Rise of The Abandoned Husband

"We need to move fast," The Man with the Mustache said, his usual joking demeanor replaced by uncharacteristic urgency. "The Guild has eyes everywhere now."

I nodded, following him through the hidden exit tunnel beneath Jade Moon Villa. The passage smelled of damp earth and moss, winding beneath the grounds like a serpent.

"You still haven't told me what this 'last piece' actually is," I said, ducking beneath a low-hanging root.

He glanced back, his mustache twitching slightly. "It's called Cindercore. A material formed only in the heart of true fire."

"True fire?"

"Not the ordinary flames you're familiar with," he explained. "True fire is primordial—fire in its purest form. It burns at temperatures that would melt even Authentic Rock instantly."

That didn't sound promising. "And we need to collect something from inside this inferno because...?"

"Because," he said with maddening vagueness, "it's the only substance capable of binding the other materials we've gathered. Without it, everything else is worthless."

We emerged from the tunnel into early morning light, far beyond the villa's boundaries. Two horses waited, tethered to a nearby tree.

"I took the liberty of arranging transportation," he said, mounting one with surprising agility for a man his age.

I swung onto the other horse, feeling the weight of my spatial ring where I'd stored essential supplies. "How far are we going?"

"The Northwest Desert. Two days' hard riding, if we're lucky."

Without another word, we set off, keeping to lesser-known paths and avoiding main roads. The Man with the Mustache led with the confidence of someone who had traversed these routes many times before.

As we rode, I couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. Twice I caught glimpses of movement in the forest beside us, but each time I turned to look, there was nothing there.

"We're being followed," I said quietly after several hours of riding.

The Man with the Mustache nodded without looking back. "Purple robes. I spotted them about an hour ago."

My blood ran cold. Purple robes meant elite Guild hunters—specialists trained to track and capture the most dangerous fugitives.

"We need to lose them," I said, already calculating options.

"No time," he replied. "Our destination won't wait."

"Won't wait? It's a location, not an appointment."

His expression turned grim. "The true fire pit opens only during certain celestial alignments. Miss this one, and we wait another year."

That explained his urgency. "Then we ride faster."

We pushed our horses harder, the landscape gradually changing from lush forests to rolling plains, and finally to the arid outskirts of the Northwestern Desert. The temperature rose steadily, the air becoming dry and difficult to breathe.

By nightfall of the second day, we reached the desert proper—an endless sea of sand and stone baking under a merciless sun. Even in darkness, heat radiated from the ground, rising in visible waves.

"There," The Man with the Mustache pointed toward a distant glow on the horizon. "The Fire Chasm."

We dismounted, leaving our exhausted horses at a safe distance. The final approach would have to be on foot.

With each step toward the chasm, the temperature increased dramatically. By the time we stood at its edge, sweat poured from my body in rivulets, and breathing felt like inhaling fire itself.

The chasm was massive—a jagged wound in the earth that descended into darkness. But this darkness glowed with an eerie, pulsating red light that rose and fell like a heartbeat.

"True fire," The Man with the Mustache whispered reverently. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

Beautiful wasn't the word I'd have chosen. Terrifying seemed more appropriate.

"So the Cindercore is down there?" I asked, peering over the edge. The depth was dizzying, with flames occasionally licking up the sides of the chasm.

"At the very bottom," he confirmed. "Formed by the pressure and heat over centuries."

I frowned. "How exactly are we supposed to get it? That heat would incinerate anyone instantly."

"Not instantly," he corrected. "You'd probably last about three seconds before your body turned to ash."

"That's reassuring," I muttered.

"However," he continued, "there might be a way. Your body is exceptional—stronger than most cultivators at your level. With proper protection, you might survive long enough to retrieve a piece of Cindercore."

I thought about this. My body had endured extreme conditions before, but this seemed beyond even my limits. Still, I needed this material—needed the advantage it would provide in the battles to come.

"What kind of protection?" I asked finally.

A sly smile spread across his face. "Remember our little treasure hunt in the ancient tomb? The coffin we found?"

I nodded slowly. The masked woman's coffin—a mysterious artifact that had proven impervious to damage. I'd stored it in my spatial ring, unsure of its purpose but certain of its value.

"You think it could shield me from the true fire?"

"It's made of a material not found in this world," he said. "If anything can withstand those flames, it's that coffin."

