The forge roared.
Ji Haneul stood shirtless before the anvil, forearms dusted with coal, sweat cutting lines down his face. Before him lay a sliver of starfire steel, glowing faintly—resistant even in heat. Its dark gleam mocked the flame, refusing to fully yield.
He lifted the hammer.
Clang.
A dull thud. The steel barely dented.
He exhaled and struck again. Harder.
Clang.
The old smith sat nearby, unmoving, watching through the shimmer of heat.
"Too stiff," Haneul muttered.
"No," said the smith. "You're too soft."
Haneul gritted his teeth. He struck again. Then again.
Clang. Clang. Clang.
Each time, the steel gave slightly. But when he cooled it and tried to shape the edge, it cracked like dried bark.
"Damn it!"
The boy threw the hammer aside and stepped back, breathing hard.
The old man didn't speak. Didn't smirk. He simply walked over, picked up the broken sliver, and held it up to the light.
"You're trying to shape it like iron. But this isn't iron."
"I know."
"Do you?"
Haneul clenched his fists.
"I know I'm failing."
The old man dropped the shard into a bucket with a hiss.
"Failure's part of it. But don't lie to the steel. Don't hammer it like it owes you something. Don't swing like the world owes you vengeance. That's not forging. That's begging."
Haneul lowered his head. Said nothing.
"Rest. We try again tomorrow."
—
They tried again. And again.
Weeks passed.
The starfire steel remained defiant.
Sometimes it bent too fast. Sometimes it bent too slow. Other times it snapped, or warped, or split at the edges. Haneul's hands blistered. Then calloused. Then cracked open again.
He began dreaming of failure. Waking with the hammer still in his grip.
He began to doubt.
One night, long after the old smith had gone to sleep, Haneul stood alone at the anvil, breathing shallowly. His eyes burned. His limbs ached.
"Why won't you work?" he whispered to the steel.
It gleamed back at him—silent. Heavy. Untouched.
He didn't cry.
He just stood there, for what felt like hours, staring into the iron and fire.
—
The next morning, he didn't train.
Instead, he walked into the woods.
He followed the stream until the forest thinned, until he found the spot he hadn't visited since childhood—where the water bent around a smooth stone, where the reeds grew tall and gold.
Where his father once practiced beside him.
He sat there. Eyes closed. Listening.
And for the first time in months, he didn't think about the sword.
He thought about the movement.
The way his body flowed during each form. The stillness. The purpose.
The sword was not about rage. Not about proving strength. It was about understanding.
He returned to the forge that evening without a word.
The old smith looked up. Didn't speak.
Haneul lifted the hammer again.
And began anew.
—
The next week, he failed again.
But something changed.
The hammer moved more like a breath than a blow. The heat felt familiar, not foreign. The rhythm returned—not perfect, but honest. He whispered the forms as he worked, tracing the movements with every fold.
He wasn't just shaping steel.
He was folding memory into metal.
By the end of the month, he held something that resembled a blade.
Rough. Uneven. Ugly.
But his.
The old man inspected it in silence.
"…It's terrible," he said.
"I know."
"But it's yours."
Haneul smiled faintly. "That's enough for now."
The old man set the blade down gently.
"Not bad for your seventh attempt."
"Eighth."
"Still terrible."
They both laughed.
—
That night, Haneul placed the unfinished blade beside his scroll.
For the first time since the village burned, he felt like he had created something.
Not just a weapon.
But a beginning.