The forge door creaked open beneath my hand, and the three of us — Felicity, myself, and the waddling mimic — stepped into the shop.
Heat and hammer-song met us, but so did raised voices.
"I told you, boy, you cannot temper spirit-iron with poison smoke!" bellowed a voice like gravel and flame. "You'll ruin the lattice, and the customer will be wearing a coffin, not armor!"
A younger voice shot back, sharp with pride and desperation. "Your methods are ancient, Master Jorun! We could be forging living armor if you'd stop clinging to the old ways—"
The crack of a hammer slamming an anvil silenced the shop. Sparks leapt like angry stars.
"Enough." The head smith's tone was final. "Pack your tools. You're finished here."
There was a heartbeat of silence before a roar of frustration. An apprentice — tall, wiry, soot-streaked — tore off his apron and flung it across the floor. His eyes burned with fury, but as he stormed toward the door, they snagged on me. Then on Felicity. And finally on the mimic, whose runes pulsed faintly in the heat.
His stride faltered. His face drained of color. He muttered something I couldn't catch — a curse, a prayer, maybe both — then shoved past us and out into the street.
The mimic growled low, a furnace-rumble deep in its chest, but I placed a hand on its lid. It quieted reluctantly.
Felicity tilted her head, her antennae flexed. "What was that about? The look he gave us…" Her eyes narrowed. "This is weird, Ash. I don't like it. Be on guard."
I nodded once, firmly. The mimic thumped at my side like a silent vow.
The clatter of tools in the back signaled the master smith's return deeper into the forge. For now, the shop lay open before us — rows of racks gleaming with armor lacquered in jade, blades etched with venomous runes, and tools forged for more delicate, esoteric work.
I exhaled slowly and stepped forward. "Let's see what Fanghua's smiths have to offer."
The forge heat pressed against my skin as I drifted between racks of polished steel and lacquered armor. Felicity hung back, hands clasped behind her like she was strolling a garden, while the mimic waddled at my side, occasionally bumping a display stand just to hear it rattle.
Through the haze of smoke and hammer-strikes, voices carried from the back of the shop.
"I need at least one other Master Blacksmith to help me complete this project, or we're sunk!" Jorun's gravelly roar.
"Master," came the smoother reply of his second-tier smith, "surely you and I will be enough to complete it in time—"
"No." Jorun's tone cracked like a mallet on stone. "This is a Sky-grade Talisman. Its forging must be perfect. Emperor Ichikawa does not tolerate imperfection." A pause, heavy with dread. "But there's no one in all Fanghua with the knowledge or intent to perform such a forge."
A sigh. Then Jorun again, lower, regretful. "It's too bad. The emperor was willing to give his greatest treasure to the smith who could forge this talisman, and a mansion on the Ten-Thousand Hills."
My fingers brushed over a row of blades. Treasures. Mansions. A Sky-grade talisman… and not a smith in Fanghua could forge it.
An idea began to take root.
I picked up a sword — a pale blue ice-steel blade, its crystalline surface refracting the forge light. With a practiced flick of my thumb against the edge, I felt the vibration run through its core. My lips curled.
"Pathetic." My voice carried across the shop floor. "The crystalline matrix is brittle. The moment a fire-essence cultivator clashes with this, the blade will warp. Shatter, even."
A couple of younger smiths, polishing gauntlets by the wall, stiffened and exchanged sharp looks.
I moved to the next rack, lifting a long, gently curved blade from its stand. A Masamune-style weapon, clearly intended to impress. I set its spine against my fingertip and let it sing. The note was dull.
"This jacket's too soft. The yakiba isn't hardened enough to hold against repeated strain." I ran my eye along the nagasa, measuring balance, tilt, the texture of its grind. "The ha is shallow. The boshi at the tip isn't formed properly. And the hada—" I tilted it to the light, sneering. "—grain too coarse. Sloppy star-steel layering."
Gasps. Murmurs.
The apprentices stopped their work outright, faces red with outrage. One slammed down his tongs. "How dare you insult Master Jorun's works in his own forge!"
Another snarled, fists clenched. "You think you can mock centuries of Fanghua craft with a single look? Who even are you?"
