The incense burned too fast in the cracked bronze urn.
Jiang Ye stood still, back straight, shoulders square, hands clasped behind him. The black silk robes of succession weighed heavy on his frame—not with splendor, but with dust. Three years ago, this ancestral hall would've been filled with banners, elders, cousins, retainers, mistresses, and hired musicians. Now, only five men stood at his back, two of them drunk.
The head steward muttered under his breath, "The incense is failing. Bad omen."
Jiang Ye didn't blink. His gaze swept the chipped stone tiles, the caved-in roof corner patched with straw, the faded ancestral portrait of Lord Jiang Wei—the founder of the house, once a Pill Formation cultivator feared across the southern peaks.
Now that bloodline was his alone. And it meant nothing.
He could feel the disdain from the monk officiating the rite. The bald man's cultivation robes were clean, but old, and his presence lacked any true spiritual pressure—clearly a bottom-tier itinerant brought in for cheap. Even still, the man looked at Jiang Ye with the polite contempt of someone who thought the ceremony was a waste of time.
Jiang Ye gave him nothing.
"Let the heavens bear witness," the monk intoned, voice hoarse, "that Jiang Ye, only son of Jiang Rui, heir to Fangyan, takes up the mantle of Provincial Lord and Keeper of the Southern Border Ironworks."
Ironworks. What a joke.
They hadn't produced anything but rust and debt in six years.
"I take this burden," Jiang Ye said evenly, voice calm, measured.
He stepped forward. His hand touched the old family seal—a cold, cracked piece of jade mounted on a rusted iron base. As soon as his fingers touched it, he felt nothing. No qi pulse, no divine acceptance, no ancestral blessing.
Silence.
The hall stayed still. The monk bowed shallowly. One of the drunk retainers coughed into his sleeve.
It was done.
Jiang Ye turned and walked out without waiting for anyone to dismiss him.
Outside, the wind bit through his robes. Autumn in Fangyan came with smoke on the wind—coal smoke, from the mountains to the north. Not from his own foundries. Those had been looted three years ago during the Sect Reclamation War.
He didn't mind the cold. Not anymore.
He'd awoken in this world three days ago. The body had died in its sleep. Weak heart, malnourishment, lingering poison? No one had cared enough to ask. He hadn't cried, screamed, or panicked.
Because when Jiang Ye opened his eyes, he was already planning.
This wasn't a dream. It wasn't an illusion. It was real. The iron of the gate under his palm was real. The ache in his back from sleeping on a half-rotted wooden bed was real. And the memories—the fragments of the original Jiang Ye—they were real too. Useful, if incomplete.
The former lordling had been clever, prideful, and painfully naïve. An idealist crushed by failure. Soft.
Now he was gone. And Jiang Ye had inherited not only the name, but the ruins of an entire house.
A hissing voice interrupted his thoughts. "My lord! My lord!"
Jiang Ye turned slowly.
The speaker was a servant barely into his twenties, robes patched, face thin. He bowed quickly, nearly fell over, and held up a scroll wrapped in red silk.
"A message from Elder Yao of the Hidden Edge Sect," the boy said, nervous.
Jiang Ye didn't answer. He took the scroll, unwrapped it, and read.
One eyebrow lifted.
Lord Jiang Ye,
We grieve your father's passing. Though your house has declined, the Hidden Edge Sect recognizes all noble blood.
As a gesture of goodwill, the Sect will delay repayment of your family's outstanding spiritual debt for three months. During this time, we urge you to fulfill your father's pledge: thirty refined spirit ingots for the construction of the Border light Array.
Failure will result in reclamation.
In faith,
Elder Yao Wen
"Faith," Jiang Ye murmured. "A fine word to use while circling a corpse."
The debt was enormous. The family's remaining mine barely produced enough qi iron to keep five workers fed. Thirty ingots? Impossible—unless one planned to rob a sect caravan, raid an ancient ruin, or resurrect a god.
Or build something... different.
Jiang Ye rolled the scroll and handed it back to the servant. "Burn it."
"My lord?"
"I said burn it. And then send a message back to Elder Yao."
The servant hesitated. "What... should I write?"
Jiang Ye smiled slightly. "Tell him that if he wishes to collect thirty refined spirit ingots, he's welcome to come and dig them out of the toilet pit behind the west barracks."
The boy paled.
"Go."
When the servant ran, Jiang Ye turned his eyes toward the western hills, where the old forge lay. Not the ruined state works—but the ancestral forge, once sealed after his grandfather died. No one had opened it in a decade.
That night, he went alone.
The forge sat inside a small stone hall half-buried in moss and wild grass. The entrance was sealed with four rusted chains and an old formation lock etched into the rock face. Its power flickered dimly—just enough to deter insects, not intruders.
Jiang Ye stood before it, wind stirring his sleeves. In his mind, he reviewed the lock's pattern. From what little he knew of cultivation script—merged now with a structural engineer's mind—this was a four-phase rotational lock relying on heat, spiritual pulse, and sound resonance.
He didn't need qi. He needed rhythm.
He pulled a small chisel and hammer from his sleeve—tools he'd taken from the broken smithy. Then, with precise taps, he struck the chain four times, paused, and then struck the formation plate once.
It flickered. Then hissed. Then went silent.
The chains fell.
The doors groaned open, iron scraping on stone.
Inside, the forge was pitch black—until he stepped in, and the runes lining the floor hummed to life. One by one, old brass lanterns lit up, casting the chamber in gold light. Dust filled the air. But beneath it, untouched workbenches, sealed chests, and in the center, a massive anvil shaped like a crouching lion.
Jiang Ye stepped forward. His hand hovered over the anvil. A strange pulse touched his fingers.
A whisper stirred the back of his mind.
"Command phrase accepted.
Sentinel System... reinitializing."
His heart stopped.
A low hum filled the forge. The air vibrated. Heat radiated from the anvil, the floor, the ceiling. His eyes widened as sigils—foreign, mathematical, mechanical—lit up across the walls.
Then: a voice.
Calm, resonant, impossible.
"Sentinel System Online.
Welcome, Master Reforger.
Civilization node confirmed.
World classification: Cultivation-grade.
Machine Dao Presence: Zero.
Threat Level: Divine Hostile."
Jiang Ye let out a long, slow breath.
It was real.
He didn't know what god had granted it. He didn't care. He'd read enough isekai to know what this was—but this wasn't some game interface or cringey power fantasy. There was no bright blue UI or floating windows.
There was only this presence. Cold. Powerful. And now... his.
"Initializing compatibility scan.
Modern knowledge signature: Confirmed.
Personality traits: Cunning. Opportunistic. Long-term strategist.
Approval rating: 96%."
"Master Reforger, what is your command?"
Jiang Ye's mouth twitched. "Tell me what you are."
"I am the Sentinel System: a civilization-forging, hyper-constructive, artifact-generating intelligence model created by the last Sovereign Engineers of the Machine Dao.
You are the first Master Reforger in 118,977 years.
Shall I begin cataloging local resources?"
Jiang Ye nodded.
"Begin. And while you're at it—show me the most offensive blueprint you possess. The kind that would make a Nascent Soul elder weep blood just by glancing at it."
"Confirmed.
Loading schematic: Spiritual Artillery Engine — Mark I.
Effect: Concentrated qi battery rail-projection cannon.
Firing cost: Two spirit stones per shot.
Penetration: Sect-grade warding formation."
Jiang Ye felt his lips curl into a slow smile.
He whispered, almost reverently, "Oh yes. Let's upset the heavens."