The sound of hammer on metal had long since become Ji Haneul's morning bell.
He no longer flinched at the sparks. No longer blinked at the heat. No longer hesitated when the old smith barked for tongs or coal or water. The forge didn't just warm him now—it welcomed him.
"Strike that edge again," the old man said, standing behind him.
Haneul, now taller, shoulders lean and steady, lifted the hammer.
Clang.
Sparks danced across the anvil like fireflies. The metal hissed under his breath. He struck again—precise, clean, not from rage or excitement, but from rhythm. Patience.
"Better," the smith said. "Still ugly, but better."
Haneul smirked. "So says the man who sharpens cleavers for goat herders."
"Goats need killing too," the old man grunted.
They worked through the morning, and when the hearth began to dim, the smith tossed him a flask of water and pointed to a stool.
"You ever think about forging a blade of your own?"
Haneul blinked. "You never said I could."
"I never said you couldn't."
The boy hesitated. "I've only ever trained with bamboo."
"Then you're overdue."
The old smith stood, stretched his back with a wince, and walked to the corner of the forge—an area Haneul had long assumed was just storage for scrap.
The old man pulled aside a heavy canvas tarp.
Behind it was a narrow shelf. Nothing ornate. Just simple wooden planks bolted into the stone wall. But resting on that shelf was a bundle wrapped in oilcloth and tied in red twine.
The air in the forge seemed to shift.
The old man undid the twine slowly. Unwrapped the cloth.
And revealed a piece of metal the color of midnight.
Not black. Not gray. Something deeper—like the bottom of a well, where light goes to die.
Haneul stepped closer, eyes fixed.
"What is it?" he asked, voice quiet.
"Starfire steel," the old man said. "Fell from the sky long before either of us was born. Harder than any ore in the provinces. But it won't obey anyone."
He lifted it with care—despite its weight—and set it on the anvil.
"It cracked my first anvil trying to shape it. Took me two decades to learn how to fold even a sliver without ruining the grain."
"Why haven't you used it?"
The old man stared at it a long moment. "Because I'm not the one meant to wield it."
"…Then who?"
The smith turned to him. His gaze sharp for once. Unjoking. Clear.
"I don't know. But I've been waiting."
Haneul said nothing.
The forge crackled.
The old man gave a soft snort. "Don't look at me like that. I'm not giving it to you yet. You're still green. Still soft. You've learned how to strike, how to temper. But forging a sword isn't just shaping steel—it's shaping intent."
Haneul nodded. Slowly.
"Then teach me."
"You're already learning."
"I mean the real forging."
The old smith looked at him a moment, then turned back to the starfire steel.
"When you're ready to stop cutting your demons and start cutting through the world… then we'll begin."
—
That night, Haneul practiced outside the forge as always. But his cuts were different now—deeper. Not in distance, but in thought.
He wasn't trying to mimic the scroll anymore.
He was beginning to understand it.
The poses that had once seemed ornamental now formed a flowing current, like a path beneath the waterline. He felt it each time his hand moved through the air: resistance folding, intent sharpening.
He was shaping himself—just as surely as the hammer shaped iron.
And though he didn't know when he would be ready…
He knew what waited for him when he was.
A blade not meant for any man.
A forge that waited patiently.
And steel that had once fallen from the heavens.