The world had gone white.
Not from snow, nor light, nor death — but from lightning.
The tribulation had not simply arrived. It had declared its presence like a jealous god tearing down the gates of reality itself. Thunder peeled through the air like an old world's scream. Trees vaporized. Stones cracked open as if in mourning. The forest itself—ancient, immortal, and sacred—trembled beneath the weight of that divine fury.
And at the eye of the storm stood the wolf. A beast not born of nature, not shaped by evolution, but forged by madness and cultivation. His body was a ruin—burned, bleeding, fur sloughing off in curls of black ash, dozens of mouths split open and hungering on his limbs and torso like curses carved into flesh.
Beside him, barely a meter away, stood the azure grasshopper, a creature that had once ruled its territory as a predator of elegance and flame. Now, it too was cracking under the strain. The tribulation, offended by the presence of two unworthy beings attempting to ascend within its reach, lashed again.
Another strike came. This time, it chose the grasshopper.
The bolt came from high—a bolt not of thunder, but of judgment. The air around it howled as it tore through the heavens. The grasshopper lifted its glowing wings in one last desperate arc, flames erupting from its body in a halo of indigo fire.
It wasn't enough.
The bolt slammed into it like the sky itself had thrown a spear. No scream came—there wasn't time. The creature's chitin exploded inward, its core cracked like a dying star, and the azure flame that had danced along its spine detached as its host was reduced to a smear of scorched ruin.
Silence fell.
Not the silence of peace.
But the silence of breath held.
A pause between heartbeats.
A moment before something else—something worse—began.
And it did.
The flames that had clung to the grasshopper's body did not disperse. They did not vanish like a spirit's last breath. No. The azure beast flame, ancient and prideful, hovered above the wreckage like a soul unbound. It flickered erratically, as though tasting freedom for the first time in centuries.
And it turned.
Toward the wolf.
Even with its instincts screaming at it to flee the wrath of heaven, the flame wanted revenge. For its fallen host. For the insult of being caught in this mess. For being touched by this...this thing of teeth and eyes and mouths.
But it paused.
The wolf still stood. Barely.
Blackened skin crackled and hissed as the beast's frame heaved. His body, though burned, was regenerating with unnatural speed. Threads of muscle knit together in spasms. Bones realigned with fleshy pops. Blood oozed, then reversed course, sucked back into his veins as rich, golden qi flooded him like a river unleashed.
The wolf had been struck by tribulation.
And he had survived.
Not by luck. Not by willpower. But because at the last moment, when death loomed, the azure beast flame had formed a barrier around itself—a natural, instinctual act of self-preservation. The wolf had simply been caught in its radius.
That mercy—unintended—would be its mistake.
The flame sensed it now.
Something... wrong was happening.
The wolf wasn't just healing.
He was transforming.
---
The Metamorphosis Begins
It began with the eyes.
His two primary eyes shut slowly, as if drawing into themselves. A golden sheen shimmered across his eyelids before they went still.
Then the other eyes opened.
Not two. Not four.
But dozens.
Glassy orbs, some small and round like marbles, others elongated and slitted like a serpent's, opened along his ribs, shoulders, arms, back, and thighs. Each blinked into wakefulness like newly sentient stars. They did not all face the same direction. Some rolled. Some stared fixedly at the sky. Others locked onto the flame.
Then came the mouths.
His body rippled with grotesque activity. Old mouths healed, stretched, widened. New mouths tore open across his back and chest, fresh fangs glistening with blood and saliva. They sucked in qi like lungs, coughing, slurping, wheezing as if awakening from a nightmare they never left.
From the charred ruin of fur came new growth—first white, then streaked with crimson as if painted by war. The fur shimmered unnaturally, like it had been woven from threads of heat-distorted light. As it grew, his muscles filled out. His frame bulked—thicker arms, denser legs, and a widened torso capable of tanking mountain-splitting blows.
His paws cracked and shifted.
He was rising.
Not like a beast. Not like a man. Like something in-between.
Four meters tall and counting, he stood on two legs, his claws dragging long, molten streaks in the shattered soil below him. His chest puffed outward with each breath. With every inhale, the world around him dimmed; with each exhale, a haze of heated air expanded like a ripple of intent.
The very atmosphere around him bent.
The beast was changing—no, ascending.
To Order Five.
The Flame's Dilemma
The azure flame trembled.
There was no wind, no movement—but it wavered in place, as if the very act of existing near this thing had become intolerable. The flame had survived sect wars. Had burned beasts alive for days.
Yet now—it hesitated.
The wolf hadn't even looked at it yet.
But he was changing.
And the sky still rumbled.
The tribulation wasn't over.
Nine minutes had passed. The average tribulation for ascending beasts lasted no longer than three. But the heavens above refused to relent. The cloud mass had grown. Not in shape. But in depth. The sky looked heavy. Like it wanted to collapse.
