The southern winds howled across the Valley of Teeth, carrying the scent of scorched sand and cold steel. Beneath a sky bruised with stormclouds, a small army marched—not with fanfare, but with the grim silence of something long dead returning to life.

  At the front rode a man cloaked in crimson and obsidian armor, his face hidden behind a dragon-shaped mask. Only his eyes burned—not red like Arjun's, but a deeper shade, like embers buried too long under ash.

  > [Name: Raaka]

  Role: Scion of the Shadow Court

  Karmic Status: Corrupted Flame

  Relationship to Arjun: Unknown

  The soldiers behind him bore no banners. Their blades were etched with forbidden runes, and their karma was twisted—each step they took left the ground slightly withered.

  Raaka pulled back his hood. “He awakens, and so must we,” he murmured. “Brother or not… if he claims the Throne, it must be earned.”

  In the heart of Arvadan, Arjun stood atop the half-burnt watchtower, overlooking the city's patchwork of survival. The phoenix had taken perch on the tower’s highest point, wings tucked and head bowed, like a guardian god awaiting orders.

  Arjun wasn’t alone.

  A quiet figure approached, barefoot, clothed in monk robes stained with dust and wine.

  “You are not the only fire-wielder anymore,” the monk said, sipping from a flask. “Raaka walks again.”

  Arjun turned sharply. “Raaka?”

  The monk nodded. “Once your kin. Now, the Crown’s Hound.”

  Flashes of memory surged—training under the temple’s waterfall, sparring sticks clashing, laughter, rivalry… betrayal.

  “He was dead,” Arjun whispered.

  “No,” the monk said. “He chose to live differently.”

  That night, the Fire root base trembled as an urgent call arrived.

  An outpost at the southern edge—burnt to the ground.

  No survivors.

  Meera dropped the map onto the table. “This wasn’t a raid. This was a warning. They want us to see.”

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Arjun clenched his fists, his karmic flame flickering around his hands.

  “They’re testing me,” he said. “Trying to shake the city’s faith in what we’ve built.”

  “Then give them no reason to doubt,” Meera replied. “We need action.”

  Arjun didn’t sleep. The visions came again—this time, not of past echoes, but future branches. Each path twisted with choices.

  One showed him ruling with peace… but being crushed by betrayal.

  Another showed him wielding overwhelming power… but becoming feared.

  And a third—more subtle—showed Raaka offering him his hand. A union. A shared throne.

  One flame, two kings.

  He awoke in sweat, the phoenix staring down at him.

  The next day, Raaka appeared at the city’s edge—alone.

  He did not bring an army. Just a black horse, and a sealed scroll bound with silver thorns.

  “I come to speak with the fire-child,” he declared, voice like gravel dragged across metal.

  Arjun met him outside the gates, with Meera and three Fire root captains flanking him.

  “No tricks,” Arjun said.

  “No need,” Raaka replied. “I did not come to kill you. Not yet.”

  He tossed the scroll forward. Arjun caught it. The wax seal dissolved upon his touch.

  Inside, it read:

  > The Karmic Throne does not belong to the virtuous. It belongs to the worthy.

  Join me. Together, we can break the system that uses men as fuel.

  Refuse, and I will become the mirror you are forced to kill.

  Either way, the throne will rise.

  Meera leaned in. “He wants an alliance?”

  Arjun looked up. “No… he wants a brother.”

  Raaka removed his mask. His face was older, more lined, but unmistakably familiar.

  “I burned, Arjun,” he said. “Like you. But the fire offered me a different truth. Mercy is a chain. Righteousness, a lie.”

  “You’re wrong,” Arjun said, his flame coiling like a serpent around his arm. “Mercy is what keeps us from becoming monsters.”

  Raaka smiled—not cruelly, but with something almost like sorrow.

  “Then prove it.”

  He vanished in smoke, but his voice echoed:

  “You have seven days. Meet me at the Pillars of Shakti. Choose your path there.”

  The days that followed tested Arjun more than any battle.

  Word of Raaka’s offer spread. Some believed he should accept, unite the flames and build a new kingdom.

  Others—especially the elders of the slums—called it a trap, a moral infection that would undo everything.

  Inside the Fire root council, arguments raged.

  “He’s stronger than us,” one of the captains said. “This is not cowardice—it’s strategy.”

  Meera slammed her fist into the table. “This is not just a war of weapons! It’s a war of karma. If he leads, we win the battle and lose our souls.”

  All eyes turned to Arjun.

  He had not spoken for an hour.

  When he finally did, his voice was soft.

  “I will go.”

  Gasps followed.

  “But I go not to submit,” Arjun said. “I go to remind him what we once believed in. If there’s any spark of honor left, I’ll find it.”

  “And if there’s not?” Meera asked.

  Arjun’s flame pulsed, golden and fierce.

  “Then I will be the fire that purifies him.”

  On the eve of his departure, Arjun sat alone atop the temple ruins.

  The phoenix descended beside him, resting its head against his shoulder.

  “I don’t want to kill him,” Arjun said. “But I can’t let his path spread.”

  The bird chirped softly—and a new system prompt rang in his mind:

  > [New Trait Unlocked: Voice of Karma]

  You may now influence corrupted souls through dialogue and proximity.

  Chance of redemption increases based on emotional ties and moral conviction.

  Arjun stood, determination in his eyes.

  “I will offer him a way back. Once.”

  He turned to the horizon where the Pillars of Shakti loomed—a temple ruined by time, and now, destined to witness history again.

  “If he refuses…”

  The flame ignited around him, now tinged with blue at its core.

  “…I will end what the fire began.”