Jay followed Gao's advice, making his way toward the western edge of the sect grounds where the great smithy stood. Long before he saw the building itself, he heard it, not the chaotic clamor he might have expected, but a rhythmic, percussive clang of hammers on anvils, a sound so focused and deliberate it was almost a heartbeat.
As he drew closer, he felt the heat. It was a wave of dry, oppressive warmth that washed over him, a stark contrast to the cool mountain air. The smithy was not an elegant pavilion, but a massive, open-faced structure of soot-stained black stone, its wide entrance gaping like the mouth of a slumbering volcano.
The moment he stepped inside, the heat became a physical presence, a suffocating blanket that seemed to suck the moisture from the air. The sounds intensified into a deafening symphony of industry: the roar of a dozen forge-fires, the sharp hiss of steam as hot metal was quenched, and the ceaseless, ringing clang of steel on steel. The air was thick with smoke and dancing embers, and the entire space smelled of hot iron, burning coal, and sweat.
It was a scene of controlled chaos. Brawny disciples, their upper robes shed to reveal chests corded with muscle, hammered away at glowing ingots on massive anvils. Apprentices, their faces smudged with soot, scurried back and forth like ants, carrying buckets of water, clearing away racks of finished blades, and replenishing piles of raw ore.
Jay felt out of place, a simple cultivator in a den of craftsmen. He managed to catch the eye of a young apprentice, a boy no older than fifteen, who was struggling under the weight of an armload of newly forged swords.
"Excuse me," Jay said, raising his voice to be heard over the noise of the smithy. "I'm looking for the person in charge."
The boy didn't stop. "Master Tareth!" he shouted over his shoulder, a stream of sweat running down his temple. "Back corner, by the Grand Forge! Don't get in her way!" He disappeared into the smoky gloom before Jay could even offer his thanks.
Jay nodded to himself and navigated the chaotic workshop, the heat from the forges pressing in on him. In the furthest corner, illuminated by the furious, white-hot glow of the largest forge, he saw her.
She was not the towering, brawny figure he might have expected. Master Tareth was a compact, wiry woman, her grey-streaked hair tied back in a tight, practical bun. Her arms were not massive, but corded with a lean, dense strength that came from a lifetime of focused effort. Her face was a mask of absolute concentration, her eyes which had the color of molten steel, never leaving the glowing ingot she held in a pair of long-handled tongs.
Not wanting to interrupt, Jay stood at a respectful distance and simply watched. For hours, he was a silent statue amidst the chaos. He watched her work in a rhythm as old as the mountains. She would plunge the ingot into the roaring heart of the forge until it glowed with the intensity of a small sun. Then, she would place it on the anvil and the hammering would begin. Each strike was not a blow of brute force, but a precise, Qi-infused tap that seemed to coax the metal into shape. She would hammer, fold the metal upon itself, and hammer again, her movements an exhausting, beautiful, and endless dance of creation. The cycle repeated dozens, perhaps hundreds of times.
Finally, she lifted the now perfectly shaped blade, its form elegant and deadly. With a final, decisive movement, she plunged it into a trough of black, hissing water. A violent scream of steam erupted, and when she pulled the blade free, it was a perfect, soul-chilling black, the light seeming to die on its surface.
She held it up, inspecting the edge with a critical eye, and only then did she seem to want to acknowledge Jay's presence. She set the sword down on a cooling rack and turned to face him, wiping a soot-stained hand on her leather apron.
"You've been standing there for three hours," she said, her voice a low, gravelly rasp. "State your purpose or get out. You're letting out the heat."
Jay bowed respectfully. "Master Tareth. My name is Jay. Senior Brother Gao sent me. I came seeking inspiration."
Tareth's steel eyes swept over him from head to toe. It wasn't a glance; it was an appraisal, as if she were judging the quality of a raw ore. A flicker of surprise crossed her features.
"Foundation Establishment, newly ascended," she stated flatly. "A pure Earth affinity, but your Qi is… unsettled. Your foundation is wide, but it lacks depth. You fight like a wall, but you want to fight more like a sword. Am I wrong?"
Jay was stunned into silence. 'She saw all that… just by looking?' He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. It was a foolish thing to be intimidated by anything after facing down a mutated Marshlurker, but the sheer, casual expertise of the woman before him was a different kind of pressure entirely. He bowed his head again, knowing he was in the presence of a true expert. "No, Master Tareth. You are not wrong."
