Middle District, Smoke City.
Red desolate region.
On the outskirts of the Middle District, Kael moved through narrow routes and broken alleys, his small body weaving with the quiet certainty of someone who had learned the city the hard way.
He did not walk like a child.
Children dragged their feet. Children looked around. Children stared at shopfronts and lanterns and the color of cloth hanging from balconies.
Kael did none of that.
His eyes stayed low. His shoulders stayed slightly hunched. His head dipped whenever he passed an opening that might hide a guard. He moved like water that had learned where the cracks were, like smoke that knew how to slip past a closed door.
He knew every path that allowed him to pass between districts without being questioned. Every blind corner. Every loose stone. Every guard rotation.
In three years, he had memorised patrol routines the way other people memorised prayers. Which guards watched too closely. Which ones watched nothing at all. Which ones grew lazy near dawn.
A child shouldn't have needed to learn such things.
But Smoke City was not a place that cared what should be.
Kael returned to the Middle District before the sun fully cleared the rooftops.
Mornings in the city were always strange—half-light, half-activity. Like a body that wanted to sleep but couldn't afford to. Dampness clung to the lower streets, carrying the stale smell of last night's smoke. It was in the stones. In the cracks of walls. In the back of the throat when you breathed too deeply.
Somewhere a dog barked once, then stopped, as if it had realised no one was listening.
From a window above, a hoarse voice spat down.
"Shut that mutt up."
Another voice answered lazily.
"Let it bark. Maybe it'll bark at the wrong person and get kicked."
Then laughter. Quiet, mean, practiced laughter.
Kael did not look up. He didn't even flinch. His face remained blank, but his fingers tightened slightly at his side. The sound slid past him like grime.
Kael was out of breath. His legs were short. His body still small.
His ribs felt tight. His throat tasted like bitter smoke. A thin sweat gathered beneath his collar, cold in the morning air.
But his breathing stayed controlled.
In through the nose.
Hold.
Out through the mouth.
The air scraped into his lungs, cold and sharp, bringing the smell of soot and iron. He held it until his chest stopped clawing at itself, then released it in a slow stream. The breath left warm, fogging faintly in front of him.
He had followed the same rhythm for years. Countless nights. Countless walks like this. It was not a technique. Not yet. It was simply a way to stop his body from giving him away.
Still, every time he breathed like this, a small hope followed.
That something would change.
That the shift his father had spoken about would finally come.
A thought stirred in his mind—foreign, unfinished.
It had first appeared when his father took him beyond the fence.
The law of energy.
Kael did not understand the words. Not here. Not in this world. But the idea refused to leave him.
Energy cannot be created by the body alone.
Energy needs to come from somewhere.
The body needs energy
Energy cannot be destroyed.
It only changes form, the air he breathes. This allows his body to move, The food he eats.. allows him to move as well. the water he drinks also does that. But he did not understand. he only moved.
He only knew that when he moved too much, something inside him emptied faster.
He only knew that when he panicked, his strength spilled out like water poured onto sand.
Even now, Hunger sat inside his body like something restless. When he was hungry, his body craved energy... When he was afraid, it tightened without purpose. When he was tired, his body became clumsy.
The city did not forgive clumsy strength.
He had learned that yesterday, when a crate creaked under his grip. Too loud. Too sharp. Enough to draw attention.
He still remembered the way the sound snapped through the alley like a slap.
Creak.
A guard's head turned. Eyes narrowed. A pause that lasted only one breath—but in that breath, Kael felt death close enough to smell.
"Oi," the guard muttered, voice thick with boredom and suspicion. "You."
Kael had frozen, his breath trapped halfway in his chest. The cold morning air suddenly felt hot, like it was burning his lungs.
"What are you doing there?"
Kael had said nothing. He had only lowered his eyes and forced the breath out slowly.
In through the nose.
Hold.
Out through the mouth.
The guard stared another moment, then spat.
"Tch. Filth. Always crawling."
Then the guard had turned away.
Not mercy. Not kindness.
Just a guard deciding Kael wasn't worth the trouble.
And in this city, attention was never neutral.
The forge district had more eyes than most. Not because people were curious but because it dealt in tools, blades, and work. Work demanded discipline. Discipline attracted those who believed they had the right to control others.
As Kael approached the blacksmith's place, he slowed his steps and regulated his breathing again. He let the thoughts fade.
Breath first.
Mind second.
He lowered his head as he approached the smaller forge tucked between two larger workshops.A sign board hung ... words faded but distinct.
Old Master Ren's place. Blacksmith.
This was the legendary BlackMist. The Blackmist , that everyone always talks about.
Even before he reached the door, he could feel the difference.
Other forges shouted. Other forges spat sparks like angry beasts. Other forges smelled like sweat and cheap liquor mixed with coal smoke.
This one smelled like hot iron, clean ash, and discipline.
The workshop wasn't large, but it was orderly. That was what stood out. The other forges were chaos—men shouting, sparks flying without care, tools scattered across benches. Ren's forge had rhythm instead of noise. Everything had a place. Even the soot seemed deliberate.
A pair of workers across the street glanced over.
"That's the beggar kid," one murmured, wiping his hands on his apron.
