The sun bled softly through the clouds, staining the mountains with a color that looked almost like rusted gold.
For the slaves of Black Iron Gorge, dawn was no promise—it was another sentence. The clang of hammers echoed through the valley like the heartbeat of a dying god. Sparks flew, chains rattled, and weary bodies bent to the rhythm of survival.
But one man stood apart.
Luo Zheng's movements were quiet, deliberate. Every swing of his hammer looked like simple labor, but beneath each strike flowed a current of spiritual precision. He could feel the rhythm of the forge now—its life, its breath.
The divine script that had branded itself upon his skin in the night before shimmered faintly whenever he exhaled. Hidden under coarse sleeves, the golden markings pulsed in time with his heartbeat, alive with power he still barely understood.
He had awakened something that defied reason.
And he dared not let anyone see it.
---
The Test
"Zheng! You deaf, boy?"
The forge-master's roar snapped him back. The man's face was half-burnt from years of standing too close to molten steel, his eyes small and mean.
Luo Zheng dipped his head obediently. "Yes, Master Rong?"
"Those blades won't temper themselves," the man grunted, tossing a bundle of unfinished spirit daggers onto the table. "You've been working slower lately. Don't think I haven't noticed."
"Yes, Master," Luo Zheng murmured again.
But inside, his mind was elsewhere.
He wasn't slower—he was measuring. Testing the strange resonance that hummed through his veins. Whenever he touched the metal, his spiritual sense flared, reading the energy lines within the iron like the strings of a zither. He could sense the flaws before they formed, the harmonies between heat and essence.
If he adjusted his breathing, even slightly, he could weave a thread of his own spiritual power into the forge fire. The result?
A blade stronger than any common spirit weapon.
He picked up the first dagger and let the hammer fall.
Once. Twice.
Then a third time—slower, softer.
The metal sang. A pure tone that silenced even the wind.
The nearby slaves paused, glancing toward him in awe. It was the sound of perfection—the resonance of divine craftsmanship.
Master Rong frowned, stepping closer. "What trick are you using?"
Luo Zheng looked up calmly. "No trick, Master. Only breath."
"Hmph." The overseer squinted suspiciously but said nothing more. He walked off, muttering under his breath.
When he was gone, Luo Zheng allowed himself a faint smile. He could already tell—the divine script wasn't just enhancing his strength. It was refining his soul. The act of forging itself became cultivation. Every strike tempered not just the weapon, but him.
And yet, deep inside, he sensed a whisper—a hunger.
A craving for stronger essence.
---
The Echo of Power
That night, under the pale moon, Luo Zheng sat cross-legged beside the smoldering coals of the forge. The broken sword lay across his knees.
He focused his breathing. The world fell silent.
Within his body, spiritual currents moved like rivers, circling his dantian. The divine runes along his arms glowed faintly, forming a shape like flowing fire.
Then he heard it—his father's voice again, faint as wind through bamboo.
> "To refine the soul, you must first face its reflection. What you forge outside must mirror what you temper within."
He exhaled slowly, placing his hand upon the sword's surface. Energy surged—light met shadow. In an instant, he was no longer in the forge.
He stood within a vast inner world of molten light, where countless swords floated like stars. Each blade pulsed with fragments of memory: his childhood laughter, his father's teachings, his sister's smile.
And at the center stood one colossal weapon—an enormous, unfinished sword of gold and shadow.
It spoke to him in silence.
> "You are the forge now, Luo Zheng."
A shudder ran through him as he realized the truth: the technique his father had left was not meant to build weapons. It was meant to build gods.
The moment he accepted it, pain tore through his body. The divine runes spread up his neck, scorching lines across his skin. His consciousness flickered between worlds.
He saw visions—mountains turning to dust, stars collapsing, divine beings kneeling before a single man wreathed in light.
And beneath it all, a voice—the same whisper that had haunted him since the awakening.
> "Devour. Refine. Ascend."
He snapped back to reality, gasping for air. The forge around him was dark and cold. The sword in his lap glowed softly, its crack almost healed.
"Refine the soul…" he whispered. "Even if it means consuming the heavens themselves."
--
Whispers in the Divine Court
Far above the mortal world, beyond the Veil of Clouds, the gods gathered again.
