WORLDBREAKER: Rise of the Reborn Flame

Into the crucible.

The borderlands stank of death. Not of fresh death that was sharp and coppery. This was old death, woven into the soil, thick in the rivers, clinging to the very wind. It smelled of rust and ash, of ancient bones ground into powder beneath decades of boots and beast claws.

Adam walked the edge of a cracked road, flanked on either side by scorched trees and decaying fences. His boots were caked in dried blood. His blade still plain to look at hung loosely from his hip, its essence now humming beneath the surface like a sleeping beast.

He hadn’t seen another living soul in two days.

But he wasn’t alone. Not truly.

He could feel them now. Aura signatures. Hidden energies flickering in the distance like lanterns under murky water. Some were small animals, human, dying. Others were vast and cold and wrong, waiting behind the trees like forgotten gods.

This land had once belonged to men.

Now it belonged to war.

He crested a ridge at dusk and saw them: the war camps.

Dozens of them spread like pustules across the cracked plain, encircled by jagged wooden palisades. Fires burned in iron pits. Smoke spiraled skyward in black ribbons. Soldiers moved through the camps like ants, carrying crates of weapons, bloodied armor, bags of rotting provisions.

To the far west, a great wall shimmered faintly. A magical barrier, the last defense before the true beastlands began.

Adam crouched low, studying the layout. One camp bore the sigil of the Crimson Sun, a rising star pierced by two swords. A kingdom he didn’t recognize. Another camp flew the green wyvern banner of Feldmar, the southern realm Clara had spoken of. Yet another flew no banner at all, just black cloth soaked in dried blood.

Mercenaries. Cultivators. Rogue sects.

Desperate men gathering like flies.

Something was coming.

He could feel it in his bones.

Adam didn’t approach through the gates.

He waited until night, slipping through the outer perimeter like smoke. His training with Walter had taught him how to move in silence, but the Essence within him made it more like he wasn’t just unseen but unnoticed, a shadow with no weight.

He entered one of the smaller camps, skirting around patrols, until he found a tent glowing with arcane light.

He listened to the voices inside.

“They say the horde’s swelling again.”

A grunt. “No surprise. The last raid didn’t break their numbers. Just pissed them off.”

“The Crimson King’s sending emissaries. They want to recruit more cultivators and there are promises of land and titles.”

“Hah. And what’s the cost? Half your soul?”

“Better than getting gutted by ogres.”

Then there was a brief moment of silence

“You hear about the one who came out of the Maw?”

Adam stiffened.

“Heard he walked out glowing. Killed a dozen bone-ghouls with a wooden stick.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, I swear. Some say he is one of the chosen. That he has got the Mark.”

“The Mark? You mean the…?”

“Shhh.”

Someone had shushed them, their voices were becoming louder than necessary. Afterwards the conversation became more quiet making it harder for Adam to eavesdrop so he slipped away.

But the damage was done.

He knew very well that they were already aware of his encounter and were talking about it.

He was halfway to the outer trench when he was spotted.

Not by a guard but a cultivator.

The man dropped from the shadows like a hawk, wrapped in a cloak of stitched hides. His face was masked, eyes glowing faint green. Two curved blades hung from his belt, humming with barely contained Essence.

“You don’t belong here,” he growled.

Adam raised his hands. “Just passing through.”

The man tilted his head. “Essence signature like that? You’re not passing through anything. You’re hunting.”

“I’m trying to survive.”

“That's the same thing.”

The man moved like lightning.

Adam barely raised his sword in time. The impact sent shockwaves through his arms. The masked cultivator spun, slashed again essence trailing from his blades like oil smoke.

Adam dodged, countered. His sword gleamed. The two clashed in a flurry of light and steel, sparks flying across the dirt. Shouts rose in the camp.

Adam feinted, twisted, then dropped low and unleashed a burst of aura from his palm. The force sent his attacker stumbling back.

“You’ve got a good core,” the man growled. “Shame to waste it.”

He lunged again.

Adam stepped forward, parried, and slammed the hilt into the man’s jaw. As the cultivator reeled, Adam slashed a shallow cut across his side, not enough to kill, but enough to mark.

The man fell to one knee, breathing hard.

“Name?” Adam asked.

“Kael.”

“Why attack me?”

“Orders. The camps don’t trust wanderers anymore. Too many spies. Too many beasts that can wear skin.”

Adam hesitated.

“Get out of here,” Kael rasped. “Before the others come. They won’t ask questions.”

Adam turned.

Then Kael called after him, voice weaker.

“If you want power… real power… find the Shattered Sect.”

Adam paused. “Where?”

“They don’t recruit. They watch. If they want you, they’ll find you.”

He fled the camp before sunrise.

The next few days were a blur of travel. He hunted what he could, rabbits, root-vines, the occasional bloated mushroom that didn’t glow too violently. He meditated at dawn and dusk, refining his core, letting his body adapt to the new rhythm of Essence.

He fought three more times.

Once, a corrupted boar with tusks the size of tree trunks.

Once, a deserter who tried to steal his blade.

And once, with a ghost.

She had stood in the middle of the road, pale, barefoot, eyes black. No words. No breath. Just silence.

He’d tried to speak.

She’d raised a finger and the trees around him had screamed.

It took every ounce of his aura to break the illusion. When he came to, his hands were bloody. His ears rang for hours after.

There were things in this world far older than war.

And far more dangerous.

On the eighth night, he dreamed again.

But this time, the tower was gone.

In its place stood a gate of bone, carved with runes that writhed when he looked too closely. Beyond the gate, chains hung from the sky, each link pulsing with crimson light. A thousand voices whispered his name.

“One death birthed you.”

“A thousand deaths will forge you.”

He stepped forward.

And woke with blood dripping from his nose.

The next morning, he found her.

A girl, maybe sixteen, sitting atop a dead troll.

Her hair was braided tight, her cloak tattered, but her eyes were sharp. She held a spear longer than she was tall and it was buried in the troll’s eye.

“About time,” she said, not looking up.

Adam froze. “Do I know you?”

“No. But they do.”

She pointed to the sky.

Adam looked up and saw nothing but clouds.

She grinned.

“Name’s Nyra. I’ve been waiting for you."

She led him to a cave hidden beneath a crumbled ruin. Inside were sigils, old magic circles, and weapons that pulsed with lingering Essence. She moved with confidence, flicking her spear against the walls as she spoke.

“You’ve stirred something,” Nyra said. “Something old. The Maw only awakens when a Chosen walks the earth.”

“I’m not chosen.”

She laughed. “Says every Chosen ever.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Not me. Them.”

She pointed again, this time to a glyph etched into the cave floor. It shimmered.

Then spoke, not with words nor signals but with memories.

He saw flashes.

A great war in the sky.

A sword that shattered stars.

A king with no name sitting atop a mountain of corpses.

And a boy alone.

Bleeding and walking into the dark.

Adam staggered back. “What… was that?”

Nyra’s eyes narrowed. “A warning.”

“About what?”

She looked at him not with amusement this time, but pity.

“You.”