The moment Gang Hua stepped into Uncle Wu's blacksmith shop, he regretted every life choice that had led him here.
The air was thick—hot, heavy, saturated with the smell of iron and charcoal. Heat rolled over him in waves. The forge roared like a living beast, flames licking upward as if they might crawl out and swallow him whole.
So this is the entrance to hell, he thought calmly.
At the center of the workshop stood a giant of a man with his back turned. Uncle Wu was rearranging smithing materials with slow, deliberate movements, his broad shoulders blocking half the light.
"Close the door," he said without turning.
Gang Hua obeyed.
Only then did Uncle Wu turn around.
Arms crossed. Eyes sharp. The kind of gaze that didn't need to raise its voice to intimidate.
"So," he said slowly, "you want to learn blacksmithing?"
Gang Hua nodded enthusiastically.
Uncle Wu snorted. "Good. Then strip."
"…What?"
Gang Hua froze.
Reflexively, he crossed his arms over his chest like prey protecting itself from a predator.
Uncle Wu stared at him, clearly confused. Irritation flickered across his face.
"Outer clothes," he clarified flatly. "If you faint from the heat, you're useless to me."
Three minutes later, Gang Hua stood shirtless in the shop, sweat already dripping down his back.
His enthusiasm had… recalibrated.
"Now," Uncle Wu said, pointing with his chin, "do you see that scrap metal over there?"
Gang Hua turned—
—and his soul nearly left his body.
In the corner of the workshop rose a mountain of junk. Broken tools. Cracked farming implements. Bent blades. Shattered spearheads. Pieces of armor once worn by village warriors—mostly weapons, many warped or rusted beyond recognition.
It occupied nearly a fifth of the shop.
"I want you to sort and clean all of it," Uncle Wu said.
Gang Hua swallowed.
"…All of it?"
"Yes," Uncle Wu replied. "All of it."
For the second time that morning, Gang Hua reevaluated his life choices.
Do I die here with dignity, he wondered, or attempt escape and be beaten to death?
Seeing his face twitch like he was on the verge of tears, Uncle Wu finally broke.
For the first time that day, he laughed.
"Ha! Ha! Ha!" He slapped his thigh. "Who said you had to finish it in one day? Take your time."
Gang Hua froze.
"…You could've said that earlier."
Feeling ten times lighter, he nodded obediently. Uncle Wu turned back to his forge, clearly done tormenting him for now.
Gang Hua got to work.
For half the day, he cleaned, rearranged, and sorted materials—iron ingots stacked by size, scrap separated by type, tools returned to their exact positions. He was careful not to bury himself under unstable piles.
Blacksmith shops were dangerous places for inattentive children.
From time to time, he stole glances at Uncle Wu.
The man didn't use qi to regulate his temperature. No protective techniques. No tricks.
He relied purely on his body.
Each swing of the hammer followed a rhythm—steady, powerful, unhurried.
Clang.
Inhale.
Clang.
Exhale.
Gang Hua grew curious and tried to imitate it while working—adjusting his breathing, slowing his movements.
Every time he thought he had it, the feeling slipped away.
His clumsy attempts didn't escape Uncle Wu's notice. The man didn't turn around or correct him—but the corner of his mouth twitched upward slightly.
The rhythm continued until afternoon.
After a simple lunch at Uncle Wu's house, Gang Hua returned to the orphanage, the breathing pattern still echoing faintly in his mind.
When he reached the children's area, he spotted them immediately.
Xiao Yu had clearly dragged Ye Chang out again.
Xiao Yu was five years old—black hair, bright blue eyes, skin as pale as snow. Her cheeks were round, her limbs short and sturdy, her presence impossible to ignore.
She was dangerously cute.
But Gang Hua knew better.
Xiao Yu wasn't fragile.
She was observant. Sensitive. And stubborn in the quietest way possible.
Everyone joked that Xiao Yu and Ye Chang were childhood sweethearts. Their fathers had been best friends, both lost in the same disaster. After that, Ye Chang was meant to stay with Xiao Yu's mother, Gang Fan—but grief hollowed the woman out, leaving her sickly and withdrawn.
Eventually, Ye Chang moved into the orphanage.
Xiao Yu stayed with her mother.
But she came here often.
Too often to be coincidence.
Gang Hua walked over.
And as the oldest child—and the one who thought too much—he naturally assumed his role.
Big brother.
Which meant teasing.
"Xiao Yu," he said solemnly, crouching. "Did you know?"
She blinked. "Know what?"
"Ye Chang said he doesn't like cute girls anymore."
Her eyes widened instantly.
"That's not true!" she shouted, grabbing Ye Chang's sleeve.
Ye Chang panicked. "I didn't say that!"
Gang Hua nodded gravely. "He did. I heard it."
Xiao Yu puffed her cheeks and punched Ye Chang's arm with all her strength.
"Ow," Ye Chang muttered, clearly lying.
Gang Hua laughed.
But Xiao Yu didn't.
She leaned closer to Ye Chang, inspecting his face seriously, then said, "You look tired."
Ye Chang stiffened.
"I'm fine."
She frowned. "You're lying."
Then she held his hand.
The chaotic qi Gang Hua usually sensed around Ye Chang felt… calmer.
Not gone.
But soothed.
Gang Hua's smile softened.
She grounds him, he realized. Without even knowing how.
Children healed faster than adults.
And sometimes, they healed each other.
After a while, Gang Hua left them and headed toward the back of the orphanage—into a small field surrounded by trees.
His secret training ground.
Even after a day of labor, he didn't skip training.
Slow sword swings with a wooden blade. Short, precise movements. Shadowboxing. Light footwork. Exercises meant to stimulate muscle growth without harming his still-developing body.
He was six years old, after all.
When his breathing steadied, he sat down and closed his eyes.
Cultivation in this world followed clear steps.
1. Qi gathering has:
Qi sensing.
Qi control.
Qi gathering.
2. Foundation forming.
Body refinement followed its own path—skin, flesh, bone, organs.
3. Qi refinement.
Qi refinement itself had ten levels.
There was more beyond that—but only the village chief knew.
Children weren't allowed to practice Qi Gathering yet. A young body couldn't safely absorb qi. Instead, they adapted slowly, letting their bodies grow accustomed to the world's ambient qi.
Anyone could sense qi eventually.
Only those born with spiritual roots could store it.
In Gang Village, only one in a hundred had them.
Gang Hua was one of them.
Average.
Unremarkable.
And—for the first time in his life—
Perfectly content with that.