While the soldiers scoured the lands beyond the northern wall, combing every inch for signs of invasion or disturbance, he remained behind, still.

Not idle,never idle.

Each day, without fail, he devoted himself to one single purpose: to stoke the flame inside his body. Not metaphorically, but literally. Within him, a fire burned,his Mystic, the crimson blaze. He spent hours in focused meditation, guiding and coaxing that fire to grow, to expand, to evolve.

And when he wasn’t engaged in that internal battle, he trained with a sword under the stern gaze of Lucar, the former Count and a knight whose blade had once been feared across the empire. Every session left him exhausted, his limbs leaden and sore, muscles trembling from overuse. He would collapse onto his bed afterward, letting the silence wrap around him as he turned his attention inward once more.

There, around his heart, the flame formed a ring,slow, solemn, yet unshakably proud. It was the flame of the Crimson Heart, clean and bright, moving through his body like sacred energy.

And yet… no matter how much he circulated it, no matter how sharply he focused, the fire refused to grow.

Not like it had before.

Was this a wall he couldn’t break?

Had he reached the end of what the Crimson Heart could give?

Or… was he the problem?

“Not enough,” he muttered to himself, barely audible over the rustle of cold wind beyond the training yard.

Lucar, who was observing from afar, turned his head slightly. His ears were sharp, even at his age.

“What isn’t enough, Your Highness?” he called out.

“My growth,” came the reply. “It’s too slow. The enemy grows ever closer, and I,I’m lagging behind. I need another method.”

Lucar approached, arms folded. “Do you expect to master everything in days?”

“No. But I know I won’t survive with what I have now. I can feel it. This pace isn’t fast enough.”

He hadn’t expected anything from voicing his frustration aloud. Men like Lucar,masters of their field,were always the same. They would give the same stale advice: Don’t be impatient. Focus on the present. Swing enough and enlightenment will follow.

But Lucar, to his credit, was not a man of tired phrases.

“You’re not aiming for enlightenment, are you?” the old knight asked, eyes gleaming.

“Far from it. I’m aiming to live.”

“In that case… then you must grow stronger. By any means necessary.”

“Exactly.”

Lucar was silent for a beat, then said, “I’ve heard rumors that you control fire. That it’s a Mystic. My son described it as something otherworldly. Is it like the one used during the Founding Ritual?”

“It’s similar enough.”

“Then…” Lucar’s gaze drifted toward the center of camp, where a great bonfire burned in an iron pit, wreathed with arcane symbols and protection wards. “What if you went in there?”

He pointed directly at the fire.

A pause.

“What, into the flame?” the prince frowned. “The area’s surrounded with magic circles and dangerous devices. No one who enters comes out alive.”

Lucar nodded. “Mm. I suppose I hadn’t considered that. But if you don’t die, you might come out stronger.”

“You speak like it’s a reasonable gamble.”

“I once considered trying it myself,” Lucar added, rubbing his chin. “Back then, I thought maybe bathing in that fire would push me past my plateau. All it did was burn off every last hair on my face.”

“You’re full of inspiring stories today.”

“Every scar tells a lesson.”

Lucar was mad. That much had always been clear.

But then again, the prince had never been one to shy from madness himself.

So, the two of them,one young and reckless, the other old and equally reckless,stood shoulder to shoulder, staring into the dancing flames.

“There’s no avoiding it,” Lucar finally said with a sigh. “In the end, the royal road is the path of discipline. Pick up your sword.”

He turned to walk away.

But the prince didn’t move.

“Pick up the sword, huh?”

He looked down at the weapon in his hand,the massive greatsword, Breaker. Thick, dark steel with a faint crimson hue. A blade born for ruin.

“I bet even if my skin melts… this thing won’t.”

A thought struck him like a lightning bolt.

If he couldn’t grow stronger… then he would make his sword stronger.

And if his own fire wasn’t enough…

Then he’d draw in a fire greater than his own.

“Lucar,” he called out, a wild grin spreading across his face. “I win.”

Lucar raised a brow. “Win? What, in sparring?”

“No. In madness.”

And with that, he got to work.

For several days, he hung Breaker inside the flame-spewing chute atop the campfire tower. It was an inferno few could even approach, an abyss of heat pouring downward like the wrath of a god.

When he finally gripped the hilt, it was blisteringly hot. It pulsed with energy,energy that rivaled, even exceeded, his own.

The temperature was searing,hotter than the Crimson Heart, deeper than what his body could naturally endure.

But he endured it anyway.

He forced the Crimson Flame inside him to dance with this outer blaze, fusing them together, guiding it all into Breaker.

