The woods were quiet at night—but not peaceful.
Adam exhaled softly as he crouched by the edge of the stream, the faint sound of flowing water lapping gently against smooth stone. This was it—the exact spot. The place where Laylee had once battled the Lizardling, and the place where, in the game, the fated encounter with the Spirit of Fire began.
The moonlight poured like liquid silver across the glade, glimmering atop the water's surface. Everything here felt suspended, as if the forest itself was holding its breath.
Even now, he could still see flashes of the battle—Laylee's fiery blade, the acidic spray of the Lizardling, the scorched ground, the corpse. But now... now the night air was crisp and still, filled only with the sounds of insects and far-off rustling in the underbrush.
He brushed aside the tall ferns and moved to sit on a damp rock beside the water. His body ached slightly from the run, and a sheen of sweat clung to his neck beneath the cloak. With a sigh, he checked his mana reserves.
[Mana: 700/1000]
That damn [Blue] buff cost too much. He'd only cast it once on the way here, and it had eaten through nearly a third of his current pool. It had protected him from the beasts in the woods, sure, but he'd been gambling. Blue magic was unpredictable, offering buffs at random—and if he got something useless next time, it might spell real trouble.
Still, the stealth effect had worked beautifully.
Now, though, his buff had worn off. The magic lingered faintly in his bones, like the tingling after a long sprint. But the woods were starting to stir again. He had to be careful.
Adam leaned forward and touched the stream's surface with his fingers. Cold. Clear. No sign of magic. He moved upstream, checking where the water deepened and the moss began to curl, checking where Laylee had once collapsed after the battle.
And yet... nothing. No glowing glyphs. No subtle hum of elemental energy. No fiery halo erupting from a nearby tree trunk.
He wandered for thirty minutes, double-backing over his own steps. He searched the brush, scaled a nearby slope, stared at the trees. Still nothing.
He closed his eyes, trying to recall the game's events with painful clarity.
In the original storyline, Laylee had barely survived the fight with the Lizardling. Bloodied and exhausted, she fell unconscious and tumbled into the stream. Then came the cutscene—a hidden grove, a massive flaming stump, and the magnificent, terrifying presence of the First Flame.
But the game never let the player control her during that scene. There were no clues. No directions. It was just... a scripted moment.
Which meant—there had never been a real location.
Which meant—
His eyes flew open.
It wasn't a place. It was a dream.
He stood, slowly, his heart beginning to race.
Spirits in Elysium lore loved riddles. Loved stories. Loved dreams. They rarely showed themselves directly—unless you danced to their tune. Unless you played their game.
What if Laylee never moved?
What if she fell unconscious in the stream—and the Spirit brought her into its realm?
Adam stepped away from the water's edge, his own mana beginning to stir as he willed it to rise—not as a weapon, but as an offering. A signal.
Flames gathered faintly around his hands as he spread his arms wide.
The night deepened.
"I am not Laylee," he said, voice calm, even, resonating through the glade. "But I seek your flame nonetheless."
He lowered himself to one knee.
"May I come in, Lady of Fire... the Great Spirit, Lord Ignis?"
A moment of silence passed. Then two.
Then—
Laughter.
Smooth, sultry, feminine. It echoed like wine poured into crystal. It came from everywhere and nowhere.
A heat suddenly bloomed around him—not from his own fire, but from the air itself. The trees blurred. The stars melted. The water vanished.
Adam blinked.
And when his eyes opened again, he was somewhere else entirely.
The stream was gone. The forest replaced.
Now he stood in a blackened grove, beneath a red-orange sky that pulsed like the inside of a kiln. Charred wood and sulfur perfumed the air. Before him, the ground gave way to an enormous cove, its mouth shaped like a spiral of melted bark.
At the center, atop the smoldering stump of a massive mangrove tree, sat a woman.
She was impossible.
Her dress wasn't fabric—it was fire, licking and curling around her body like worshipful serpents. Her skin was molten bronze, smooth and glowing from within. Her hair spilled like lava down her back, thick and slow, hissing where it touched the bark. And behind her head burned a halo of flame, flickering in time with her slow, teasing breaths.
She opened her eyes—and Adam nearly fell backward.
They were not eyes.
They were two miniature suns.
They glowed with heat and laughter and amusement. And hunger.
"Well now," she purred, her voice low, husky, far too human for a being of her scale. "A mortal man dares to call my name. That hasn't happened in... oh, several centuries."
Adam swallowed.
She smiled.
"Tell me, little thing." She leaned forward, chin resting on her palm, halo flaring behind her like an inferno. "How did you figure it out?"
And then her eyes gleamed with wicked joy as she asked—
"How did you know, child of Sodom?"