His world was dark and empty, completely still and cold. Tucked away in a corner of his mind, everything was nothing. Staring out into the pitch black, his back against a door to a room full of memories, he was drawn within his body, away from all feeling.
Bright light exploded into his world, and he was thrown back into consciousness. Flashing firelight blinded him as his eyes opened. He winced and squeezed them shut, getting used to the warm glow on his eyelids before venturing to open them again.
The stone floor was cold against his bare chest. There was the sough of fabric, a robe rustling behind him, and he knew Old Master was there. Then, he felt it, fire spreading across his back and shoulders, sending his nerves up in flames. He sucked in a breath sharply; it took all he had to stop himself from making a sound. Gradually his body become numb to the pain, and he found himself retreating back into his own darkness.
Hisss!
It was hurled back into his own body as a new sensation raced across his skin. Freezing cold mingling with the aftershocks of the burn turned into an indescribable stinging. He sucked in a breath, squeezing his eyes shut and letting he darkness suck at him to drive away the pain. The robe rustled again, and he felt the presence beside him fade. The whisper of slippers across the floor echoed loudly against the silence of the stone room. His eyes flew open in shock as a rancid odour attacked his nostrils. The soft hum of Old Master's voice throbbed in the air, and he let the soothing waves of it wash over him. Fingertips brushed over the stinging, increasing the pain with even the slightest pressure. He flinched involuntarily, biting down on his lip as the pain and smell reached a dizzying climax. It was all he could do to swallow the bile that rose in his throat as gentle but agonizing hands smoothed the sticky stench across his back. Then the pain vanished.
All around there was the crackle of flame as torches rippled alight all around the room. Angel heaved himself up, careful not to move his arms too much. Old Master moved to put out the fire, and Angel saw the glowing red end of the cooling metal brand lying beside the pile of cinders.
Old Master beckoned, and he moved to kneel before the altar. He knew what was across his shoulders now, the brand of the Dragon that would stay with him forever. Out the window, the moon had barely risen, and it would be a while yet until daylight.
He bowed his head respectfully as Old Master began to recite the last Rites of Passage for Shang Warriors of the Honour Dragon. It just happened to be a very lengthy list, that would take almost the whole night, leaving a couple hours' worth of meditation before sunlight and sunrise.

"I so swear," Angel whispered as the last rite was uttered. Then he shut his eyes and listened as Old Master left the room.
Four years of Shang training. Only four years, because he was an immortal and his body adjusted faster to the harsh lessons. For four years he was cloistered away in these stone walls, sequestered from the world, from life! More importantly, from fun.
It wouldn't be difficult to raise an army now that he bore the mark of the Dragon. From his troops, Old Master could recruit warriors for his Dagaz thing, train them as well. Angel had plans once he left the House of Shang. He would make something of himself. Warfare was what he was trained for. He'd been raised in war camps since birth, been wielding a sword from the time he could walk.
He was ready to face the world, seek his destiny. His life of training had some to an end. He would be his own master.
Out in the world, he would be powerful. He smiled inwardly. Oooh yeah, bring on the ladies.
But first, bring on the dawn.