In just a year, the Mile Estate had transformed from a humble blacksmith's compound to a renowned forge spanning over three hundred acres. Once a forgotten patch of land near the canyon's edge, it now hummed with life and industry. Spirit furnaces lined the hills, runes flickered on stone walkways, and towering storage halls housed refined metal from across the lower realms. Traders, cultivators, and wandering clans now used "Mile-forged" like a badge of trust. The name carried weight.
Boar, still quiet by nature, had been named Patriarch in all but ceremony. The elders treated him with deference, the workers watched him with awe, and his family followed his word without question. He never declared himself leader. He never had to.
The forge masters of the Mile family worked tirelessly, guided by the simple techniques passed down by Boar—each one tinged with whispers of the Flame Lord's legacy. Their tools were durable. Their weapons sharp and responsive. But more than anything, they were alive with care. That made all the difference.
On a cool morning, as the sun rose behind the estate's eastern ridge, a stranger arrived at the gate.
He wore dark robes faded with time and travel. His boots were dusty, his expression unreadable. But his presence carried weight, like a storm that hadn't yet decided whether it would pass quietly or break the skies open. The gatekeepers—trained cultivators themselves—felt it instantly.
The man did not speak much. He offered no name. Only a single request:"I seek an audience with your Patriarch."
The elders didn't rush. They waited until Boar had finished his morning routines—tempering an alloy blade, checking the heat runes on the core furnace, and walking the perimeter. Only when he returned did they inform him.
Boar appeared without fanfare, sleeves rolled, hands still blackened with soot. But his expression shifted the moment he saw the visitor. The man stood like a tree rooted in an entirely different forest. And though he had masked his presence well, Boar could feel the faint echo behind the man's calm—Soul Echo Realm, far beyond anything they could resist if he chose violence.
So, Boar masked himself as well. The fire within him, now at the peak of Core Forging, was smothered, his qi dropped until he seemed no more than an early-stage Qi Gathering cultivator.
They met near the estate's central pavilion.
"You're the one they call Patriarch?" the rogue cultivator asked, his voice low but clear.
"I am," Boar replied. "How can I help you?"
The man reached into a black wrap across his back and drew a blade. It was elegant in shape but dull with wear. Its edge held no gleam. Its spirit flickered, barely awake. Yet Boar's eyes widened. It wasn't a normal weapon—it had essence.
"This sword," the man said, laying it before him, "was once a true spiritual tool. Its soul slumbers now. I want you to refine it."
Boar's lips parted slightly. He had forged many things—spirit weapons, advanced artifacts, even customized items for unique qi flows. But this? A true spiritual tool with a bound spirit? He had never worked on one before.
He studied the blade, reached out, and felt it stir faintly. It recognized its master, still bound to him by some ancient ritual. But time had dulled it. The spirit inside was wounded. Asleep.
"I've never refined a spiritual tool before," Boar admitted after a moment. "This is... beyond anything I've attempted."
The rogue cultivator nodded slowly. Then he said something that made the air still.
"If you can refine my sword, awaken it again, I will protect your family and your estate for ten years."
Boar blinked. "Ten years?"
The man's face didn't change. "I owe no favors. I don't do charity. But I respect your forge. I've watched from afar. If you succeed, my sword and I will honor your home like it was my own stronghold."
"And if I fail?" Boar asked.
"Even then," the cultivator replied, "I will protect your family for five years. That is the price for your good will—and the trust to try."
Silence followed.
Boar looked down at the blade again, as if trying to hear something within it. The spirit inside called out weakly, like a voice from deep under water. But he heard it. And somewhere inside, a quiet fire burned brighter.
He nodded. "Then leave the sword here. Give me one month."
The cultivator nodded once, turned without another word, and disappeared toward the forest beyond the southern wall.
Boar picked up the sword with both hands. It was heavier than anything he had ever lifted—not in weight, but in responsibility.
He whispered to it, more to himself than to the spirit inside.
"Let's see what you really are."
Boar accepted the deal with a steady nod, feeling the weight of his decision settle into his chest. Ten years of protection could anchor the family's future—and five years was already generous for a gamble. With the sword handed over, Boar cleared a space in the estate's inner forge, an area he had reshaped himself from stone and spirit-wood, enchanted with formation runes and lined with the resistant bones of a fallen spirit beast.
As he placed the blade on the anvil, Boar inhaled slowly. His mind sank inward, into the solid and vast cultivation sea within him. There, nestled near the scrolls and remnants of immortal teachings, pulsed a second piece of the Flame Lord's core. He had refined 2% now, enough to access true flame essence—the soulfire that could temper the intangible.
He drew on it.
The forge roared to life, hotter and brighter than anything natural. The flames curled around the sword as if greeting an old friend. Boar's hands moved instinctively, guided by knowledge not his own but inherited. He didn't force the sword open. He coaxed it. Spoke to it through spirit. It resisted at first, stubborn and proud, but when Boar reached the heart of the flame—when he let go of himself and let the Flame Lord's will and intent pass through him—it finally submitted.
Sparks danced like fireflies. The air trembled. The sword cried out—not in pain, but in release—as its essence was untangled and realigned. Hours turned into a day, then two. Boar neither ate nor slept, consumed by the forge. He worked not just with heat, but with soul. Every hammer strike carried a piece of his intent, his desire to protect, to grow stronger, to rise above the war-torn soil he was born into.
And deep within, his cultivation sea stirred.
From the depths, something new had emerged—a faint, pulsing embryo. A small sphere wrapped in strands of primordial qi, floating near the remains of the Flame Lord's core fragment. It radiated warmth and strange serenity. Boar paused when he first sensed it, eyes closing momentarily. It wasn't a threat. It didn't drain energy or speak. It simply was—alive, waiting. Another mystery, perhaps another inheritance yet to awaken. He accepted it, like he did everything else the universe had offered since that fateful night.
On the third day, the forge cooled. The sword no longer resembled the weary, cracked weapon that had first arrived. It gleamed with new light—its edge impossibly fine, its body engraved with subtle flame runes that shimmered when touched by qi. The soul of the sword no longer strained. It sang.
When Boar presented it back to the rogue cultivator, the man stared at it in silence for a long time. Then, without a word, he bowed—not just in gratitude, but in respect. A rare gesture from someone of his level.
"You've done it," he said finally. "I felt its echo the moment it left your forge. It listens now. Thank you, Patriarch Mile. As promised, I will guard your family for the next ten years—no matter the storm."
Boar nodded, hiding his exhaustion beneath a composed exterior. As the man vanished into the sky, a sense of change settled over the estate like dawn light. Boar wasn't just a boy touched by fate anymore.
He was a blacksmith of souls. A cultivator walking paths few dared. And whatever that embryo inside him was… he had a feeling it would change things forever.