Her expression didn't soften. "Gao sent you? That boy thinks the ground is a toy box. He makes clumsy rock swords that shatter if you look at them too hard. What does a smithy have to do with you?"
Jay took a deep breath, steeling himself. "He told me that his technique requires an infusion of metal to hold its edge. My Earth Qi is strong, but it's just... earth. It can block, but it can't cut. I came to understand how you give something so stubborn as stone an edge."
Tareth was silent for a long moment, her gaze unyielding. She then picked up the sword she had just forged, its black surface cool to the touch. "What is this?" she asked.
Jay hesitated. "A sword, Master Tareth."
"Wrong," she said, her voice sharp. "It's an answer. A hundred hours ago, this was a lump of ugly, brittle iron ore, full of impurities. Useless. I put it in the fire and asked it a question: 'Are you content to be rock, or do you wish to be more?' I took it out and beat it with a hammer. I asked it again: 'Will you break, or will you bend?' I folded it, hammered it, purified it, again and again. I kept asking it the same questions."
She held the blade out, its edge a perfect, dark line. "This is its answer."
She turned her molten gaze back to Jay. "You are the same. Your Earth Qi is strong, but it's just raw ore. It can endure, but it cannot cut. You want to give it an edge? Then you must ask it the same questions. You must burn away its impurities with your own will, hammer it with focused intent, and fold it upon itself until all that remains is the pure, unyielding soul of steel."
"How?" Jay asked, his voice filled with a desperate hunger.
Tareth pointed with the sword towards a massive, neglected pile of slag and discarded metal scraps in a dark corner of the smithy. "You want inspiration? You will find it in labor. That pile of slag needs to be broken down and sorted. You will do it with nothing but your bare hands and your own Qi. Somewhere in that useless heap is a single speck of unrefined Star-Iron. When you can find it, when your senses are sharp enough to feel the difference between common rock and true metal, then you can come and ask me your questions again."
Jay looked from her stern, challenging face to the mountain of waste material. It was a monumental, thankless task. It was also a path.
He bowed deeply, his voice filled with a new, unshakeable resolve. "Thank you for the lesson, Master Tareth."
Without another word, he rolled up the sleeves of his robes and walked towards the corner, the heat of the forge at his back and a mountain of his own making before him. He was no longer just a shield. He was an ore, waiting for the fire.
---------------------------
In a quiet office in the sect's central peak, Elder Wu sat hunched over a massive scroll spread across his desk. It was a complex topographical map of the southern mortal territories, covered in his sharp, precise script, detailing the optimal flow of a dozen different formation arrays. The air in his study was still and smelled of old ink and dry parchment.
A soft knock came at his door.
"Enter."
Elder Lin stepped inside, his calm presence a stark contrast to the barely contained, frantic energy of Wu's workspace. Lin's gaze swept over the meticulously drawn plans.
"Brother Wu," Lin said, his voice a gentle hum. "How are the preparations for the water-gathering expedition progressing?"
Wu didn't look up from his work, his brush still hovering over a nexus point on the map. "Everything is proceeding according to schedule," he grunted, his tone all business. "The preliminary plans are drawn. We will be ready to move out in twelve days. All that remains is to gather the necessary materials and recruit the personnel."
"Good work," Lin said with an approving nod. "The mortal villages are growing desperate. Let me know if there is anything you require from the council."
Wu considered for a moment, and he finally set his brush down and looked up, his face a mask of stern practicality. "There is one matter. An expedition of this size and duration, in a region with agitated beasts, will require a substantial supply of pills, restorative, antidote, and Qi-replenishing. Our standard reserves will be strained." He paused, choosing his next words carefully. "It would be... prudent... to ask Brother Ming to personally oversee a dedicated production run for this mission."
Elder Lin understood the implications of straining the sect's supplies, especially with unknown dark forces currently lurking to the south. "I see. As it happens, I was just on my way to the Alchemist's Pavilion to speak with him. I will pass on your request."
"My thanks, Brother Lin," Wu said, giving a curt nod.
With that, Lin turned and left the office as quietly as he had entered. Wu immediately picked his brush back up, his attention returning to the piles of paperwork and intricate calculations that covered his desk. The fate of thousands of mortals was now reliant on his knowledge and experience as a formation master, a complex formation that needed to be executed with perfect precision. It was a task he was born for.