A Pyromaniac's Ascent: Nothing Fire Can't Burn

The lights reminded him of the floodlights in a football stadium, but this wasn't an ordinary field. The ground beneath him resembled grass, further adding to the stadium-like atmosphere. Only this arena was enormous—ten times the size of any stadium he'd ever seen, maybe more. Its edges stretched so far into the distance that he couldn't make out where it ended.

He turned to look behind him, toward the spot where he'd hit his head. Standing there was a man—at least, he thought it was a man. The blinding lights obscured the figure's face, leaving only the outline of his towering frame visible. His presence was imposing, made even more so by the bulky pieces of metal encasing his body. A knight? A cosplayer?

Glancing around, Finn noticed others dressed in a similar manner, their armor clinking faintly as they shifted. Some carried shields and swords, while others held spears or longbows. A few were robed in what looked like clerical garments, their hands resting on staffs adorned with strange symbols. It looked like they were all preparing for a battlefield.

A role-playing convention? That made no sense. What would he be doing in a place like that, when just a few moments ago he'd almost burned to death?

His mind raced, sorting through possibilities. Desperate for answers, he turned his attention back to the crowd.

And then it clicked.

The heavy armor, the shields, the swords and spears. The clerics and their staffs. The quivers filled with arrows strapped to backs.

There was only one place that could host a gathering like this.

Purgatory.

Yes. That had to be it. He must have died… and this was purgatory.

This wasn't hell. Hell was supposed to be a sea of fire, crawling with demons reveling in endless torture—or so he'd read and heard. But there was no fire in sight. In fact, he felt far better here than he had in the burning inferno he'd escaped. No sulfurous stench, no grotesque creatures twisted by malice. Hell didn't fit.

But this wasn't heaven either. He didn't feel any sense of peace or bliss, only a haze of confusion and unease. There were no robed figures with halos, no angelic beings with radiant white wings gliding overhead. Heaven would have been unmistakable, and this wasn't it.

That left purgatory—the in-between. He'd read once that souls could linger here for centuries, even millennia. It made sense. These people—knights, archers, soldiers—could have been warriors from medieval times, trapped here after death. Priests had often accompanied armies into battle, hadn't they?

But then he noticed the robed figures carrying staffs and what appeared to be books clasped tightly in their hands. They didn't fit the historical image of priests or monks. Something about them was… off.

No, it couldn't be. Mages didn't exist in real life. They were probably just members of a religious order he wasn't familiar with, nothing more.

A sudden voice shattered his thoughts. It came from behind him, from the man—or what he thought was a man—he'd bumped into. The voice was deep and commanding, each word resonating with an authority that made it feel hard to disobey. If only Finn could understand what he said.

The words sounded garbled, alien. Was it Greek? Latin? Some other ancient language he couldn't place? Whatever it was, it didn't belong to any language he knew.

The figure shifted, stepping into the light. For the first time, Finn could see him clearly. Dark, oily hair tied back in a tight ponytail. Eyes that pierced through him, sharp yet strangely calm. A square, stubbled jaw that gave the man an air of rugged dignity.

And skin as pale as the moon.

But it wasn't the pallor that sent Finn's heart plummeting into his stomach.

It was the tusks—two sharp, ivory tusks protruding from the corners of its mouth.

Finn's breath hitched. He clamped both hands over his mouth, choking back the scream clawing its way up his throat. His body moved on instinct, arms scrambling against the floor as he dragged himself backward, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and whatever it was.

A demon?

Am I actually in hell?

Looking around again, Finn finally noticed the strange figures scattered across the field. At first glance, they looked human—but the more he focused, the more he realized something was… off.

Some had vaguely human features, but with unsettling additions—long, pointed ears, thick fur that covered parts of their bodies, or tails swaying behind them as if they belonged to wolves. Others had twisted faces, elongated limbs, or sharp claws where hands should have been.

How had he not noticed them before?

Then, his gaze drifted further, and his stomach tightened. Two smaller shapes stood apart from the others, their silhouettes unmistakably childlike.

Are those… children?

But one of the creatures, the pale man with tusks, caught his reaction and spoke again, its deep voice reverberating like a low growl.

Finn couldn't respond. His mind was too overwhelmed by the sheer impossibility of what he was seeing. He froze, his breath caught in his throat as the pale creature began walking toward him, slow and deliberate.

Panic kicked in, and he prepared to push himself backward again, but his back hit something solid. Another figure loomed behind him, blocking his retreat.

He turned his head, and his heart nearly stopped.

This creature was even more menacing. Its face was a patchwork of scars, jagged and uneven, like a cracked stone that had been worn down by years of harsh weather. Its glare held no patience, no compassion—only violence. In its left hand, it gripped a massive slab of metal that could only be described as a greatsword, the jagged edge glinting under the harsh lights.

"S-sorry!" Finn stammered, scrambling to move away.

But his attempt to escape only made things worse.

Now, he was face-to-face with the tusked creature that had been walking toward him. Its piercing gaze locked onto him, leaving him frozen in place.

