The dawn arrived not with a shout, but with a whisper of gray light filtering through the mist.
Yoriichi stood on the edge of the hot stream, his chest rising and falling in a rhythm that was paradoxically slow yet intense.
"Total Concentration: Breadth of the Sun."
Inside his body, a torrent of energy surged. He could visualize it—a river of molten gold flowing through his veins, originating from his heart and pumping into his extremities. It was warm, comforting, and terrifyingly powerful.
He focused on his right hand.
"Come out," he commanded mentally. "Manifest."
He tried to push that internal heat through the pores of his skin, to ignite the air around his fist just as he had turned his Nichirin Blade crimson in his past life.
Fwoosh...
Nothing happened.
The air shimmered slightly from his body heat, but there was no flame. No solar flare. The energy swirled at his fingertips, hitting an invisible barrier, and then recycled back into his core.
Yoriichi exhaled, a long plume of white steam escaping his lips. He lowered his hand.
"It won't happen," Yoriichi sighed, looking at his unblemished palm. "Without a catalyst—without the Sun Steel of a Nichirin Blade—my body acts as a container, not a conduit. I am a lantern with the shutters closed."
He felt the soothing fire energy flowing within him, healing his micro-fractures and energizing his cells, but he couldn't project it. It was a frustration, but a logical one. He needed the tool to shape the power.
"Boss!"
A shout broke his concentration.
Jia Lie Ao and his six companions came jogging up the path, panting but punctual. They looked tired, their robes stained with dirt from yesterday, but their eyes held a spark of eagerness that had been increasing as days passed.
"You're late by thirty seconds," Yoriichi stated, turning to them with a stoic expression.
"Sorry, Boss! We ran into a patrol!" Jia Lie Ao gasped, dropping into a horse stance immediately without being told.
Yoriichi nodded. "Begin."
For the next two hours, the valley echoed with the sounds of groans, slaps of the wooden stick, and heavy breathing. Yoriichi was relentless. He corrected their posture, forcing them to engage their core muscles until they screamed in protest.
"Your Dou Qi is stagnant," Yoriichi lectured, poking an Ao Ba disciple in the stomach. "You rely on the external gathering speed. Use your lungs. Pump the blood. Force the Qi to move."
By the time the sun was high in the sky, the group was lying on the ground, exhausted but vibrating with adrenaline.
"Go," Yoriichi dismissed them. "Same time tomorrow."
"Thank you, Boss!" they shouted, crawling away with newfound respect.
Yoriichi watched them go, wiped the sweat from his brow, and turned his gaze toward the distant chimneystacks of the Xiao Clan.
"Now," he whispered. " The real work begins."
It was noon when Yoriichi arrived at the of Xiao Clan Smithing Hall.
Dozens of apprentices—young men from branch families or hired hands—were bustling about. They carried buckets of coal, hammered out basic farm tools, or sharpened swords for the clan guards.
When Yoriichi walked in, the noise didn't stop.
A few apprentices glanced up, wiping soot from their foreheads. They saw the red-robed "Young Master Ning."
"What is he doing here?" one whispered, nudging his neighbor.
"Probably looking for a toy sword."
"Ignore him. Master Tie will kick him out soon enough."
They turned back to their work, their eyes dismissive. To them, the Smithing Hall was a place of sweat and labor, not a playground for pampered heirs who got famous for sleeping in arenas.
Yoriichi ignored their gazes. He walked straight through the heat waves, the smell of sulfur and charcoal filling his nose with a familiar, grounding scent.
At the far end of the hall, near the largest furnace, stood a mountain of a man.
Tie Shan.
He was shirtless, his skin gleaming with oil and sweat. He held a massive hammer in one hand and a pair of heavy tongs in the other. On the anvil before him lay a long, glowing rod of metal.
CLANG.
Sparks flew like fireworks.
Tie Shan paused, sensing a presence. He turned, his eyes narrowing through the smoke. When he saw Yoriichi, the tension in his shoulders relaxed. He nodded, a sharp jerk of his chin, motioning for Yoriichi to approach.
Yoriichi stepped up to the anvil. The heat here was intense enough to singe eyebrows.
"You're here," Tie Shan grunted, not stopping his rhythm. He gestured to the glowing rod with his hammer. "Look at this."
Yoriichi observed it. The metal was dark, heavy, and radiated a dense, pulsing heat.
"A spear," Yoriichi deduced. "Heavy alloy. Mixed with... Earth-attribute core dust?"
"Sharp eyes," Tie Shan grinned, sweat dripping from his nose. "This is Heavy Rock Iron. I've been folding it for three days. After a few more hours of polishing and quenching, it will be done."
Tie Shan's eyes gleamed with a fanatic light.
"I have a huge expectation for this one, kid. This weapon... I feel it. It will be my breakthrough to Tier 3. I don't know why, but the metal is speaking to me today."
"Then let us not keep it waiting," Yoriichi said respectfully.
He moved to the smaller, secondary forge next to Tie Shan's station.
"Your materials are in the crate," Tie Shan pointed with his tongs. "Don't burn the place down."
Yoriichi opened the crate. Inside sat chunks of rough, gray ore—Wind Iron. It was a common Tier 1 material, found in the windy crags of the Magic Beast Mountains. It was light, brittle if mistreated, but sharp.
Yoriichi took a deep breath.
"A Katana is too complex for a first try," he reasoned, picking up a pair of tongs. "The curve requires differential cooling. The spine must be soft, the edge hard. Without mastering the temperature of this specific coal, I will just shatter it."
He decided on a simpler geometry.
"A Jian. A straight double-edged sword. Simple. Direct."
He shoveled coal into his furnace. He worked the bellows. Whoosh. Whoosh. The fire roared to life, painting his face in orange light.
He placed the Wind Iron ore into the crucible.
Then, the struggle began.
Yoriichi watched the metal melt. He tried to judge the impurities—the slag that floated to the top.
"Now," he whispered, adding a pinch of limestone flux.
He poured the molten metal onto the anvil and raised his hammer.
Clang.
The sound was dull.
"Too cold," Yoriichi critiqued instantly. "The timing was off by three seconds."
He heated it again. He hammered.
Clang.
"Too hard. I struck with too much force. The grain is crushing, not aligning."