The old forge sat silent at the edge of the Ironblood Citadel, tucked into a ravine no one bothered with anymore. Black ash coated the walls. Ember pits had long since gone cold. Even the anvil was cracked in two, split by some forgotten accident or battle years before Zhao Ren had ever drawn breath.
He sat there now, legs folded, arms resting on his knees. His body ached from yesterday's trial, the bruises still pulsing across his ribs and shoulders. The copper tone of his skin had taken on a darker sheen where the blood had dried, like scorched bronze. His hair hung limp over his eyes, the silver dulled with dust and sweat.
Voidcleaver rested beside him in the dirt. Still too big for him. Still useless by any conventional standard. But even broken things had a heartbeat in this world.
He reached out, laying a hand along the hilt. The metal was warm.
"I can't do this alone," he muttered.
The sword didn't respond. It never had. But Zhao Ren felt it. A faint thrum beneath his palm. Not words, not thoughts, just presence. Something alive, waiting. Or maybe remembering.
He stared at the blade's surface. Pits of rust and black scoring covered it like old wounds. It had no edge. It wasn't a weapon so much as a relic. Still, he kept it close. He had since the day he first touched it, and it refused to be lifted by anyone else.
Others mocked him for it. Even his fellow initiates, who rarely spoke otherwise, found their voices when it came to the sword.
"A blade that doesn't cut is just a club," they said.
Zhao Ren had replied, "Then I'll learn to kill with a club."
---
The training fields behind the citadel were nearly empty at this hour. The fog still clung to the stone tiles, thick and damp, softening the outlines of the carved statues lining the perimeter. He walked through it with Voidcleaver strapped across his back, the crude leather sling cutting into his shoulder. His steps were slower today, every bruise along his spine reminding him of the previous night.
He didn't mind the pain. The system never let it go to waste.
The Forgeheart whispered with every ache.
Each sting became purpose. Each throb another spark in the fire beneath his skin.
He found an open space near the back of the field and dropped the blade to the ground. It landed with a heavy thud that shook the dust loose from a nearby column. Then he crouched, fingers curling around the hilt, and began to lift.
His arms trembled. His shoulders locked. Muscles screamed against the burden. Voidcleaver rose slowly, inch by inch, until he brought it into a vertical stance.
It wobbled in his grip.
He adjusted, took a step forward, and swung.
The arc of the blade tore through the fog like a curtain being ripped away. The momentum nearly carried him off balance. He staggered, boots scraping against the stone, then caught himself.
Then again. Swing. Recover. Breathe. Again.
No one taught him. There were no manuals for how to wield a sword that weighed more than some beasts. No drills designed for the path he'd chosen. Every motion was something he had to invent.
By the fiftieth swing, his lungs burned and his vision blurred. But he didn't stop.
He collapsed onto his back as the sun broke through the mist. The sky above the mountains turned a faint gold, painting the edges of the citadel in warm light. Birds called faintly in the distance. Somewhere, bells rang to signal morning meal.
Zhao Ren didn't move.
The blade rested across his chest, heavy and unmoving, as if trying to crush the breath from him. His heart pounded. His knuckles were split. The skin of his palms was raw.
He looked at the sky and spoke aloud.
"I'm not going to die as someone's footnote."
Inside the forge, he knelt beside one of the ash pits and dug into the cold soot. He found what he was looking for: shards of obsidian and black iron, remnants of old reforging attempts. With a strip of cloth he tore from his own tunic, he wrapped the largest shard and tied it to the edge of Voidcleaver.
It wasn't much. Barely even counted as an edge. But it was the start of a weapon.
He sat down with it and began to etch. He had no runes. No spiritual ink. But he had memory. And the Forgeheart.
A scar across his left forearm still throbbed from the trial. He unwrapped the cloth and stared at it. The shape of it reminded him of a lightning bolt, jagged and angry.
He copied that shape onto the sword's surface.
One slow line at a time.
By the time the sun reached its peak, the others found him.
Three initiates, all older. All stronger. The kind who trained in proper techniques and received cultivation resources from the elders. The kind who laughed at the idea of a boy swinging metal instead of molding qi.
One stepped forward.
"You skipped today's drill," he said. "Sect punishment."
Zhao Ren stood, dragging Voidcleaver with him. He rested the blade across his shoulder and looked at them through his sweat-matted silver bangs.
"I was training."
"Training? With that piece of trash? That's not a weapon, that's a gravestone."
The boy stepped forward and raised a spear.
Zhao Ren smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes.
"I've always liked fighting uphill."
They moved together. Weapons stabbed in unison, one high, one low. Zhao didn't parry. He ducked and stepped into the swing, letting the shaft glance off his side. He brought Voidcleaver up in a half-spin and slammed it down into the earth between them.
The stone cracked. Dust exploded outward.
One of them lost footing and stumbled. Zhao pivoted and drove a shoulder into his chest. The two crashed to the ground. Zhao rolled, scooped up his sword again, and used it as a shield to block the incoming strike from the third.
The blow bounced off with a sharp clang.
He followed with a backhand swing that knocked the attacker's spear flying.
Then he turned to the last one, who had circled wide.
Blood ran down his leg. One eye swollen shut. His hands could barely grip the hilt anymore.
But his smile widened.
And then he charged.
The blade didn't cut. It crushed. The impact threw the last boy back into the training wall with a grunt. He hit the ground, coughing, weaponless.
Zhao Ren leaned on Voidcleaver, panting. Sweat poured from his brow. Blood dripped from the edge of the cloth binding on the blade.
[System Notification: Combat Challenge Complete]
[You have suffered: Fractured Rib, Deep Bruising, Lacerations – Acceptable Suffering Level Achieved]
[System XP: +22 | Iron Will +1]
[Weapon Bond Strengthened – Voidcleaver Sync Rate: 7%]
---
That night, he sat at the edge of the broken forge again. Moonlight fell across the blade's surface, illuminating the jagged scar he had carved into it. The obsidian tip had cracked, but part of it held. Enough to make the sword whistle through the air when he swung.
Zhao Ren whispered to it.
"We're not there yet."
The sword said nothing, but it didn't have to.
It stayed warm.