I ignored them, plucking another weapon from its rack and weighing it in my palm, already shaking my head before I spoke. "The balance is off. The Tang is too long; the quillons are under-forged. If this is the standard of Fanghua, no wonder you can't handle Sky-grade commissions."
The mimic growled low, purple runes flickering as if feeding on my scorn. Felicity arched a brow, her smirk sharp and knowing. "You're doing this on purpose" her thought slid across our bond, cool as a blade.
Of course I was. I had a plan.
And the louder the apprentices' protests became, the deeper I doubled down, slicing into their pride with every word.
The apprentices' muttering boiled over into open fury. A half-dozen of them abandoned their anvils, stalking toward me with faces blotched red from forge-light and anger.
"You insult weapons you couldn't hope to make!" one spat.
"Words are wind. Let's see your hands, stranger!" another sneered.
Finally, the tallest of them — a stocky youth with burn scars across both arms — shoved past the others and jabbed a finger at me. His voice cracked, half challenge, half desperation:
"If you really know what you're talking about… prove it. Use your qi to heat this furnace to the proper forging temperature!" He yanked the lid off a waiting crucible, flames inside guttering weakly. "Let's see if your skill is as sharp as your tongue."
The others laughed, though uneasily. The dare wasn't a game — it was the oldest test of an apprentice's worth. Many burned out their qi channels trying, few succeeded.
I didn't flinch.
The Fire Opal Philosopher's texts flickered in my memory — diagrams, numbers, ancient insights from the second floor of the Firefly King's inheritance. Not just how to heat a forge, but the spiritual resonance, the breath of the flame aligned with the intent of the smith.
I placed my palm over the furnace's rim. Closed my eyes. Drew in a breath of coal-dust and iron tang. Then I exhaled.
The flames roared. Not wildly, not hungrily — but with a steady, climbing heat that hit the exact threshold needed for star-steel tempering. The color shifted from orange to a sharp white-blue, sparks dancing in rhythm with my qi.
The apprentices staggered back, shielding their faces from the sudden wash of heat.
"Impossible…" one whispered.
"He's… he's channeling the forge itself…" another murmured.
I ignored them, rolling my sleeves back. "Now then," I said quietly, "let's put this furnace to work."
Hours blurred.
Hammer met steel. Sparks cascaded in showers of violet and gold. The mimic thumped happily at my side, occasionally belching a scrap of encouragement, as though it too felt the rhythm. Felicity leaned against a pillar, arms folded, silver eyes never leaving me, her smirk deepening with every strike.
The apprentices, who had begun by jeering, now stood silent, watching with something like awe — and maybe fear. Every step I took followed patterns they had never seen: folding layers of star-steel so the grains danced like flowing water, tempering the edge with precise bursts of qi-fed flame, flicking the cooled blade with my fingertip, seeing how the folded star-steel sang, then reheating the blade and adjusting its spine until the note rang true.
And as Ash worked Master Jorun watched, arms crossed, but his eyes never left Ash's hands as they danced over the steel. Each hammer strike was precise, measured, almost musical in its rhythm. Sparks leapt and coiled like living fire, yet every fold of the metal, every whisper of qi into the blade, held purpose.
For the first time, admiration softened the stern lines of his face. This boy… he thought, brow furrowing in concentration. He knows what he's doing. Not just technique, but intent. Precision. Intent. Could he… could he actually help me craft the Sky-grade talisman?
The notion made Jorun's pulse quicken. If this apprentice truly held such mastery, perhaps the impossible was no longer beyond reach.
Finally, as the forge-fire dimmed and sweat stung my eyes, I quenched the weapon in oil and drew it forth.
A dagger gleamed in my hands. The hilt coiled like a serpent's body, and in the pommel two emeralds burned like reptilian eyes. Its edge shone with a faint inner light, the grain so fine it seemed woven from the stars themselves.
"I present to you the Green-Eyed Dragon Dagger."
Gasps filled the shop. One apprentice dropped his hammer outright. Another pressed his hands together as though in prayer.
I set the dagger on the anvil with a sharp clink and met their stares. "That," I said evenly, "is what a proper blade looks like."
The silence was total — until a door slammed at the back of the shop.
Jorun's heavy footsteps pounded forward. His face was storm-clouds, his voice iron striking iron: "What in the Nine Hells is going on in my forge?"