The volcanic ridges of Dragon's Valley stretched endlessly beneath a smoke-choked sky, the air heavy with the scent of sulfur and scorched stone. Emberwinds whispered between jagged peaks, fanning the breath of dormant fires into restless flickers. Lava pulsed beneath the cracked earth like the heartbeat of something ancient and unsatisfied. No birds sang here. No plants dared rise. It was a land born of fury and flame, shaped by tempests of molten wrath—a place where only the fiercest could endure without being consumed.

High above the basin where rivers of fire curled and hissed through obsidian veins, Fire Spirit Cookie stood at the edge of a crumbling cliff. His cloak, redder than blood and rimmed with ash, snapped in the updraft as he stared down at the glowing paths below. His eyes, twin suns behind his mask, narrowed. He had felt it. Not just the surge of magic—no, it was more than that. It was presence. It was heat. A kind of raw energy that crackled like wildfire and defied being tamed.

And then, there you were.

Walking across the scorched terrain as if it belonged to you. Each step was deliberate, measured, yet carried the weight of defiance. The wind recoiled from your path. Sparks curled up around your heels. And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Fire Spirit Cookie felt something—something deep in the core of his flames stir, uncertain whether to brace or bow to the firestorm approaching him. You weren't just alive with heat; you were heat. Untamed. Relentless. Proud.

The ground hissed and groaned beneath your steps as if it feared you'd ignite it further. Fire Spirit Cookie watched you approach, a slow smirk playing at the corner of his lips, unseen beneath his mask. He crossed one leg over the other, arms folded in calm arrogance, but his posture betrayed the tension roiling beneath—like a bonfire too big for its own pit, dancing on the edge of control.