Chapter Six: The Gate of Ashes
Ash rained from the skies like snow.
The mountains were silent save for distant thunder, a memory of the storm that had forged Mingyao anew. He stood at the temple's threshold, his back to Tianzuo, the heat of the phoenix tattoo still simmering across his spine.
"Speak," he said.
Tianzuo's voice was low, steady. "You are not human, Mingyao."
The words fell like stones.
"What?" Mingyao turned, eyes stormlit. "Then what am I?"
"You are the convergence of divine and cursed blood. Your mother, Lianhua… she was more than what she seemed. And I—"
"You lied," Mingyao cut in, voice trembling. "My whole life, you let me believe I was just… a boy. A student. Your son."
"You are my son," Tianzuo said, stepping closer. "But the truth would have destroyed you before you were ready. I had to—"
"No," Mingyao spat, stepping back. "You chose to lie. All of you."
Tianzuo's face, once unreadable as a mountain, cracked with grief. "If you run now, the world will break before you understand what you are."
"Then let it break," Mingyao said, voice hollow. "Because I already have."
And he ran.
---
He didn't know how far his feet carried him—through forests, over cliffs, across shallow rivers lit by moonlight. The wind howled, carrying his fury, and the pendant at his chest glowed faintly, its rhythm dulled.
By dawn, he found himself standing before a blackened field. It stretched to the horizon, scorched and still. Weapons jutted from the earth like broken teeth. Banners, once proud, lay in tatters beneath the ash.
He had stumbled into a grave.
An ancient battlefield.
The air tasted of iron and regret.
Mingyao moved forward, drawn by some quiet pull. The pendant was pulsing again—faster, sharper. He stepped between shattered helms and rusted swords, his boots stirring the gray dust of a thousand fallen.
Then the wind died.
And the whispers began.
He spun around. Shadows rippled through the ash. The battlefield groaned, and slowly, figures began to rise—transparent, flickering, broken.
The dead.
Dozens of ghostly warriors stood among the wreckage, their eyes hollow with rage.
One stepped forward, sword dragging behind him.
"Divine blood," the ghost hissed, voice echoing from a ruined throat. "You wear the mark of flame."
Mingyao took a step back. "I don't want to fight you."
"But we want you," another spirit snarled. "Our war never ended. And your kind let us die."
They rushed him.
Mingyao barely had time to summon flame. He raised his hands, and fire licked across his arms—wild, unstable. He ducked a spear, parried a ghostly axe, and countered with a burst of phoenix fire that lit the sky orange.
It didn't matter.
They kept coming.
For every specter burned, three more rose.
He was being dragged under—by guilt, by exhaustion, by the hands of those who'd perished long before he was born.
Then came a scream.
A real one.
And a spear of obsidian burst through the nearest ghost's chest.
Mingyao blinked as a blur of red and black spun past him. A girl—barely older than him, silver hair wild and tangled—landed beside him, breathing hard, eyes fierce.
"You fight like a deer on fire," she muttered.
"Excuse me?"
She elbowed him aside and spun, slicing down a phantom with a curved dagger. "Keep them off me, hothead."
Mingyao growled, summoning flame to his fists. "Don't order me around."
"Then die. Your choice."
Together, they fought.
Mingyao's fire clashed with her strange, ink-dark weaponry—every blow coordinated as if they'd trained together for years. She moved like a shadow, dancing between ghosts, her strikes precise and brutal. He followed, adapting instinctively.
Minutes passed. Then hours.
And finally—silence.
The battlefield stilled.
The ghosts were gone.
The girl collapsed to the ground with a heavy sigh. "You're lucky I was here."
Mingyao panted, wiping blood—his or someone else's—from his lip. "Who the hell are you?"
"Yanshi," she said, sitting up. "Daughter of the Butcher General of the Nine Hells. Exiled. Hated. Now, your temporary savior."
Mingyao froze. "You're a demon?"
She rolled her eyes. "I was born one. Doesn't mean I like it. Or them."
He studied her warily. Her eyes weren't red. Not sharp or cruel. Just tired.
"I'm Mingyao."
"Yeah," Yanshi muttered. "Figured. Divine boy. The storm heir. Whole underworld's whispering about you."
He sat beside her, the silence between them thick with questions neither knew how to ask.
Finally, she spoke.
"Why were you here?"
"I ran," he said simply.
"From what?"
"My father. The truth. Myself."
She didn't laugh. Didn't mock. She just nodded. "Makes sense."
He tilted his head. "Why are you here?"
She shrugged. "Looking for a way to kill my father."
Mingyao blinked. "...Oh."
"Don't worry," she said with a crooked grin. "You're not my type. I like my men miserable, angry, and cursed by fate."
He snorted. "Sounds about right."
They sat quietly again, ash swirling around them.
"You know," Yanshi said, voice softer now, "this place is called the Gate of Ashes. Thousands died here during the War of Red Skies. Angels, demons, mortals. No one even remembers who started it."
"Why do the ghosts linger?"
"Because no one won."
Mingyao looked at the field again—at the bones of glory and failure. "Do you think they hate us?"
"They envy us," Yanshi said. "We're still alive. We still get to choose."
The words struck him deeper than he expected.
He looked at her again—this strange, bitter girl with demon blood and eyes that knew too much.
"I don't know what I'm supposed to be," he confessed. "Not human. Not divine. Just… broken pieces."
Yanshi stood, stretching. "Then be broken. Be rage. Be ashes. Whatever you are—own it."
She held out her hand.
Mingyao stared at it for a moment. Then took it.
And for the first time in days, the storm inside him eased.
Just a little.
---
Far above, in the Heavenly Court, beneath a thousand banners of gold, the gods had convened.
The Jade Pavilion burned with divine light. Nüxi, robed in threads of stars, stood before twelve thrones, her face grave.
"The heir has survived the Thunder Trial."
Murmurs rippled through the assembly.
"He now walks among mortals," Nüxi continued. "And his storm grows stronger."
A lion-headed god snarled. "Then strike him down before he becomes another Maoshinara!"
"No," a silver-helmed war deity said. "To kill him now would only fulfill the serpent's prophecy."
Nüxi raised a hand, silencing them. "We watch. We wait. If he ascends too far, we act."
Across the court, a quiet voice whispered, unheard by most—
"Or perhaps… he is what we need."
---
In the Nine Hells, the Butcher General Xianmu sat on a throne of bone.
Her horns pulsed. Her eyes narrowed.
"She lives," she said, sensing her daughter.
"And he lives."
She rose, her blades hissing with heat.
"Then let them find each other. Let the world break on their bond."
---
And somewhere deep beneath the Gate of Ashes, buried beneath war and time…
Something opened its eyes.
---