The night sky over Tenshigane was a suffocating blanket of ash and smoke. The iron fortress of the Iron Court loomed like a giant, a silhouette against the flickering fires that consumed Logan's village. Cries and screams shattered the cold silence as soldiers clad in gleaming Gōkin armor tore through the homes, their weapons singing death in the dark.
Logan knelt among the ruins, his breath ragged, his body bruised and bleeding. The smell of burning wood mixed with the metallic tang of blood filled his nostrils. His eyes scanned the chaos, desperate to find a sign, a flicker of life amidst the carnage. But the faces he loved were lost—his mother, father, little brother. All gone. The only thing that remained was a burning hunger—not just for food or survival, but for something far more potent: vengeance.
In his right hand, wrapped tightly in torn cloth, he clutched a strange fragment of cold metal. It pulsed faintly, as if alive. This was no ordinary piece of armor—it was a shard of a Divine Plate, a relic from the legendary Iron Court itself. The stories said the Divine Plates granted the wearers unstoppable strength and immortality. But to wield such power required a blood bond, a sacrifice.
Logan's gaze hardened. This fragment was his only chance.
---
He had stolen it from the Iron Court's armory during the chaos—a reckless, desperate move that nearly cost him his life. The soldiers had hunted him like a beast, their armor shining like the eyes of predators in the dark. He had no illusions about what would happen if they caught him. The Iron Court did not hesitate. Mercy was a forgotten word here.
But Logan was fueled by a flame that refused to die.
---
"I will take food right from the tiger's mouth," he whispered to himself, the ancient proverb burning in his mind.
The tiger was the Iron Court, the beast with claws sharp enough to tear entire villages apart. To steal from it was madness, but madness was all he had left.
---
Pain shot through his arm as he gritted his teeth and tightened his grip on the fragment. The blood bond was beginning, and it demanded a sacrifice—his sacrifice. The ritual was brutal. To fuse with the Ash Plate, he had to sever his right hand.
His breath hitched, vision blurring with tears and blood. With a trembling hand, he drew the dagger from his belt and plunged it deep into his wrist. The agony was immediate, sharp, a burning fire that threatened to consume him from within.
But Logan did not scream.
He clenched his teeth, biting down on his lip to keep the pain silent. Slowly, with gritted resolve, he severed his own hand, letting it fall to the ground with a soft thud.
---
The fragment flared violently, searing pain coursing through his veins as it bonded with the wound. It burned like a living ember, spreading through his body, igniting his spirit. The Ash Plate was alive inside him now—an ember in the ashes of his shattered life.
---
From the ruins, distant footsteps echoed. Soldiers were coming. Logan knew he could not stay. Bloodied and one-handed, he staggered to his feet, clutching the fragment tightly.
---
The city of Tenshigane was no sanctuary. It was a cage of steel and stone, ruled by Lord Shōren and his immortal knights. The Iron Court's gaze was unyielding, watching from its fortress, waiting for any flicker of rebellion to crush.
Logan's hunger was more than hunger—it was a spark in the darkness, a flame that dared to challenge the cold metal plates of the empire.
---
As he disappeared into the shadows, Logan's mind echoed with one thought:
> In a world where resistance feels like kicking a metal plate—hard, painful, and seemingly futile—I will be the flame that burns through iron.
---
The Beginning of a Rebellion
The next day, Logan found refuge in the slums—an endless maze of narrow alleys and crumbling buildings where the forgotten gathered. The people here bore the scars of the Iron Court's wrath: hunger, fear, and despair. Yet, in their eyes, Logan saw something else—a spark of hope, fragile but unbroken.
Among the crowd, a small girl approached him cautiously. Her clothes were ragged, but her eyes shone with fierce determination.
"You're the one they call the Starved Flame," she said quietly.
Logan nodded, his gaze steady.
"They say you took a piece of the Iron Court's armor… that you sacrificed your own hand."
"It's true," Logan replied. "And I'll sacrifice everything to end this tyranny."
The girl's face softened. "Then you're not alone. We all hunger for change."
---
But the Iron Court was not blind.
Within the fortress, Lord Shōren sat in his throne of black steel, the Voidplate armor encasing him like a second skin. His eyes were cold, unblinking, as he listened to the report.
"The boy survived the village's destruction," a soldier said. "He carries a fragment of the Ash Plate and severed his own hand to bind with it. They call him the Starved Flame."
Shōren's lips curled into a faint, cruel smile.
"Wantonly reckless," he murmured. "He bites the hand that feeds him, and now he bleeds from it. Let him burn. I will extinguish his flame personally."
---
The First Trial
Logan's journey would not be easy. Each step toward rebellion felt like kicking a metal plate—hard, painful, and seemingly futile. But his resolve was ironclad.
He trained in secret, learning to fight with one hand, mastering the Ash Plate's searing power. The fragment burned within him, a constant reminder of his sacrifice and his hunger.
The road ahead was dark, and the Iron Court's shadows were long. But Logan was no longer just a boy from a broken village. He was the ember that could ignite an inferno.
---
The Starved Flame had been lit.