Chapter 3

Silvermist City's Autumn Tournament—an annual spectacle.

The circular arena at Silver Square could hold twenty thousand spectators. Above the main stands, four magic water mirrors floated. The noble boxes were positioned at the southernmost high point, sealed by one-way glass magic. I'd registered under the identity of a freelance mercenary—"Ember." There were one hundred and twenty-eight contestants, elimination style.

My first-round opponent was an ice mage, about thirty, well-equipped—enchanted leather armor, an amplification ring on each hand. The moment he stepped onto the stage, he spread an ice field across the entire platform, a three-inch layer of ice.

The audience erupted with cheers.

I stood my ground. When the ice reached my feet, dark flame seeped out from beneath my soles. Not burning—devouring. The instant the ice touched the dark flame, it vanished—not melted, but erased from existence. Within three seconds, the ice field had been gnawed into a perfect circle centered on me.

Dark flame's consumption worked on three levels. The first was magical constructs—ice formed by the mage's magic, amplification runes on enchanted gear—those were consumed fastest; magic itself was the dark flame's fuel. The second was natural matter—ordinary water, stone, steel—consumed slowly, only through the dark flame's physical heat. The third was the active magic circulating within a living being—it could only be consumed through direct contact; at a distance, it was useless. As for perception—the dark flame could only sense active magic emissions. Dormant, hidden, or unactivated magic, it couldn't detect.

The ice mage's expression shifted. He flung his hands—three ice shards shot toward me in a triangular formation. The dark flame coalesced into a thin wall before me. The shards hit it and vanished like droplets falling into a furnace—without a sound.

I took a step forward. The dark flame traced the ice field's magical conduits backward, reaching his amplification rings in an instant. Both rings shattered at once. The ice field collapsed; all the ice vanished, and the arena lights even flickered for a moment—the dark flame hadn't just consumed the ice, but also the portion of light it had been refracting.

When the dark flame struck his chest, the feedback told me—it didn't penetrate. His enchanted leather armor had absorbed part of the initial impact; the dark flame instantly consumed the armor's protective runes, but the physical leather layer absorbed some of the force. So he was sent flying, not pierced through. That was another limitation of the dark flame: its physical destructive power depended on how condensed it was. I'd only used three-tenths of its power in that strike—he was a first-round opponent, no need to kill.

The ice mage flew backward, hit the protective barrier, and slid to the ground.

The referee paused for two seconds before raising his hand: "Winner—Ember!"

The crowd was silent for a moment, then burst into murmurs. The magic water mirrors replayed the scene. I didn't look at the audience. I looked at the highest box to the south—the noble box. Based on the memories of my past life, the crown prince always brought Gareth to the tournament, having him compose impromptu verses to add to the spectacle. Today was likely no exception.

The second round was that afternoon. My opponent was Lawrence Silver. Three-time defending champion, a light-magic swordsman, Silvermist City's hero. He stood across from me, his enchanted armor glowing with a pale gold light.

"Your flame is unusual," he said, his voice steady. "I've never seen flame that devours magic."

"I don't want a war of attrition." He raised his longsword, the tip aimed at me. "Thirty exchanges to decide it."

"Fine."

I moved. The dark flame slammed into his holy shield; the shield's light seemed to be gnawed at, the edges turning jagged with gaps. He reacted fast—the moment the gap appeared, his blade was already at my throat, the holy light on the sword aimed straight at my magic core.

I sidestepped. The dark flame coiled around the blade; the holy light was consumed inch by inch. Lawrence pulled back and pivoted to purely physical attacks—thrust, slash, feint, cut—every strike precise, as if measured with a ruler. He hadn't made it to three-time champion on gear alone.

On the eleventh exchange, his blade grazed my left shoulder. Blood seeped out, staining the gray fabric of my mercenary's uniform.

