolls are incomplete,” Zhaoyang replied.

My throat tightened. “That’s a Soul-Binding Needle.”

“Yes.”

“You said this was an Awakening,” I whispered.

“And it is,” he agreed. “Just not yours.”

My mind reeled. “Uncle… I don’t understand.”

“You were too brilliant,” he said calmly. “Too visible.”

“Why are you saying this?”

“Because stars that outshine their masters must be eclipsed.”

The hall doors exploded inward.

“Zhaoyang!”

My father’s voice thundered through the chamber as he burst inside, sword drawn, golden aura blazing. My mother followed, her face pale, healing light already gathering in her hands.

“Get away from my son,” my father roared.

Relief surged through me. “Father!”

Zhaoyang didn’t even turn.

“You’re late,” he said mildly.

“Step away,” Father warned. “Now.”

Zhaoyang sighed. “You always were impulsive.”

Father lunged.

“Wait—!” I shouted.

Zhaoyang moved.

Too fast.

One moment he stood beside me.

The next—

“Father!”

Blood sprayed across the marble. My father froze, eyes wide, before collapsing.

“No—!” My scream tore out of me.

My mother caught him as he fell.

“Tian!” she cried, her voice breaking.

Zhaoyang wiped the needle clean.

“Sentiment,” he said. “Always your weakness.”

“You murdered him!” my mother screamed. “He was your brother!”

“Blood is currency,” Zhaoyang replied.

Four elders stepped forward, spears raised.

“Move,” Zhaoyang said calmly, “and she dies.”

“Feng’er…” my mother whispered.

“Stop!” I shouted. “Take me! Leave her alone!”

Zhaoyang looked at me.

“I am.”

The spears thrust.

My mother fell across my father’s body.

The chanting stopped. The hall went silent.

Zhaoyang turned back to me.

“Now,” he said, “the Phoenix Root.”

“Traitor,” I breathed.

The needle plunged into my chest.

Agony exploded. I screamed until my voice broke, until there was nothing left. I felt it being torn out of me—every drop of cultivation, every spark of warmth.

“Yes,” Zhaoyang murmured. “This is perfection.”

Something inside me snapped. I went hollow.

“You are nothing now,” he said.

Chains clamped around my limbs. He dragged me across the blood-slick floor, out, and toward the cliff.

“Any last words?” he asked.

“You’ll regret this,” I said faintly.

He smiled.

And let go.

I fell. The mist parted. Stone rushed up.

CRACK.

Darkness swallowed me.

Then—cold. Hunger.

Black light pulsed in my chest.

“What…?” I coughed.

Shadows moved. They entered me. My body reformed. My core twisted.

My eyes opened.

Void stared back.

I stood.

Above me—the cliff.

“Zhaoyang,” I whispered.

The darkness answered.