In a hall made of starlight and storm, the Nine Thrones of the Heavenly Dao shimmered with divine presence.
Goddess Mu Qing stood at the center, her silver hair flowing like mist. Before her floated a celestial mirror, within which Luo Zheng's image flickered—hammering steel, eyes glowing faintly gold.
"He grows quickly," she said softly. "Too quickly."
A booming voice answered, belonging to a massive figure wreathed in fire—Lord Yanlong, God of Retribution. "His path was sealed by mortal design. Yet the seal breaks. The art he wields… it reeks of ancient rebellion."
Mu Qing's lips curved faintly. "The Art of Apotheosis. The one your kind tried to erase."
Yanlong's flame flared. "Do not test me, Mu Qing. If he ascends, he will challenge the order itself."
"Perhaps that's what Heaven needs," she replied.
The mirror shimmered, showing Luo Zheng standing beneath the moonlight, his aura flickering like the birth of a star.
"He is his father's son," she murmured. "And destiny does not favor still waters."
---
The Challenge
The following morning, whispers spread through the slave quarters.
One of the Yun overseers had been found dead—his spirit drained, his body aged to dust.
Fear rippled through the camp. The Yun blamed the slaves, threatening executions if the culprit wasn't found.
Luo Zheng kept his head down, but inside, he trembled. He knew what had happened. The divine art had acted on its own—drawing the essence of life from someone nearby when he lost control during meditation.
He hadn't meant to kill. But the art knew no morality—it only obeyed the law of ascension.
That night, as rain poured over the valley, he stood at the edge of the forge, staring into the storm.
> "Power without restraint breeds monsters," his father's voice echoed.
"But restraint without power breeds victims."
He clenched his fists. "Then I'll learn both."
Suddenly, a shadow moved behind him.
"Luo Zheng," a voice whispered.
He spun. A girl stood there—slender, cloaked, her eyes bright as lightning.
"I know who you are," she said. "And I know what you're becoming."
He tensed. "Who sent you?"
"No one," she said. "I escaped. Like you will."
She pulled back her hood. Her hair was white as snow, her expression unreadable. "My name is Ling Xi. I was once a divine attendant… until I fell."
Luo Zheng's eyes widened. "A fallen god?"
She smiled faintly. "Once. Now I'm merely a guide."
"Why help me?"
"Because," she said softly, stepping closer, "the gods fear what you might become. And I want to see if they're right."
---
The Path Opens
Under Ling Xi's guidance, Luo Zheng began to understand his power more deeply. She taught him to channel the divine runes through controlled cycles, to absorb ambient energy instead of consuming souls directly.
Days became weeks. His strength grew quietly, hidden beneath the guise of a humble slave.
But with each step forward, the divine seal on his heart loosened. The power wanted release.
Then, one night, as the valley slept, an explosion shattered the forge.
The Yun soldiers flooded the camp, shouting of rebellion.
Luo Zheng and Ling Xi stood amidst the chaos, the air around them vibrating with energy.
"They've discovered us," she said.
"Good," Luo Zheng replied, his voice steady. "I'm tired of hiding."
The divine markings ignited, golden light flooding from his body like a sunrise. The broken sword in his hand reformed completely, its cracks sealing in a blaze of radiance.
The Yun soldiers froze.
"That's impossible," one whispered. "He's—he's cultivating!"
Luo Zheng raised the sword, its glow reflecting in his eyes. "No," he said quietly. "I'm refining."
The first strike fell like judgment.
When the dust settled, the forge was silent. The chains that had bound him lay in molten puddles, and the path beyond the gates stood open.
Ling Xi smiled faintly. "The world beyond awaits you, Luo Zheng. But the gods are watching."
He turned toward the horizon, wind whipping his hair. "Let them watch," he said. "They'll see how far a mortal can rise."
--
The Gods Tremble
High above, in the Hall of Stars, Mu Qing watched as the mortal's light burned across the mirror.
Yanlong's roar shook the heavens. "He's broken the seal! If he continues, he'll breach the barrier between realms!"
Mu Qing's gaze softened. "Then prepare the heavens, Lord Yanlong. For the age of gods forged by Heaven is ending…"
The mirror flared once more—showing Luo Zheng stepping into the dawn, his sword glowing like a second sun.
"…and the age of gods forged by mortals has begun."