The road stretched endlessly ahead, winding through cold winds and harder nights. Hope, once bright in their chests, had dulled like a rusted blade.
Feiyan hunted wild game with silent precision. Ziyan, ever observant, gathered bitter fruit and spring water from streams. They made camp under trees or nestled among rocks, shivering through dusk and dew. Each step was earned, each morning colder than the last.
By the fourth day, a town emerged through a veil of dust — Huang Jin. Smoke curled from blacksmith chimneys, the air thick with iron and sweat. A place of labor, of flame. It was not much, but for two girls with no money and worn boots, it was something.
Ziyan's eyes lit with cautious hope.
"Maybe we can earn a little coin here," she murmured. "There's bound to be a forge or merchant who needs someone who understands weapons. I could work as an appraiser."
Feiyan scanned the streets. Most faces were male — sharp-eyed, dismissive. Their presence alone felt like a cold shoulder.
"Look around. These men barely tolerate each other, let alone us. But maybe... I can try my luck as a caravan escort. I heard bandits have been hounding traders."
Ziyan nudged her shoulder.
"We didn't come this far just to crawl away."
Feiyan gave a tired smirk.
"You're more stubborn than you look."
They split up.
But the town was not kind to strangers, least of all young women with swords and calloused hands.
Ziyan knocked on forge doors, spoke respectfully, bowed low — only to be dismissed with scoffs.
"A girl, appraising swords? What next — kittens selling armor?"
"You don't even carry a hammer. Get lost."
By sundown, her feet ached and her voice was hoarse. She sat near a rain barrel and stared at her reflection in the water — sunburned, worn, still breathing.
Feiyan returned, dust on her boots and irritation in her eyes.
"Tried two guardsmen and a merchant. One wanted a concubine. The other said I was too 'delicate' to fight."
"What did you say?"
"Told him if he liked his nose, he should keep walking."
They both laughed — bitter, tired, genuine.
"We'll sleep tonight," Ziyan sighed. "Then move on in the morning. Maybe the next town…"
The next morning, Ziyan wandered down an alley between a tavern and a crumbling cart. She hadn't planned to stop — but a sound drew her in: not the hammer's clang, but the rhythm of focus.
Inside the modest forge, a boy barely fifteen labored alone. Soot clung to his arms. The hammer he used was too heavy. Still, he worked with quiet determination, folding the blade again and again.
When he offered the sword to his master — a squat, thick-browed man — it was barely glanced at.
"Crooked spine. Weak tang. Useless," the man muttered, waving him off.
The boy didn't argue. He bowed and stepped back.
Ziyan, watching quietly, stepped closer.
"You made this?"
The boy looked startled. "I—I tried. It's not finished."
She turned the blade in her hand. The edge was uneven. But the folds were tight. The metal had been balanced with care.
"You watched the senior smiths?" she asked.
"Yes, miss."
"What's your name?"
"Ren Shuye."
She nodded. "Well, Ren Shuye — you've got good instincts. That fold… it's not something a novice guesses."
Before he could respond, the forge master returned, frowning.
"You again? Girl, if you're here to waste time—"
Ziyan bowed.
"I know your time is precious, Master. Allow me to help sell today. I understand blades — weight, balance, use. Let me assist, just for the afternoon. If you don't earn more coin, I'll leave without another word."
He grunted. "You've got more nerve than sense."
Ziyan smiled faintly. "And more sense than your sons."
He paused — then barked a laugh.
"Fine. One afternoon. You get nothing."
To his surprise, customers began to gather.
Ziyan spoke plainly, wisely. She explained how a blade's folding determined its strength, how weight revealed its purpose. Her voice was clear, her words steady — not flashy, not boastful, just true.
Some returned. A few asked for her by name.
That evening, the master tossed her a single copper.
"Hmph. You talk too much," he muttered. "But you sell."
The next day, a space was cleared beside the stall.
Meanwhile, Feiyan sat at a quiet tea stall, listening.
Two spice merchants — an elder and his sons — argued about bandits along the eastern trail. No guards would escort them without triple pay. Their caravan had already been looted once.
Feiyan stood.
"I'll take the job for half."
The eldest son sneered. "You? What are you, a wandering nun?"
She tapped the hilt of her sword. "Try me."
By dusk the next day, Feiyan returned — her cloak stained with dust, and two dazed bandits tied behind her horse.
"They were drunk," she shrugged to Ziyan. "Didn't even put up a fight."
The merchants paid her double anyway.
That night, the two girls sat behind the forge as Ren Shuye worked quietly, folding and re-folding a fresh piece of metal. He had the clumsy grace of someone learning quickly — hands steady, eyes sharp.
Feiyan raised a brow.
"You sure we can trust him?"
Ziyan watched Shuye closely, then looked to the fire.
"Not yet. But he listens. Watches. Learns. That's more than I can say for most men here."
Feiyan leaned back, folding her arms behind her head.
"If he turns out useless, I'll dunk him in the river."
Shuye flinched. "I'm right here…"
"Good," Feiyan said, smirking. "You're not one of us. Not yet. But you might be."
Ziyan nodded.
"We'll stay in Huang Jin for a few more weeks. There's work, and… something here worth building. If Shuye keeps showing his worth — he'll be the first we recruit."
Feiyan cracked a seed between her teeth.
"A gang of outcasts and weirdos, led by two angry girls and a baby blacksmith."
Ziyan grinned.
"Better than wandering alone."
The firelight flickered. The forge hissed. In a town that had turned its back on them, they had found the first few embers of something real.