He thought that with my left shoulder wounded, my right side would lag by half a beat. That was a swordsman's muscle memory. But it didn't. The dark flame consumed the pain—the wound was just a physical gap. I deliberately exposed my right chest for half a beat, baiting him in.

On the twelfth exchange, he lunged forward.

The dark flame exploded. Not outward—inward. I let it burst inside my body, then reached out with my right hand and grabbed his blade directly. The dark flame enveloped the sword—steel was different from magic; consumption was slower, but it was enough to stall the blade for an instant. That instant was all I needed: my left hand was already pressing against his chest, right over his holy shield.

When I caught his sword, the light-magic runes on the blade had already been devoured. That meant his enchanted weapon was now an ordinary iron sword. For Lawrence Silver, without light-magic enhancement, his swordsmanship could only perform at seventy percent. My left hand was over his chest—right above his magic core. He understood what that meant.

The dark flame surged. Three seconds—the holy shield shattered completely.

I didn't press the attack. I released his blade and stepped back.

Lawrence looked down at his chest plate, pitted and scarred by the dark flame. Then he looked at me. He held my gaze for three seconds, then drove his sword into the arena's stone floor and knelt on one knee.

"I yield. You could have killed me three times just now."

He stood up, dusted the limestone dust from his knees. "Ember." He repeated it once, nodded. "Next year, I'll come looking for you again." He turned and walked off the stage, then looked back halfway. "Stay safe. That thing of yours—some people will be afraid of it."

I understood what he meant.

As I walked off the stage, the arena tunnel was crowded with contestants waiting for their next matches. Some made way; some averted their eyes. I passed through the tunnel and stopped at a basin in the contestant resting area to wash the blood from my left shoulder wound. The water was cold—it felt good against the wound. Then a steward in an Ashton family uniform pushed through the crowd and handed me a note. The note bore the Ashton family's lily wax seal, with fine, neat handwriting: "By the east pillar. —L"

She was there.

Leonora stood in the shadow of the pillar, wearing a pale blue dress, a silk scarf covering the dragonbone fragment below her collarbone. Her face was far paler than the first time I'd seen her in my past life—her lips nearly bloodless. The dragonbone's backlash had already begun.

She held a glass of wine in her hand.

"Congratulations." She handed it to me.

I took the glass. The rim was dusted with an extremely fine powder—moonstone powder. In my past life, I'd always wiped the rim for her, because she was "frail." This time, I didn't. When she passed the glass, her ring finger brushed the back of my hand—barely a second, incredibly light. In my past life, when she handed me things, her fingers stayed strictly on the lower third of the glass; if she couldn't reach me, she simply wouldn't. This touch was deliberate. She was waiting for me to pull away—if someone suddenly touched me in the past, I'd instinctively step back. I didn't.

I drained the glass in one go.

"Looking for someone?" I asked.

"I'm looking for someone." Her eyes were fixed on my face, her voice soft. "He used to... wipe the rim for me. Every time before I drank, he'd run his thumb around the edge. He did it for three years, never once forgetting." She was waiting for me to respond. In my past life, if someone mentioned "wiping the rim," I would have frowned—because that was something only she and I shared. I didn't frown.

"Maybe he forgot."

"But he wouldn't." She lifted her head, her gray-green eyes fixed straight on me. "He wouldn't forget something like that."

The sunlight outside the pillars was split into alternating strips of light and shadow by the dome. Half her face was in the light—pale and fragile; the other half in shadow—those eyes, sharp, composed, measuring the expressions on my face inch by inch.

"I know it's you." She said it, not as a question—a statement. She wasn't asking me—she was telling me she'd confirmed it.

I didn't deny it. I didn't confirm it either. I set the empty glass on the stone ledge, leaned down, and brought my lips close to her ear. She smelled of moonstone and dragonbone powder, and beneath that, a fainter scent—almost undetectable—fear.

"I know everything about you—" I said slowly.

Her fingers, clutching my sleeve, tightened.