Three hours after he tore apart the Circle's bindings, Alan stood alone in the eastern ruins of the Academy—where even time dared not linger. Overgrown marble. Crumbled towers. The ground whispered secrets in ancient tongues.
He stopped before a cracked statue of a faceless angel. His hand hovered over the base.
A whisper escaped his lips:
"Unlock."
The earth rumbled. The statue split in half, revealing a hidden staircase descending into blackness.
No one else knew this vault existed.
No one else remembered what was sealed inside.
But Alan did.
He had built it.
The Vault of Forgotten Flame was no ordinary place. It wasn't just stone and locks. It was living memory—crafted in a time when Alan was not a student… but a god.
The air was dense with ancient mana, thick and wild. It pressed against his skin, like the heartbeat of the world.
The deeper he went, the louder it pulsed.
He reached the final door: a titanic slab of obsidian, etched with glowing runes in a language long dead.
Except to him.
"I never thought I'd return here," he muttered, placing his palm on the seal.
The runes flared, scanning him—not just his body, but his soulprint.
Then came the whisper: "Confirmed: Alanus Vel'Kaer. Access restored."
The door melted into shadow.
Inside, a massive chamber opened. Floating platforms. Chains of fire. Rivers of light. And in the center…
A blade.
Hovering.
Glowing.
Calling.
It wasn't just a weapon. It was a memory. A promise. A piece of what he once was.
"You're early," a voice said.
Alan didn't flinch.
A woman stood by the blade—tall, silver-haired, with a halo of lightning above her head. Clad in war-forged armor.
Seris. The Guardian of the Vault. His last loyal general.
"I thought your essence had vanished," Alan said.
She smirked. "Only slept. Waiting for you to remember who you are."
He stepped closer to the blade. "The Flame of Theryon... my soulblade."
She nodded. "Still waiting for your hand."
He reached out. Touched the hilt.
The moment he did, flames engulfed the vault—but they didn't burn. They remembered.
Scenes of war. Of gods. Of betrayal. Of a lone figure standing against the heavens, wielding this very blade as empires burned and stars wept.
Then—he was back in the present.
The sword pulsed in his grip.
And for the first time since his reincarnation...
He felt whole.
*****
Above, far in the sky, the Twelve Thrones stirred.
A voice boomed through the ether:
"He has reclaimed the Flame. He walks the path again."
Another replied: "Then our time is short."
A third: "Summon the Archons. The Godslayer rises."