He briefly considered rolling sideways—anything to avoid their looming presences—but his body refused to move. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to run, but there was nowhere to go.

Finn stared at the creature, his mind racing with dark possibilities. What kind of tortures awaited him?

But the creature didn't move to harm him. It simply stood there, staring back with an intensity that made Finn's skin crawl, as though it were studying him.

Seconds dragged into what felt like a lifetime before the creature made a slow, deliberate movement. It extended its arm toward him.

Finn flinched instinctively, his heart pounding. Was this it? Was it going to grab him, crush him, or worse?

An idea sparked in his mind—his pyrokinesis. If he could somehow use it to harm the creature in front of him, maybe it would leave him alone. But would his powers even work here? And did he have enough energy left to summon fire again?

Finn clenched his teeth and shifted his right arm behind him, fingers trembling as he prepared. He waited, every muscle in his body tensed, his mind locked onto the creature's movements. If he could catch it off guard, just once, maybe his plan would work.

He stood ready, focused—waiting for the creature to make its move.

But no attack came. Instead, the outstretched arm seemed… patient. Almost inviting.

Hesitant, and unsure why he was even entertaining the idea, Finn found himself reaching out in return. His hand trembled as it made contact with the creature's. The grip was firm but not painful, and before he could think too much about it, he was being pulled to his feet.

Standing now, Finn searched the creature's face for any sign of malice. He still couldn't make sense of its expression—was it neutral? Curious? Annoyed?

Still, he felt compelled to say something. Anything.

"Uh… thanks?" he said cautiously, his voice wavering.

The creature tilted its head slightly, squinting at him as if trying to decipher the strange noise Finn had made.

"Can you… uh, understand English?" Finn tried again, his words slow and deliberate, as though he were talking to a foreigner.

The only response he received was a puzzled expression.

Before Finn could make another awkward attempt at communication, a booming voice shattered the silence, forcing his attention away.

The sound came from everywhere and nowhere all at once, reverberating in his skull like it was speaking directly into his mind. The language was completely foreign to him, every word unfamiliar, yet its power was enough to make his knees feel unsteady.

And just as abruptly as it began, the voice fell silent, leaving an eerie stillness in its wake.

After a few seconds of heavy silence, a sudden flash of light engulfed the area, disappearing just as quickly. Finn blinked rapidly, unsure if it was real or just a trick of his imagination.

"Can you understand me now?" The booming voice returned, resonating from all directions.

"Ah, my apologies," it continued. "I forgot you all come from different races."

Different races?

Before Finn could process what was happening, the voice added, "Anyway, I've already bestowed upon you the Blessing of Language, so now we can all understand each other."

"I'm Halgon, this century's organizer for the Ascension Ceremony," the voice announced.

"For now, all you need to know is that you're in a place called The Threshold. Think of it as a waiting ground before you are all sent to the Tower of Ascension, where the real ascent begins. I'll explain more later. For now, while I prepare, feel free to get to know each other. That's all for now. I'll see you all soon."

The Threshold? Finn's thoughts swirled. So this isn't purgatory? And what was that about ascending a tower?

"Your face," a deep, gravelly voice cut through his confusion. "Have you crossed paths with a phoenix? Fought it, perhaps?"

Finn turned toward the voice and froze. The speaker was the same orc who had helped him up earlier. Now that he looked closer, the creature's face was marked with age, its wrinkles showing the passage of time.

The orc stood patiently, tusked and massive, but his steady expression held no malice—only what seemed to be curiosity, perhaps even wisdom?

Despite the orc's imposing size and strength, something about his presence felt... steady, almost reassuring. Finn's unease lessened. Understanding the orc's words now made him seem far less intimidating.

Was this the Blessing of Language Halgon had mentioned? That flash of light—it hadn't been his imagination.

"Phoenix? What?" Finn responded, confused.

"Your face," the creature continued. "Did it get burnt by a phoenix?"

Finn's hand instinctively moved to his scarred cheek. "Oh... no, it's a long story."

He glanced downward, a sense of insecurity creeping in. His scar was hard to ignore. Who wouldn't feel self-conscious with something that obvious? It drew attention—and not in a good way.

"But what was that about a phoenix?" Finn asked, trying to shift the conversation.

"You don't know what a phoenix is?" the creature asked, clearly puzzled.

"I know what a phoenix is," Finn replied. "It's that flaming bird, right? But those don't actually exist, do they?"

Is this some kind of joke from another culture I'm not getting?

The creature paused, narrowing its eyes with a hint of suspicion.

"Where are you from?" The creature asked.

"Milwaukee," Finn said, offering a shrug.

"Mil-wau-kee?" The creature blinked, clearly confused.

"Milwaukee," Finn repeated. "In the state of Wisconsin? In the USA?"

When the orc didn't respond, Finn added, "You don't know where that is? What planet are you from?"

He said it half-jokingly, assuming the person wasn't familiar with the USA or any other countries. His outfit, his tusks—they looked like part of some tribal jewelry or decoration, not something real. He seemed like a warrior from an isolated, distant tribe.

But the man's answer surprised him.

"Vanov. The only habitable planet in the Torrina System."