The flame wanted to run.
But the wolf opened his eyes.
---
The Golden Gaze
No longer gold.
No longer wolf.
Something older. Hungrier.
His eyes glowed with an ancient sheen—not of divinity, but of something deeper. Like a creature that had seen too many lives pass and decided they were all edible.
He smiled.
No—they smiled.
Every mouth on his body peeled into a grin. Fangs exposed. Gums twitching. Tongues flicking in unison.
The air grew cold. The forest fell still. Even the wind refused to move.
And then... a voice.
Not from his face.
From his left shoulder.
> "Many thanks, Azure."
It was polite.
Soft.
Mocking.
The right shoulder followed.
> "How should we repay this... kindness?"
A chuckle. Guttural. Wet. From the mouth on his chest.
> "Gratitude, as they say... should be repaid tenfold."
The eyes blinked in slow unison. The wolf's main mouth remained shut, yet every other mouth on his body—more than twenty now—began to murmur.
> "Yes."
"Yes."
"Agreed."
"Indebted."
"Mmhmm."
"Appreciation overflowing."
It was a chorus.
Not loud. Not aggressive.
But coordinated.
Each voice spoke with a different tone—some high-pitched like a child, some guttural and ancient. It was not gratitude. It was performance. A taunt.
The azure flame recoiled, floating higher. Its blue light pulsed, spitting embers in panic.
The wolf stepped forward.
Boom.
The ground cracked beneath his clawed foot. He was using all his power to show his dominance
What the Flame Saw
The azure flame, as an entity, could not scream.
But if it could, it would have screamed in that moment.
Not because it saw death.
But because it saw its future.
Devoured.
Used.
Burned within something that did not care whether it lived or died—only whether it could be used.
The wolf raised a clawed hand.
Then stopped.
He stared at the sky.
The heavens had grown quiet.
The tribulation—done.
No final strike.
Only the low rumble of retreating clouds.
Silence once again.
And then—movement.
Not from the flame.
But from the wolf.
He bent his massive frame forward. Dozens of joints clicked as he leaned closer to the hovering azure flame.
And whispered.
Only three words.
> "You're mine now."
The flame pulsed once.
Then split into fragments.
And flew directly into his chest.
---
Epilogue of Flame and Flesh
It was not submission.
It was inevitability.
The azure flame, once proud, now part of something it could no longer resist. The wolf's chest-mouth snapped open like a furnace, sucking in the flame with a ravenous gulp.
He shuddered.
Eyes closed.
Then... laughed.
A deep, layered laugh that came from every direction—echoing in the trees, rattling the stones, bouncing off the mist like a fever dream.
The world had barely begun to settle after the storm of the tribulation, the skies still heavy with the echoes of lightning and thunder, when a violent fury erupted from within the beast that had just ascended. The wolf—towering now, a monstrous four meters of raw power and primal menace—was no longer merely a creature of flesh and fang. His form, forged through agony and triumph, was a crucible for something far older, far more dangerous.
But what the wolf did not yet comprehend was that the beast flame he had swallowed—this azure inferno that once coursed through the veins of the defeated grasshopper—was no ordinary power. It was not merely a tool to be consumed and mastered. It was a tempest incarnate, an ancient, wild force, once bound and limited by the frailty of a lesser host. It had slumbered, diminished, but never defeated.
And now, free.
Inside the wolf's gargantuan body, the beast flame raged.
At first, it was a subtle tickle—an ember buried beneath layers of muscle, bone, and corrupted blood. But the ember swiftly flared into a conflagration. The flame, in its awakened wrath, spread through the wolf's meridians like a storm breaking free of its dam.
The meridians—those invisible pathways of qi that carried the wolf's cultivation—were overwhelmed. The flame was not content to be a passive prisoner. It surged through the wolf's veins and arteries, setting ablaze the very essence of his being. The flesh began to blister, muscles convulsed uncontrollably, and black smoke hissed through the cracks in his skin.
Pain exploded within the wolf's chest, where the mouth had greedily swallowed the flame moments before. It wasn't a simple ache or burning—it was a violent rebellion, a wildfire tearing through a cage of sinew and bone.
His two main eyes snapped open, golden light flickering with confusion and pain. His numerous other eyes scattered across his body writhed and blinked in agony. Each mouth on his twisted frame snarled and howled as though tasting their own torment.
The wolf staggered, massive claws gouging the cracked earth beneath him, digging furrows in the soil as he lost his footing.
He dropped—thudding hard onto the forest floor—his body twisting and convulsing like a fish caught in a net. The forest seemed to recoil in response, the ground trembling under the weight of his violent spasms. The blackened fur on his back flared with scorch marks as the flame tore through his veins, inflating the tissues from within, forcing his muscles to balloon grotesquely.