“KWA-RRRRRR!”

The greatsword howled, alive with resonance. It wasn’t just metal anymore,it screamed.

[Breaker has reached optimal heat! The destiny of Destruction and Shattering has begun to awaken!]

The blade’s color turned a deep, angry red. Serrated edges jutted out from its sides, spinning and twisting like a beast unsheathed.

Inside, the fire churned,and outside, the world cracked under its heat.

Still, he wasn’t done.

Not yet.

He reached out, drawing in even more fire from the bonfire. Not just any flame,a flame brighter than crimson, an orange inferno that roared like the sun.

The fire enveloped him.

And then,it entered him.

It surged backward through every pore, burning through the holes in his skin and forcing its way into his chest.

Just for a moment, a second ring formed above his original Crimson Heart.

A second heart.

A Super-Crimson Heart.

It wouldn’t last long,but he only needed it for now.

Only until the Eskimo arrived.

“TAA,!”

He raised Breaker and roared.

But before he could swing,

“THUMP. THUMP. THUMP. THUMP.”

His chest convulsed. The two hearts,crimson and super-crimson,beat out of sync. Each pulse was a tidal wave.

He stopped.

If he spoke another command, if he cried out to burn again, his body might shatter.

Inside him, the two rings clashed, the rhythm of their flames hammering his bones and nerves.

Red crashed into orange.

Every collision sent shockwaves through his skull, his limbs, his soul.

“Guh…!”

It felt like fireworks detonating in his veins. His vision blurred. His ears rang.

This pain… this wasn’t just a flame trial. It was a trial of existence.

Even claiming the first Crimson Heart hadn’t been this bad.

And yet,

He didn’t falter.

He didn’t scream.

“Burn.”

He didn’t know if he spoke the word, or if it was simply carved into the air by his will.

But the command was clear.

“Burn.”

Through agony, through insanity, through defiance.

The fire obeyed.

And it arrived just in time.

A sound “SSSSHHHHH” like a snake made of winter.

A blizzard tore through the sky beyond the wall.

Descending from it,the Eskimo.

Its appearance was monstrous. Its eyes were cavernous and empty, staring as though they could see his soul,and judge it.

“I do not fear you!” the prince shouted, his voice shattering the wind. “You are no legend! You are no god!”

The figure advanced.

This was the creature. The one that had gifted the orcs their Mystics. The one who had torn out pieces of itself to empower them.

It had fallen for the trap. It knew it had been mocked. It had come to silence the insult.

It shrieked,its mouth opening wide, emitting a sound like a shattered flute.

It was already at the edge of the firepit.

The prince struck.

He hurled his entire being at it,flames, force, fury.

His limbs tore. His bones ached. Breaker screamed.

No sound escaped his own lips.

Or maybe the noise was simply too immense to hear.

Fire met ice.

The world exploded in light and vapor.

He struck again, even as the creature raked at him with claws of snow and hatred.

Steam rose,clouds of pain.

Then a voice echoed in his mind:

Arrogant human… Your fire cannot melt me. Despair. Despair.

Hundreds of limbs burst from the creature’s back. Misty, cold, ending in claws that pointed toward him.

He had no Mystic now. Just the dying embers of borrowed fire.

But that was fine.

Because he wasn’t alone.

He stared into the creature’s eyes.

And he spoke,

“Now.”

From the fog, from the space between heat and ice,

“I, Lucar Shin, have come for you!”

The old knight descended.

The fire bent before him. The blizzard hesitated.

White mana burst from his blade,cold and pure, blinding.

I knew you’d come, old knight…

The Eskimo twisted its hands, reshaping its body.

The ghost of the North and the former imperial knight lunged at each other.

Two titans.

The prince could only watch, chest swelling with awe.

Or was that just the fire inside him, thrashing again?

Didn’t matter.

“Lucar!” he bellowed. “No time!”

The second heart roared.

“TATATATATATA.”

His body erupted.

Mystic was his.

Technique belonged to Lucar.

Together, they fought.

And even when the creature regenerated, when its limbs returned, when its power surged,

I can fight for a hundred days and nights. Can you, human?

It was eternal.

Born from mountains. Born from ice.

To kill it would be to kill the world.

But he didn’t care.

“If you’ve lived this long just to be this ugly,then you’ve lived in vain, Eskimo!”

“The bones on your back are all you have? Pathetic!”

Humans were flames.

They burned. They gave light. They died.

But they meant something.

That was enough.

He shattered the Mystic.

Lucar struck.

And they fought,

Like madmen.

Like legends.

Like fire.