The Crimson Flame Gorge lay in the southwest quadrant of the Myriad Beast Mountains. Its name came from the strange scarlet fire that burned, eternal and soundless, in the canyon's deepest throat.
The cliffs on either side climbed like sheer red knives. Centuries of searing heat had scorched their surfaces into dark-maroon glass, so hot the very air wavered in trembling waves.
Few plants dared survive here. Only fire-loving ferns and crusts of copper-green lichen clung stubbornly to cracks in the stone, their presence a quiet testament to nature's will to live.
Clara led Paxton and the battered remnants of the Myriad Beast Sect through that furnace of stone.
By the time they reached the gorge's final chamber, every step felt like dragging lead. Days of pursuit, nerves stretched taut, wounds left half-dressed, the price showed in their eyes, drained hope hanging by a frayed thread.
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