After fashioning a crude axe—binding a sharpened blade tightly to the end of a thick, angular branch with strips of torn cloth—Wang Chen joined the others in the forest.
The first swing felt wrong.
Awkward and strangely Heavy.
The vibration from the impact ran up his arms and into his shoulders, numbing them slightly. Without cultivation reinforcing his muscles, each motion demanded effort. Sweat gathered quickly along his brow despite the cool sea wind drifting through the trees.
Chop.
Chop.
Chop.
Wood splintered slowly under repeated strikes. Chips flew, scattering across damp earth. The scent of raw timber thickened the air, mixing with salt carried from the ocean.
They carried the felled logs back to the shoreline one by one, stacking them neatly where the All-Seeing Immortal had begun laying out the ship's foundation.
Minutes turned into hours.
Hours bled into days.
