The forge was awake.
Not roaring—not blazing like a blacksmith's hearth—but alive.
The moment Ji Haneul gripped the shard, the flames curled upward with strange grace. The walls of the chamber pulsed. The bones that lined the floor turned to ash and vanished without sound, as if they had been waiting for this moment alone.
The anvil, too, shifted.
It wasn't just iron. It responded. A relic, yes, but one fused with intent. It had not been used in generations. Yet now, it beckoned.
Haneul stood still.
The shard floated from his hand, hovering above the anvil.
It was cracked down the center—its edge dulled by time, its tip worn—but it pulsed with recognition.
He took the hammer resting on the wall.
It wasn't his master's. It wasn't familiar. But as soon as his hand wrapped around its grip, the weight felt right.
He struck once.
No spark.
No clang.
The sound was deep, almost like a bell. Not metal hitting metal—but spirit meeting spirit.
He struck again.
This time, the shard glowed.
Memories not his own rushed through his mind.
A lone swordsman walking beneath snow.
A challenge beneath moonlight.
A split mountain.
A broken oath.
Silence.
Then exile.
The hammer rose. Fell.
The shard began to reshape—not through heat, but qi.
He channeled it—not consciously. His hands moved on instinct. The teachings from the manual guided his motion. The internal flow of his Heavenly Martial Body harmonized with the forge's rhythm.
The weapon didn't just form.
It sang.
With every strike, a sound echoed—not sharp, but clear. Not violent, but vast. Like wind over a high ridge. Like breath before a storm.
He struck faster now.
His qi enveloped the forming blade.
It lengthened.
Sharpened.
The cracks vanished.
Runes began to form along its core—not carved, but naturally born, like veins of silver in stone.
Then—
Silence.
The flame faded.
The chamber cooled.
And before him, embedded in the anvil, was a completed sword.
Straight-edged. Balanced. Void-black with streaks of silver tracing its length like falling stars.
Haneul reached out.
The blade came free without effort.
It didn't hum. It didn't glow.
It simply existed.
Unmistakable. Unquestionable.
This was not the final sword.
But it was his.
His path. His weight. His echo.
He sheathed it behind his back.
The chamber rumbled slightly—almost approving.
And from the far wall, a door revealed itself.
Carved into the stone was a single line:
"To sever truth, one must first see it."
Haneul walked forward.
His steps echoed not like a man leaving—but like a blade finally unsheathed.