The next morning arrived quietly, the air sharp with cold. Within the disciples' courtyard, all was still except for the muffled crackle of frost forming on the tiled roofs.
Fu Yang, who was now at the end stage of skin tempering, sat on his bed, his breath steady, his expression calm. His cultivation had pushed his body to its current limit. For any ordinary disciple, it was time to rest and allow the body's tension to ease over several days. But Fu Yang had other plans.
He needed rest, yes, but he had no intention of wasting time.
That morning, when other inner disciples announced that they would be entering seclusion to cultivate, Fu Yang did the same only a day later. To anyone listening, it sounded perfectly normal — another disciple striving for progress.
In truth, it was a simple cover. He wasn't going to meditate. He was going to work.
As soon as the courtyard grew quiet, Fu Yang slipped out, moving through the narrow passageways. His steps were light, almost silent, his black robe fluttering faintly behind him. He made sure no one followed. The snow muffled his movements as he left the main residence and made his way toward the workshop he had rented.
He was also carrying a bag that contained food and clothes.
The workshop stood at the far end, its door old and half-warped from years of heat and smoke. He pulled a small key from his sleeve and turned it in the lock. The door creaked open.
The air inside was thick with the smell of iron and ash. Piles of old tools leaned against the walls, and the forge lay cold and dark, its hearth black with soot. It was exactly as he had left it.
7
Fu Yang walked in without hesitation and closed the door behind him. The outside world vanished; only silence and shadow remained. He set his small bundle down — a sickle, a few pieces of rough iron, and the tools he had bought days earlier.
With practiced ease, he kindled the forge. Sparks leapt from the dry wood, the fire catching quickly, painting his face in shades of red and gold. The air turned hot, the cold outside forgotten. He tied up his sleeves and stood before the forge, eyes narrowing as the flames brightened.
The sickle and the iron lay ready beside him. He first removed the old handle from the sickle, placing the curved blade into the flames. The metal hissed faintly as it heated.
To anyone else, it might have looked like senseless labor — a cultivator working like a blacksmith. But Fu Yang knew what he was doing.
In his previous life, before everything had been stripped from him, he had worked in a forge much like this one. He remembered the weight of the hammer, the smell of hot steel, the sting of sparks on bare skin.
Back then, he had been known for his craft — for shaping weapons with a precision that even cultivators admired. He had once been proud of that, until pride turned to loss.
Now, reborn, he stood before the fire once more. Not out of nostalgia, but necessity.
A cultivator's power was not only in spiritual energy but in preparation. He needed tools — weapons that suited his style, his strength, and his intent. The clan could not give him that. He would forge them himself.
The fire roared louder as he fed it more coal. The metal began to glow, the dull red deepening into bright orange. With his current strength, even at the end of the skin-tempering stage, he could easily lift the hammer and shape the metal. His arms moved steadily, rhythmically — strike after strike, each blow deliberate.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang.
The sound filled the room, echoing against the stone walls. Sparks danced around his feet. His expression never changed. He worked as if in meditation, each strike timed with his breath. Sweat formed along his temples, but he didn't stop.
Hours passed.
The sickle's old form vanished, replaced by a growing blade — longer, straighter, sharper. He adjusted the shape with careful precision, his mind recalling every technique from his past life. When he paused, it was only to adjust the fire or wipe soot from his arm.
The sun outside had already started to fall by the time the blade took its full form — two feet of darkened steel, faintly curved, its surface gleaming dimly beneath the flickering forge light.
He let out a slow breath. His arms ached slightly, but his control was steady.
With tongs, he lifted the blade and placed it back into the fire once more, letting it heat for three long hours. The metal turned nearly white with heat.
When he judged it ready, he pulled it out and moved to the barrel beside him — a mixture of water and oil he had prepared earlier. The surface of the liquid rippled faintly, waiting.
He lowered the blade in one smooth motion.
Shhhhhh—!
Steam erupted, filling the room with a sharp hiss. The firelight shimmered through the mist, outlining Fu Yang's silhouette — tall for his age, movements precise and without hesitation.
Quenching — the final tempering of steel. It was something he had done countless times before. And as the sound faded, he smiled faintly — not from pride, but quiet satisfaction.
The blade had hardened perfectly, the edge clean and straight.
He set it aside to cool, then began working on the handle. A good weapon was not only in its blade; it was balance, weight, and feel. He chose a piece of hardwood from the corner, trimming it with care, shaping it until it fit perfectly in his grip. Every motion was controlled — no wasted effort.
Outside, the light had faded completely. The moon hung cold and distant above the snow-covered roofs. Inside, the workshop was still alive with the glow of coals.
When the final polish was done, he attached the handle, secured the fittings, and tested the balance. The blade caught the firelight — sharp, simple, unadorned, but deadly. He traced a finger along its flat surface, feeling the smoothness of the steel. For a moment, he was silent.
He didn't make it to boast or show. It was a tool, nothing more — a silent companion in a world where strength dictated everything.
By the time he cleaned the forge and arranged his tools, the night was deep. He leaned back against the wall, exhaustion finally settling in. His hands were black with soot, his hair damp with sweat, but his expression was calm.
He looked at the finished blade resting on the table beside him.
"Not bad," he murmured quietly. "It'll do."
The faint heat from the forge flickered against his face. After a moment, he lay down on the rough bed in the corner and closed his eyes. Sleep came easily — heavy and dreamless.
---
The next morning, the sound of activity returned to the academy.
Disciples moved through the snowy courtyards. Many of the inner disciples — Cin Yan, Shi Tian, Sha Tian, and others — were still in seclusion. And today was also the third day; elders and family members waited, wondering who would come out first.
Meanwhile, in the workshop,
Fu Yang woke up, stretching slightly, his body still faintly sore from both cultivation and labor. The workshop was cold now, the fire dead. The air carried the metallic tang of quenched steel.
He sat up, rubbing his face, then glanced down at himself. His robe and skin were still marked with faint traces of soot and dirt — remnants from forging.
After cleaning up the workshop, he took a small bundle of bread from his sleeve — leftovers from the canteen the night before — and ate quietly. Then, after a short rest, he stood again and looked at the forge.
The blade from last night rested beside the wall, wrapped in cloth. He picked it up and examined it once more, testing its edge. A faint smile touched his lips.
But one blade wasn't enough. He needed more — smaller blades, hidden ones, the kind that could be used silently when needed. In this world, danger didn't always announce itself. Preparedness was survival.
He gathered the leftover iron, measured its weight in his hand, and set it near the fire. Once again, he struck flint, and flames rose, licking the cold air. The sound of the hammer echoed soon after — steady and strong — blending with the faint whispers of wind outside.
Hours slipped by unnoticed. While others sat in meditation, waiting for breakthroughs that might come days later, Fu Yang's cultivation was taking a different shape — a harmony between strength, patience, and craft.
By the time evening came again, three smaller blades lay cooling on the bench beside him — thin, sharp, each one balanced to perfection. His arms trembled slightly from the long work, but he ignored the fatigue.
When he finally stepped outside, snow was falling again — soft and soundless. He stood beneath it for a moment, watching the white flakes melt against his skin. His breath left faint trails of mist in the cold air.
He looked toward the direction of the main sect hall, where disciples trained, where elders met, where power gathered like a storm waiting to break. His gaze was calm, distant.
"Heh, here she comes out," he whispered, almost to himself.
Then, turning away, picking up his things, he closed the workshop door behind him and returned to the academy. While everyone was mainly at the Tian household, he quietly entered his room, threw himself on the bed, closing his eyes, falling in deep sleep.