In the stone bowl, the flame was only the size of a pea, its color a deep crimson, with a heart as black as iron.
It burned quietly, without the leaping frivolity of ordinary Spiritual Fire, imbued with the aura of ancient times.
Fire Seed!
Ning Zhuo was acutely aware of its preciousness.
"This fire is called Blood Ash," said the Red Robe Guest, his tone calm and composed, "Years ago, I obtained it at an Ancient Altar, half-sunken underground, surrounded by scorched earth for a hundred li, withered Spiritual Energy, and no growth of plants. Only this one fire in the bowl, undying through millennia."
Ning Zhuo focused his attention.
He saw outside the flame, fine red ash like dust slowly swirling. The ash did not disperse, merely rising and falling with the flame's intent, gathering and scattering, like remnants of some ancient ritual law.
