The village of Ironwood was nestled in the shadow of the Mist-Veiled Peaks, a place where legends came to die and silence was the only currency worth trading. It was not a place for heroes, nor was it a place for demons. It was a place for forgotten things.
Mo Jue hammered the glowing bar of iron on his anvil, the rhythmic clang echoing through his open-air smithy. His muscles, corded and dark, moved with a precision that betrayed a lifetime of violence, though he now used them only to shape plowshares and horseshoe nails. He wore only linen trousers, his back mapped with faint, white scars that told stories he no longer wished to remember.
He had been the Sovereign of the Nine Hells, a title that once commanded fear from celestial beings and mortals alike. He had ruled with fire and shadow, until the betrayal.
Lin—the name tasted like ash in his mouth. She was the High Priestess of the Celestial Realm, the one who was supposed to be his counterpart, his light. Instead, she had used his trust to seal him within the mortal realm, stripping him of his demonic authority and leaving him with only a fraction of his strength.
She hadn't killed him. That was her cruelty. She wanted him to live as a mortal, to feel the slow decay of time, to suffer the petty pains of human existence.
She had succeeded.
He hated mortals. He hated their greed, their petty squabbles, and their desperate scramble for immortality. They reminded him of her—of the boundless ambition that had broken his heart.
"Master Mo?"
The voice was shaky, interrupting his melancholic reverie. Mo Jue didn't stop hammering. He finished the shaping of the iron before letting it fall into the water trough with a loud hiss of steam.
He looked up. Standing at the edge of his smithy was a young woman dressed in the fine silks of a city dweller, completely out of place in the rustic village. Beside her stood a hulking man, likely a bodyguard, looking around with a sneer.
"We are closed," Mo Jue said, his voice deep and raspy. He reached for a towel to wipe the sweat from his forehead.
"Please, I need your help," the woman, Meili, said, clutching a small, leather-bound book to her chest. "They say you are the only one who can repair the seal on this."
Mo Jue looked at the book. Even from this distance, he could feel the cold, vile energy radiating from it. It was a demonic artifact, a remnant of a sect he had personally destroyed centuries ago.
"I am a blacksmith, not a sorcerer," Mo Jue replied, turning back to his anvil.
"I will pay you three hundred gold taels," she urged, stepping closer. "And... I know who you are."
Mo Jue paused. The hammer hovered over the cold iron. He turned slowly, his eyes locking onto hers. They were not human eyes. For a split second, they glowed with a violet, predatory fire that made the woman gasp and stumble back.
"Do you?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper, yet it felt heavier than a mountain.
"I... I know you are not just a blacksmith," she stammered, recovering her courage. "I know you are the one they call the 'Ghost Hand.' Please. My sect... we are being hunted. We need the artifact to protect ourselves."
Lies, Mo Jue thought. He could smell the desperation on her, but it wasn't the desperation of fear. It was the desperation of ambition. She didn't want protection; she wanted power. She wanted to harness the demonic energy within the book to elevate herself above others.
"Three hundred taels," he repeated, not because he wanted the money, but because he saw a game beginning. A game that would likely end in their deaths, a thought that brought a cold, sadistic smile to his lips.
"Bring it to me tonight. At midnight. Under the old willow tree at the village edge."
Meili nodded frantically, bowing before turning to leave, her bodyguard glaring at Mo Jue before following her.
Mo Jue watched them go. He had "quit" being a demon king. He had retired. But it seemed the world was determined to remind him why he had hated it in the first place.
Mo Jue watched the woman and her bodyguard retreat down the dusty path, his dark eyes narrowed. The hiss of the iron bar cooling in the water trough was the only sound for a moment, a stark contrast to the impending storm he felt brewing. He didn't care about the three hundred gold taels—such things were mundane trinkets to a former Sovereign—but the artifact she carried was interesting. It was an old piece, dating back to a time before his heart had been shattered, before he had decided to abandon the throne of the Nine Hells.
Lin. The name still brought a sharp, cold sting to his chest, a reminder of the heavenly priestess who had promised him eternity only to trap him in this mortal decay. He hated her, and he hated the weakness in himself that still remembered her smell of ozone and lotus flowers.
He turned away from the anvil, walking into the dimly lit back room of his smithy. It was sparsely furnished—a simple cot, a wooden table, and a locked iron chest. He sat on the edge of the cot, rubbing his temples. The air felt heavy, almost suffocating, packed with the residual demonic energy the woman had brought with her.
It was faint, but it was there—a lingering scent of sulfur and dark magic.
"Greedy," he muttered, shaking his head. "They never learn."
He felt a familiar pressure in his mind, a faint psychic resonance that he had ignored for years. It was the artifact, calling out to its owner, looking for someone strong enough to shatter its seals. He knew he could mend it, or break it, with a single thought.
The thought made him smile—a dark, joyless thing. He had tried to "quit." He had tried to be a simple blacksmith, to forge plowshares and forget the screams of the damned. But destiny, or perhaps just the sheer stupidity of mortals, seemed determined to drag him back.
Just as the sun began to dip below the Mist-Veiled Peaks, painting the sky in violent shades of orange and purple, the peace of Ironwood village was shattered by the sound of rhythmic hoofbeats.
Mo Jue walked to the window of his back room, his keen eyes picking out the figures riding down the main path. They were wearing the polished steel breastplates and crimson capes of the Imperial Guard.
Leading them was a woman whose presence radiated authority and a sharp, calculating intelligence. Captain Leng Yan.
Mo Jue had seen her once before in the village square, and he remembered the way she had looked at him—too closely, as if she could see through the veneer of his mortal form. She was efficient, ruthless, and entirely too dedicated to her duty.
He watched them stop in the center of the village, Leng Yan scanning the surroundings with a falcon's eye. She was likely investigating the minor demonic disturbances that had been plaguing the region, disturbances that Mo Jue had willfully ignored.
He heard the villagers whispering, their voices filled with a mixture of fear and awe as the Imperial Guard began to search the houses. Leng Yan was not merely passing through; she was looking for something—or someone.
"Looking for a demon, Captain?" Mo Jue whispered to himself, stepping away from the window. "You wouldn't know one if he was hammering iron in your face."
He picked up a heavy, black stone from his table—a piece of obsidian he had kept from his former realm. It was useless now, just a paperweight, but holding it reminded him of the absolute power he had once wielded.
He needed to prepare for the midnight meeting. He had no intention of repairing the artifact for the woman, but he did intend to see what kind of power she thought she could control. And if Leng Yan decided to interrupt his business, well... the blacksmith of Ironwood might have to show the Imperial Guard that some things are best left buried in the dark.
He placed the obsidian stone back on the table, a cold, hard resolution settling over him. He was a retired Demon King, a god who had quit. But if mortals insisted on playing with fire, he would gladly remind them why they should fear the dark.