In the Fireforge Chamber, Jiang Muchen stared at the pile of discarded scraps in the corner, his gaze fixed for what felt like a full incense stick's time.
Firecloud Master's words still buzzed in his mind: *"If you ruin something, don't come crying to me."* But Jiang knew it wasn't a warning—it was a quiet permission. The Foundry always had more scraps than it could ever use. Break something, and they'd just toss in a few more pieces. But what if he succeeded…?
If he succeeded, what then?
He crouched and spread the scrap pieces carefully across the stone floor, like a gambler counting the last chips in a high-stakes hand.
Three pieces of lightning-charcoal, ranging from the size of a fist to the size of an egg, their surfaces etched with fine silver lightning streaks that tingled faintly at the touch. Seven slices of star-pattern steel, thin as cicada wings, edges catching the dim firelight with a cold gleam sharp enough to slice through moonlight. A small bundle of soft jade ore powder, wrapped in oil-paper, warm and silky to the touch. And miscellaneous bits: a few chunks of copper slag, fingernail-sized, pitted with honeycomb holes; some shards of cold iron, bluish-black and metallic; even half a warped bronze nail, rusted and misshapen.
Trash, all of it.
But in Jiang Muchen's mind, the *Myriad Spirit Resonance Technique* left behind by Bai Gui hummed like a thousand voices whispering at once. The technique wasn't just cultivation—it carried fragments of countless fields of knowledge: forging, alchemy, arrays, talismans. Each fragment was incomplete, like broken keys, yet somehow, each could fit into a lock and open it just enough to see the path ahead.
This pile of scrap was one of those locks.
He picked up a piece of lightning-charcoal, gathering a fine thread of spirit force at his fingertip, and delicately tapped the intersection of its etched veins.
*Zzzzzz—*
A tiny arc of electricity jumped, casting a pale blue-white glow across the dim chamber, illuminating his calm face. Residual celestial lightning still lingered in the charcoal—weak as a dying candle's flicker—but with the right guidance and containment, it could become a one-time "Lightning Rune." Not powerful, but capable of surprise.
The star-pattern steel slices were too fragile to make proper weapons. But if he shaved them into hair-thin needles and tempered them with shards of cold iron, they could become "Frost Soul Needles"—silent assassins that delivered lethal frost upon contact.
Soft jade ore powder, mixed with copper slag powder in proportions recorded in a fragmentary talisman recipe, and blended with the juice of Filtergold Grass, could yield talismans that were both flexible and fire-sensitive—usable multiple times.
An hour later, sweat soaked Jiang Muchen's back.
On the small low table before him, seven items lay in order: three crude lightning runes with faint electrical arcs flowing in the charcoal-inked sigils; five hair-thin Frost Soul Needles, their tips glowing with ghostly blue chill; and a small vial of specially prepared talisman ink, dark red with gold flecks, stirring into eerie ripples when shaken.
All seemed worthless, mere junk on a street vendor's stall. Yet Jiang wasn't after money.
He rose and moved to the edge of the fire pit, seated himself cross-legged, and placed the vial of talisman ink carefully before him. Closing his eyes, he activated the *Myriad Spirit Resonance Technique*, letting his spirit thread stretch like invisible spiderwebs through the heavy ironwood door and into the clamor of the Foundry's main hall.
He was listening—for Master Firecloud's forge.
---
In the main hall, the three-story-tall bronze furnace roared to life, its walls glowing crimson like a slumbering beast stirring.
Firecloud Master, bare-chested, muscles like ancient tree roots rippling under the heat, sweat dripping onto the blistering iron anvil with hissing steam, gripped a long-handled iron tong in one hand, clamping a glowing copper ingot. In the other, a copper hammer the size of a human head fell again and again onto the ingot. Each strike sent sparks flying like fireworks, the ingot slowly deforming with a dull thunderous *clang*.
His brow was furrowed tight enough to crush flies, his red beard quivering in the sweltering air.
"The purity still isn't enough!" he bellowed, voice like sand scraping iron. "The black tin impurities are inside the copper's core! Hammering won't get it out! One more strike and it'll shatter!"
Nearby disciples froze, barely daring to breathe. They knew this copper ingot was the key material for the "Crimson Sun Sword," already failed three times. One more failure, and not only would the material be ruined, but Master Firecloud's reputation in the Foundry would take a hit.
Jiang Muchen's spirit thread revealed every detail: the ingot glowed red-hot, yet within were countless gray-black specks, stubborn impurities of black tin. Ordinary refining—hammering, quenching, melting—couldn't remove them; brute force would only scatter them further.
Master Firecloud needed finesse. Not brute strength, but the delicate touch that could move mountains with a feather's weight.
Jiang retracted his spirit and opened his eyes.
He remembered a technique from the *Compendium of Flora and Minerals*: the juice of Filtergold Grass could absorb metal impurities—but only with a "homogeneous attractant" could it penetrate the material's core and "lure" the impurities out. The record was fragmented, leaving only hints.
The plants grew in the damp, shadowed southwest corner of the outer yard—and he had already harvested them two days ago for his meditative brew. Returning now would take at least an hour and risk discovery. No time.