His limbs flailed, claws scratching at the dirt, desperate for purchase, desperate for relief. The wolf writhed, rolling violently, flipping over and over like a tormented beast drowning in its own pain. His ragged mouths opened and closed, some emitting guttural growls, others pained whimpers, a chaotic chorus of suffering.
The azure beast flame was a living inferno—an indomitable force that rejected submission.
It burned through his arms, igniting muscles, forcing his claws to twitch uncontrollably. His shoulders swelled as if filled with molten fire, bones creaking under the pressure of internal explosions. The flame surged upward through his neck, scorching the inside of his throats, searing the soft tissues that gave voice to those countless mouths.
Even his multiple eyes blinked in torment, flickering erratically like lanterns caught in a storm.
Yet, amid the writhing agony, the wolf's golden main eyes blazed with stubborn will. Pain gnawed at him, but surrender was an unknown language. His entire body convulsed, but beneath the suffering there was an unmistakable pulse of strength—a defiance that whispered of the colossal power still waiting to be unleashed.
Inside the wolf's chest-mouth, where the flame had initially entered, a furious battle raged. The beast flame fought back, clawing its way through the dark channels of the wolf's body. It sought freedom, a way to escape the cage of flesh and bone that attempted to dominate it. It clawed at the inner walls of muscle and qi, igniting bursts of heat that felt like volcanic eruptions beneath the surface.
Tendrils of azure fire licked through the wolf's internal pathways, inflating veins until they threatened to burst. The pain was excruciating—a roaring inferno wrapped in the wolf's blood and sinew. The beast flame was rewriting the wolf's very body from within, distorting the flow of qi, twisting it into a chaotic, burning torrent.
The wolf's breath came in ragged gasps, each inhale pulling in smoky air, each exhale releasing bursts of steam and sparks. His ragged fur, singed to charcoal, shimmered and writhed as if alive, reacting to the internal conflagration.
On the forest floor, the beast's thrashing sent up a cloud of dust and shattered leaves. Branches snapped under the force of his body as he rolled, his snarls turning into pained growls, and then low moans—sounds that no beast had ever made before.
The azure flame, relentless, scorched and spread. It was more than flame—it was a force of nature, a will beyond the wolf's comprehension. The wolf's qi surged, desperate to suppress the inferno, to cage it back into submission. His muscles tensed and bulged, veins standing out like ropes beneath torn skin.
Yet the beast flame roared louder.
The wolf's whole body trembled, limbs jerking spasmodically as the pain reached its zenith. His blackened lips peeled back in a grimace that was both agony and fury. His multiple mouths hissed curses and threats at the flame inside, their voices layered and discordant.
The beast flame pulsed wildly—now a radiant, blazing storm trapped inside a vessel that was beginning to fracture.
The wolf's massive form arched and convulsed once more, his body twisting in unnatural angles. His head whipped back, and from his main mouth, a guttural roar burst forth—a mixture of rage and pain that echoed through the trees like a shattering earthquake.
The ground beneath him cracked, splintered, and the very air vibrated with the intensity of his suffering and strength.
But still, the beast flame did not relent. It fought to break free, to reclaim the wild freedom it once wielded outside this prison of flesh. The wolf was a host, but not a master—not yet.
And so the battle continued inside the wolf—a brutal, searing war between flesh and fire, between beast and flame, a struggle that would either forge an unstoppable new power or consume the wolf entirely.
The forest held its breath.
The wolf writhed.
The beast flame burned.
And the story was far from over.
The world was fire.
The forest, once serene beneath the misted canopy of the Verdant Wilds, had become a chamber of torment for the beast that now writhed across its shattered floor. Black smoke hissed from his nostrils. Every movement of his limbs sent bolts of pain screaming through his nerves. The wolf was a mass of charred flesh, twisting tendons, and barely-contained chaos. The azure beast flame inside him raged unchecked, a roaring inferno spreading through his body, dancing across his meridians like lightning made of hatred.
But something stirred—deep within the core of his being.
It wasn't a voice, not quite. Nor was it a thought in the way cultivators might understand. It was a pulse, a throb of ancient blood resonating from the deepest part of his soul. It was the call of something older, stronger. A truth written into every drop of blood that coursed through his monstrous frame. The bloodline.
Not just the blood of a wolf—no. This was the blood of something grander, something sovereign. The remnants of a long-lost kingly lineage, buried beneath layers of instinct and bone. It slumbered during the early stages of his growth, waking only in fleeting moments, but now—provoked by pain and flame—it surged to the surface.
The effect was immediate.
The azure fire that had raged like a storm began to flicker. Not extinguished, but… hesitant. Where once it danced unchallenged through his meridians, it now slowed, faltering as if some unseen force gripped it by the throat.
