Where… was this place?
Gang Hua tried to open his eyes, but an overwhelming drowsiness pressed down on him—thick and heavy, as though his soul were sinking into deep mud. Thought became slow. Awareness blurred.
Then he saw it.
Space.
Endless, silent, boundless space stretched in all directions. Distant stars shimmered faintly, scattered like dust across eternity. Floating before him was a golden gate, perfectly circular, its surface smooth and ancient.
At its edges, stars revolved in slow, dignified arcs. A thin membrane—like flowing water—wrapped around the gate, rippling gently, as though alive.
Behind it—
Rivers.
Not one.
Many.
They crisscrossed endlessly, forming an enormous web that stretched beyond sight. Some rivers were pale and dim, barely noticeable. Others burned with color—deep violet, azure blue, blazing crimson—each radiating its own presence, its own weight.
Each river had a gate.
Before Gang Hua could process more, the heaviness returned. His vision dimmed, darkness pulling at the edges of his awareness.
—
A violent jolt tore through him.
Behind him, countless transparent stars surged through the void, rushing toward the golden gate. There were too many—far too many.
The gate could not contain them all.
Some passed through.
Some collided with the edge and shattered into fragments of light.
Some… fell away.
Gang Hua felt himself falling.
No.
He was one of the falling ones.
Suspended in a half-dream state, he was aware without understanding. Then a powerful wave tore through the space, strong enough to rip the fog from his mind.
The distant stars that had remained still suddenly moved.
They surged forward, crashing into the fallen transparent stars.
Some enveloped them gently, washing them away.
Others collided violently, merging directly into their cores.
One slammed into a nearby soul.
The shockwave ripped through the void.
Gang Hua felt his own existence tremble, nearly torn apart.
Lucky—or unlucky—
None of the stars chose him.
As drowsiness reclaimed him, his consciousness sank into darkness once more.
—
Gang Hua woke with a sharp breath.
Morning light filtered through the orphanage window.
That dream had followed him for four years.
He had been two years old the first time he saw it. Soon after, memories from his previous life had begun returning—slowly, painfully, piece by piece. At first, none of it made sense.
But as he grew older, understanding crept in.
The transparent stars were souls.
The rivers were destinies—or perhaps entire worlds.
The gates…
They had to be the Sixfold Samsara.
A crossing point where all memories of a previous life were washed away, where existence began anew.
And he?
He had slipped through the cracks.
When Gang Hua was four—before his father died—his spiritual roots were tested.
The result was painfully clear.
Perfectly average.
Five-element roots: fire, water, earth, wind, lightning. No dominant attribute. No heavenly-grade affinity. No dazzling talent.
No golden finger.
No ancient treasure slumbering in his soul.
Nothing.
Just a strong body inherited from his father.
A decent face inherited from his mother.
…and memories of a past life.
That was it.
That was also the moment Gang Hua understood something deeply and irrevocably.
He was not a chosen one.
And even if fate tried to force him into that role—
He had no intention of living like one.
He rose from bed, stretched his stiff limbs, and stepped outside.
Today was the day he began work at the blacksmith shop.
Uncle Wu—full name Gong Wu—had once been a cultivator. Years ago, he'd left the village, joined a small sect, and trained there for a time.
Unfortunately, cultivation was cruelly honest.
Talent decided everything.
After years of grinding without progress, the sect had let him go. He returned to Gang Village and became its finest blacksmith.
Gang Hua inhaled slowly.
Let's make something very clear, he thought.
Whoever claimed that ancient blacksmiths were inferior to modern ones deserved to be struck by lightning.
Do you have any idea how terrifying it was to work with materials infused with qi? With elemental properties? With spiritual resonance?
Modern techniques didn't mean much here.
And the materials—
Steel that remembered heat.
Ore that resisted intent.
Metal that changed shape depending on the wielder's cultivation.
In his previous life, the "best" metal was simply the strongest.
Here?
The material itself might decide it didn't like you.
When Gang Hua was five, he'd once walked into Uncle Wu's shop with a smug expression and a head full of "ideas."
He nearly died.
If not for his sturdy body—and Uncle Wu recognizing genuine fascination rather than arrogance—Gang Hua might not have lived long enough to regret it.
That was fine.
This time, he wouldn't pretend to be clever.
This time, he would learn.
Because even if the heavens hadn't chosen him—
He would still carve his own path.
One strike at a time.