I pulled the coffin from my spatial ring. Despite its size, it felt surprisingly light in my hands. The intricate carvings along its surface seemed to shift in the red glow from the chasm.

"This is insane," I said, but I was already considering how it might work.

"Insanity is our specialty," he replied cheerfully. "Besides, do you have a better plan?"

I didn't. The Guild hunters would catch up eventually, and I couldn't return to Jade Moon Villa empty-handed. Not when Isabelle's future—everyone's future—hung in the balance.

I set the coffin down near the chasm's edge. "How will I breathe in there?"

"You won't need to," he said confidently. "Time works differently inside that coffin. I've seen it before."

That wasn't exactly reassuring, but I was out of options.

"Fine," I decided. "But first, let me test the heat."

Before he could stop me, I extended my hand over the chasm, pushing it downward as far as I dared. The heat was instant and unbearable—like plunging my arm into molten metal. I pulled back with a sharp hiss of pain, examining my blistered skin.

"That's just the air above the flames," The Man with the Mustache noted dryly. "The actual fire is much worse."

"I gathered that," I snapped, using a healing technique to repair my damaged hand. The skin knitted itself back together slowly—too slowly. My regenerative abilities were hampered by the oppressive heat.

"The coffin is our only chance," I admitted. "But how do I get out once I've retrieved the Cindercore?"

He scratched his chin thoughtfully. "The coffin has shown responsive properties before. It might react to your will once your task is complete."

"Might?" I echoed incredulously.

He shrugged. "Nothing in life is certain, young Knight. Except death and my remarkable mustache."

I stared at the coffin, weighing my options. The risk was enormous. If the coffin failed to protect me, or if I couldn't escape afterward, I'd be trapped in an infernal grave for eternity.

But the alternative was worse—returning without the material meant failure. And failure meant I couldn't create what I needed to save Isabelle and defeat my enemies.

"How will I even find the Cindercore down there?" I asked, making my decision.

"You'll know it when you see it," he replied. "It glows blue amidst the red flames—an impossibility that exists nonetheless."

I nodded, opening the coffin's lid. The interior was dark and unremarkable—just a simple space sized for a human body.

"If I don't come back," I began, but The Man with the Mustache cut me off.

"Save the heroic last words," he said dismissively. "You'll be back. You're too stubborn to die in such an undignified manner."

Despite everything, I found myself smiling. His confidence was oddly reassuring.

With one last look at the night sky, I climbed into the coffin. The space was confining but not uncomfortable. As I lay back, I had a moment of doubt—was I truly willing to be thrown into an inferno on the word of this eccentric, mysterious man?

Before I could reconsider, The Man with the Mustache leaned over me, his expression suddenly serious.

"Listen carefully," he said, his voice low. "Once you're in the fire, focus your energy inward. The coffin will protect your body, but your mind must remain centered. Do not give in to panic, no matter what you experience."

I nodded, trying to project more confidence than I felt.

"And Liam," he added, using my first name for once, "hurry. We don't have much time before our purple-robed friends arrive."

"Close the lid," I said, steeling myself.

As darkness enclosed me, I heard his muffled voice through the coffin. "I'll position you at the edge. On my count, I'll push you in."

I focused on my breathing, channeling energy throughout my body in preparation for the ordeal ahead. The coffin shifted as he moved it into position.

"Ready?" his voice called.

"Just do it," I replied.

"One..."

I closed my eyes.

"Two..."

I emptied my mind of fear.

"Three!"

The sensation of falling was immediate and disorienting. The coffin tumbled through space, rotating as it plummeted toward the heart of the chasm. Despite the insulation, I could feel the temperature rising rapidly—from uncomfortable to nearly unbearable in seconds.

Then came the impact—a violent collision that would have shattered my bones had I not been protected by the coffin's mysterious properties. I had reached the true fire.

Heat pressed against the coffin from all sides, seeking entrance, hungry to consume me. But the ancient material held firm, allowing only the faintest warmth to penetrate.

Through a tiny crack where the lid met the coffin's body, I caught glimpses of my surroundings. An ocean of crimson flames roiled around me, so bright it hurt to look at directly. The pressure was immense, like being submerged in the deepest ocean.

I forced myself to focus, scanning the infernal landscape for anything resembling The Man with the Mustache's description. Blue amidst red. An impossibility.