His gaze fell on the pile of scraps. There lay a few chunks of copper slag—virtually worthless, high in impurities—but originating from the same copper ore as the ingot. Their impurity patterns matched…
A thought struck like lightning in the dark.
What if… the slag could be used as bait?
He rose swiftly, gathering the slag into a small iron mortar, and began pounding with the stone pestle.
*Thud… thud… thud…*
The hollow thuds echoed, the hard slag gradually breaking into a fine gray-black powder. He then added the last of his purified meditative brew into a small celadon vial.
*Clink-clink.* The powder sank slowly into the pale green liquid, swirling into a thick, dark green paste with a metallic sheen.
Would it work?
Jiang Muchen didn't know. The world of forging was vast, and he had barely skimmed the shore. But Master Firecloud needed a "maybe"—even one in ten thousand, even if absurd. In desperation, a dying person clutches a single straw and calls it a tree.
He opened the ironwood door and stepped out.
---
The main hall roared with heat. Master Firecloud hammered the glowing ingot, sparks flying like rain, voice thundering: "Worthless! All of it!"
Jiang stepped forward, bowing slightly. His voice was calm, carrying clearly between hammer strikes.
"Master… I have a method that might purify the ingot."
All eyes turned. A mere servant, standing in the heart of the Foundry, suggesting a solution while Master Firecloud's temper flared?
Master Firecloud studied him for three long heartbeats, gaze like twin red-hot pincers.
"Speak."
Jiang Muchen held up the vial, its glow catching the furnace light. "I mixed Filtergold Grass extract with copper slag powder to make this paste. If applied to the ingot's surface, it might draw the black tin impurities up to the surface for easy removal."
He had made it up on the spot—but plausibly. Filtergold Grass absorbed impurities, the slag shared the ingot's origin, acting as a lure. Like fishing: right bait, fish bite.
Master Firecloud sniffed, brow tightening. The smell was foul, metallic, briny, like rotten fish in molten metal.
"The herb is pungent. Mixed with the slag, even worse," Jiang said evenly. "Yet the *Compendium* says: 'Odd scents do not mean useless; foul odors may conceal rare power.'"
He hesitated, decades of experience against centuries of urgency. This ingot was critical; three days already wasted. Jiang's previous experiment with Filtergold Grass had worked—albeit on liquid copper. Solid copper was another matter.
"Do it!" Master Firecloud spat through clenched teeth.
Jiang dipped a worn bristle brush into the paste, applying it evenly to the glowing ingot. Blue-black smoke hissed up, pungent as burned iron and feathers.
Disciple eyes watered. Some gagged.
But the copper responded. Gray-black impurities floated to the surface—exactly as he predicted.
"Scrape it off! Gently, don't damage the metal!" Master Firecloud roared.
Layer by layer, the surface impurities lifted, revealing bright crimson copper beneath. Three rounds later, the ingot gleamed, its surface nearly free of black tin spots. Not perfect—but enough to continue.
Master Firecloud grabbed Jiang's shoulder, crushing yet praising: "Kid, where did you get this idea?"
Jiang gritted his teeth, pain shooting up his arm: "I… guessed. Filtergold absorbs impurities. The slag is from the same source. It's bait. Like fishing—fish bite if the bait's right."
"Fishing, huh?" Master Firecloud laughed, voice shaking the hall. "Ha! Damn clever!"
He handed Jiang a black, ice-cold token without looking:
*"Third-Rank Guest, Jiang Muchen."*
Freedom in all third-tier areas of the Foundry, monthly stipend, extra holiday bonuses. Shocked disciples stared, envy and disbelief etched across their faces.
Jiang clutched it, warm despite the cold metal—a key forged from his value.
He bowed deeply: "Thank you, Master."
Master Firecloud waved him off: "Quit your thank-yous. Get back to work. Oh, and call your paste… 'Impurity Lure.' Bring more bottles!"
Jiang returned to the chamber, heart racing. He had gained more than just access—he had value, leverage, a foothold.
But the world was full of doors yet to open: the Scripture Pavilion, Alchemy Peak, the Inner Sect… even Qingming Valley's hidden gates.
He ran fingers over the jade flute in his lap, feeling the cool calm seep into his bones.
Silent, but inside, the sounds of the Foundry, the hammering, the molten magma, even the night wind over graveyard flags, all whispered the same truth:
*When you are useful enough, those who once sought to harm you may become your carriers—because they need you alive, alive long enough to extract your value.*
---
Outside the chamber, in the shadowed corner of the corridor, Zhao Xiaoliu pressed against the cold wall, sliding to the floor. His fingers still stained dark red with the magical blood sand from the previous night's bone jar.
He pulled from his pocket a broken tile, Jiang Muchen's "treatment plan" from three days ago. He studied the faded charcoal markings, then licked the surface, tasting the bitter ash mixed with earthy iron scent.
A hoarse, ragged laugh escaped:
"Jiang Muchen… you can heal me… but do you even know how this wound came to be?"
No one answered.
Only the deep rumble from the fire pit below, like the heartbeat of the earth—or the slow awakening of some colossal beast.
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