A growl rumbled from the wolf's many throats—not of pain, but of dominance.
Golden light poured from his eyes. Not the desperate glow of a beast in agony, but the focused, predatory gleam of a sovereign reclaiming his throne. The bloodline pulsed again, this time surging out from his core like a tidal wave, cascading through his body in golden arcs of qi. It moved with grace and fury, wrapping around the coursing azure fire like vines of molten authority.
Inside his body, where the flame had once devoured all in its path, it now found resistance. The meridians, once scorched and bloated, began to push back. They firmed, braced by ancestral strength. The wolf's heart no longer thudded in panic but in calculated resolve.
And the flame—though still powerful, though still wild—shuddered.
It was not conscious in the way mortals or beasts were, but it had instinct. And instinct recognized what logic could not: the bloodline it now faced was not something it was meant to defy. Its origin—the giant grasshopper—had not been a creature of noble descent. It had been strong, yes, fearsome even. But its blood was muddied, its legacy forgettable. The flame it birthed was wild and unruly because it had never been bound by a true master.
And now it stood before something greater.
The bloodline of the wolf surged once more, this time taking on a form. Within the wolf's sea of consciousness—where the flames and fury clashed—a spectral shape emerged. A wolf of pure golden light, larger than mountains, fur like flowing rivers of starlight, eyes that contained whole galaxies of dominance. It gazed upon the azure flame with disdain.
The flame roared, flaring wildly, attempting one final rebellion. It surged up the wolf's spine, seeking to detonate the nerves along the back of his neck. Pain shot up his head, and he let out a half-snarl, half-scream—but the bloodline responded instantly.
Boom.
The spectral wolf opened its jaws wide and howled—not with sound, but with presence.
And the azure flame was struck still.
The beast flame quivered, its previously unshackled arrogance dimming like a torch drowned in a thunderstorm. It pulsed again, slower this time, flickering instead of raging. The fire turned inward, curling in on itself in confusion and fear. For the first time since it had been torn free from its original host, the flame no longer acted with unbridled pride.
It was being suppressed.
The wolf, still lying on the forest floor, groaned and twisted one final time, then stilled.
Smoke coiled up from his back, his sides, his mouths. His fur still steamed, patches of his skin had burst and bubbled, but the convulsions had ceased. He panted heavily, chest heaving like bellows in a forge. And slowly—so very slowly—his scattered thoughts began to realign.
Clarity.
The pain didn't vanish, but it ebbed, replaced with something sharper: awareness. His golden eyes scanned the trees, breathing ragged. His senses—muddled before—now caught the faint tremor of hooves.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
From beyond the clearing, battered shapes emerged through the charred underbrush.
The boars.
The younger one limped in first, one tusk chipped, dried blood caking his snout. His eyes widened in alarm as he took in the sight of the massive wolf sprawled on the ground, looking more like a charred husk than a living thing. But he was breathing.
The elder boar trailed behind, his fur stained with soot and burn marks, but his steps were solid. He grunted.
"Well, well… someone's been having a good time."
The wolf twitched his ear in reply. It wasn't a greeting. It wasn't anything, really. It was just… exhaustion.
"You look like you tried to hump a volcano," the younger boar said, wobbling over.
The wolf didn't answer. His mouths were dry, and every breath was a chore. But inside, he felt it. The flame had not been defeated. No—it remained coiled, waiting, angry. But it was no longer eating him alive. It had been leashed.
Not tamed.
Not yet.
But it had paused.
And that was enough.
The elder boar stepped close, nudging the wolf's smoking side with his snout. "We saw the sky explode. You handled the hopper, I assume."
The wolf nodded weakly, one of his side-mouths muttering, "Ate him."
The younger boar gave a choked grunt. "You ate him?! Is that why you're boiling from the inside like a stewpot?"
Another twitch. "Flame... refused."
"Figures." The elder sighed. "Beast flame that strong? Born in a grasshopper? Must've grown without guidance. Probably feral. You tried to shove it into your belly before breaking its spirit."
The wolf's golden eyes glimmered. He already knew. He'd felt it—felt the way the flame lashed out, leaderless and furious.
But now… it wasn't lashing.
He closed his eyes and reached inward again.
Within his spiritual sea, the golden wolf spirit still loomed, seated now, watching. Below it, the azure flame curled tighter into a sphere, still pulsing, still seething—but no longer expanding.
It was not submission.
But it was the beginning.
A foundation.
One day, the wolf would not just suppress the flame. He would command it. Not through force. But through the right of blood. The right of kings.
For now, he exhaled, steam drifting from his nostrils.
The pain was still there.
But he was no longer drowning.
The flame would learn.
And the wolf would rise again.