Ten years had passed since Fei He was dragged into the stone‑walled cell of the Hall of Shackles. The room was a tomb of cold basalt, its only light a thin, amber glow that seeped through a crack in the ceiling. Day and night blended into a single, endless stretch, and the clank of iron chains became the rhythm of his existence. Yet, within that darkness, a fire never truly died.
At first, Fei He's training was nothing more than whispered memories. He recalled his mother's lullaby, the cadence of breath that turned air into wind, and the first ember that had ever sparked from his palm. He practiced in secret, using the tiny crack of light as a focus point. He would close his eyes, feel the faint heat of the stone, and imagine a flame growing from his core. Each night, he pressed his palm against the cold floor, channeling his breath, and willed a spark to appear. At first, only a trembling flicker emerged, sputtering out as quickly as it came. But he persisted, counting each breath, each heartbeat, each failed attempt as a lesson.
Months turned into years. He learned to shape the flame, coaxing it into thin ribbons that danced along his fingertips. He discovered that fire was not merely destruction; it could be a source of warmth, a beacon, a tool. He practiced creating small, controlled bursts—_Ignis Punctum_—to melt tiny ice crystals that formed on the walls, turning them into steam that rose like ghostly veils. He then moved on to _Flammae Velo_, a swirling vortex of fire that could sweep across a room, testing its reach and intensity. With each new spell, he etched symbols into the stone floor using molten ash, a silent record of his progress.
His body, once frail, grew lean and muscular from the constant exertion. He learned to channel his emotions—anger, fear, hope—into the fire, making it burn hotter and brighter. He practiced _Cinder Shield_, a protective barrier of ember that could deflect a blade, and _Ashen Step_, a quick dash leaving a trail of harmless sparks that confused his captors. He spent countless nights meditating on the nature of fire, feeling its dual nature of creation and destruction, and in doing so, he forged a deep, intuitive bond with the element.
On the tenth anniversary of his imprisonment, the night sky outside the crack was a deep indigo, and a storm raged beyond the temple walls. Fei He felt a surge of power, a culmination of a decade's worth of discipline. He placed both hands on the iron shackle that bound his ankle, and with a focused breath, he whispered the ancient chant of _Ignis Fractura_. Heat radiated from his palms, and the metal began to glow, turning from cold steel to a white‑hot liquid. The shackle softened, then melted, dripping away like molten wax.
The chains fell, clattering to the stone floor. Fei He stood, muscles trembling with newfound strength, and raised his arms. A torrent of fire erupted from his core, forming a vortex that shattered the stone walls of his cell. The ceiling crack widened, and a shaft of moonlight poured in, illuminating his path. With a final, triumphant roar, he stepped out of the Hall of Shackles, the fire at his back lighting the night. He was no longer a child marked by a sigil; he was a master of fire, and his escape marked the first step toward a rebellion that would shake the very foundations of the Gods' Realm.