Minutes passed with no sign of the Cindercore. The heat continued to build, little by little overcoming the coffin's protection. Sweat poured from my body, and breathing became increasingly difficult.

Just as desperation began to set in, I saw it—a faint blue glow several yards away, pulsing like a heartbeat amidst the fury of red flames.

The Cindercore.

But it might as well have been miles away. I was trapped in the coffin, unable to reach it without exposing myself to the true fire.

I had to think. The Man with the Mustache had said the coffin was responsive. Perhaps...

Focusing my will, I directed a silent command to the coffin: Move toward the blue light.

Nothing happened.

I tried again, this time channeling my energy into the coffin's walls, willing it to understand my intent.

Slowly, incredibly, the coffin began to shift. It moved through the flames like a boat through water, inching toward the blue glow. The effort of controlling it drained my energy rapidly, but I maintained focus, refusing to lose sight of my goal.

When the coffin finally settled beside the Cindercore, I faced a new challenge—how to retrieve it without leaving my protection.

The crack at the coffin's edge was too small for my hand to fit through. I would have to open the lid, if only for an instant.

I prepared myself, gathering energy in my right arm and hand. I would have seconds—perhaps less—before the true fire consumed me.

With a silent count to three, I pushed the coffin lid open just enough to thrust my arm out. The pain was immediate and excruciating—like nothing I'd ever experienced. My flesh seared, my bones felt as if they were melting within my arm.

But my fingers closed around the Cindercore—a small, crystalline object that remained cool despite its surroundings. With a cry of agony, I pulled my arm back in and slammed the lid shut.

The damage was severe. My entire arm from fingertips to shoulder was charred black, the skin cracked and peeling to reveal raw flesh beneath. Even with my healing abilities, recovery would take time—time I didn't have.

I clutched the Cindercore to my chest with my good hand, its cool surface a stark contrast to the blistering heat around me. Now came the most crucial part—escaping this inferno.

Again, I focused my will on the coffin: Rise. Return to the surface.

For several terrifying moments, nothing happened. The coffin remained still, and I began to fear that The Man with the Mustache had been wrong—that I was trapped here forever.

Then, slowly at first but with increasing speed, the coffin began to ascend. It rose through the true fire, bobbing and weaving like a cork in turbulent waters. The journey seemed to take both an eternity and no time at all—a disorienting sensation that left me questioning my perception.

When the coffin finally breached the surface of the flames, I heard a familiar voice calling my name. The lid opened to reveal The Man with the Mustache's concerned face—an expression I'd never seen him wear before.

"You made it," he said, helping me out with uncharacteristic gentleness. "And you got it."

I nodded weakly, holding up the Cindercore. Despite my ordeal, the small crystal remained intact—a swirling blue substance contained within a transparent shell.

"Your arm," he noted, examining the extensive damage. "That will need attention."

"Later," I managed, my voice hoarse from the heat. "Did they find us?"

His expression darkened. "Not yet, but they're close. We need to move."

As if to emphasize his point, a distant shout echoed across the desert. Figures on horseback appeared on the horizon—purple robes billowing in the hot wind.

"No time to recover," The Man with the Mustache said grimly. "Can you ride?"

I nodded, though I wasn't certain. The pain in my arm was blinding, and exhaustion threatened to overtake me at any moment.

"Then we ride," he decided. "Hold onto that Cindercore with your life. It's worth more than you know."

As we rushed back to our horses, I glanced at the mysterious crystal in my hand. What was so important about this material that it was worth risking death in true fire? What could The Man with the Mustache possibly be planning?

Before mounting my horse, I turned back to the Fire Chasm one last time. The coffin still lay at its edge, seemingly unharmed by its journey.

"The coffin," I started, but The Man with the Mustache shook his head.

"Leave it," he said. "Where we're going, you'll need something far more powerful than a coffin to survive."

With those ominous words hanging in the air, he mounted his horse and spurred it forward. I followed, clutching the Cindercore tightly, my injured arm hanging uselessly at my side.

Behind us, the purple-robed hunters drew closer. Ahead lay uncertainty and danger. But in my hand, I held what I hoped was the key to everything—to saving Isabelle, to defeating my enemies, to finally understanding my true purpose.

"Later, when I get into the coffin, you throw the coffin down," I had instructed The Man with the Mustache before our desperate gambit. Now, riding away from the inferno with our pursuers closing in, I couldn't help but wonder if I'd escaped one coffin only to race toward another.