"The one from the temple steps?" the other asked, eyes narrowing.
"Yeah. Missing an arm. Still shows up."
"He's stupid," the first scoffed. "BlackMist doesn't take in trash."
The second worker lowered his voice.
"Stupid? Or desperate? Either way, don't stare. If Ren hears you—"
He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
The apprentice from the day before was nowhere to be seen.
Old Master Ren BlackMist was already awake.
The blacksmith stood over the anvil, shoulders broad, salt-and-pepper hair tied back, arms blackened to the elbow. The hammer rose and fell in steady arcs, striking iron that glowed dull orange. Each impact made the air tremble. Each impact was controlled.
Clang.
The sound was heavy. It pressed into Kael's bones. It wasn't loud like chaos. It was loud like authority.
Clang.
Sparks burst and died. Steam hissed softly from a trough nearby. The forge's heat rolled outward in waves, hot enough to sting the face, carrying the metallic tang of iron so sharp Kael could almost taste it on his tongue.
Kael stopped at the edge of the workspace and waited.
Old Master Ren did not look up.
The hammer rang again.
And again.
And again.
The rhythm continued until Kael's heart began to match it, until his breath threatened to scatter from the pressure of waiting.
Waiting was also an assessment.
In Smoke City, waiting could kill.
Only when the iron was quenched and the steam faded did Ren finally glance at him.
"You came back," he said. "I was expecting you."
His eyes fixed on Kael, not hostile, not kind. Measuring.
Kael stood still, momentarily unsure of his voice. Then he nodded.
"Yes."
Ren's gaze did not move away. It pinned Kael like a nail.
The forge fell quieter—not silent, never silent—but quiet in the way a blade is quiet before it cuts.
"Why?" Ren asked.
Kael hesitated. The true answer felt too large to explain. The forge felt like the only place in the city where strength obeyed rules.
"I want work," he said.
Behind Kael, someone outside snorted.
"He wants work," a voice mocked softly, as if afraid to mock too loudly. "With one arm."
Another voice whispered back.
"Shut up. He'll hear."
Ren's eyes narrowed. "Work costs."
Kael's throat went dry.
"I can pay," Kael said—and immediately knew how foolish it sounded. Two copper coins rested in his sleeve that he had gotten and his pouch that nestled safely in his undergarments where he had his accumalated saving. Survival money. Nothing more.
Ren did not laugh.
That was worse.
He reached out with his hand, motioning for Kael to handover something.
Kael's fingers trembled once, then he forced them still. He could feel sweat along his spine now, cold despite the forge heat. He could smell his own fear under the smoke—sharp and sour.
kael walked carefully , digging deep and removing his pouch of coins , and his last two coppers from his sleeve, handing it to Old Master Ren.
Old MASTER Ren, just weighed it once... calculating " You short of 8 coppers?" He looked at Kael,
The words were calm. The meaning was not.
It wasn't just eight coppers.
It was a wall.
It was Ren saying: You don't belong here.
Kael's mouth opened before he decided to speak. His lips felt cracked from the cold morning air.
Kael opened his mouth to say something and but was interupted.
Old Master Ren studied him for a moment, then turned and motioned to a stack of iron rods leaning against the wall. Some where a meter long, others half the size.. some thing , some thick.
Ren did not explain why.
In the forge district, no one explained. You either understood, or you were useless.
"Sort those," he said. "By weight."
The words sounded simple.
But Kael felt the trap immediately.
By weight meant judgment.
By weight meant precision.
By weight meant: show me you can control yourself.
Kael stepped forward. A scale sat nearby.
Old Master Ren tapped it with the hammer handle.
"Don't use that."
Kael nodded.
Outside, a worker whispered again.
"Ha. He'll break his wrist."
"He'll drop it," someone else said. "Then BlackMist throws him out."
Kael did not look at them. But he heard everything.
He lifted the first rod.
The first rod was heavier than it looked. Cold. Dense. He adjusted his grip and lifted slowly, careful not to jerk the metal, since he only had one hand he could only try not to embarrass himself. He knew he will be rejected again but h tried, this wasnt the first time he done this assessment.
The metal bit into his palm. The chill shot up his arm. His shoulder screamed immediately, a hot pain beneath the skin.
Old Master Ren watched without comment.
Too much force made the rod swing and clatter.
Too little made it slip.
The correct force was narrow. Like a thread.
Kael felt that thread. He could almost see it in his mind—an invisible line between control and failure.
After fifteen rods, Kael's shoulder burned.
After thirty, sweat soaked his shirt.
After fifty, his hand began to shake.
His breath became ragged.
His chest tightened again.
So he forced it back.
In through the nose.
Hold.
Out through the mouth.
The breath steadied his shaking hand—only slightly, but enough.
"Stop."
Kael froze.
The word cracked through the forge like a hammer strike on bone.
Old Master Ren lifted one of the rods and held it lightly, almost lazily, before setting it down without a sound.
The gesture was a knife.
It said: This is what control looks like.
"Your grip is wrong," Ren said.
Kael swallowed hard, throat dry.
"I'm holding it," Kael replied.
A faint, contemptuous breath left Ren's nose.
"Exactly," Ren snorted. "You're squeezing like you're afraid it will escape. That's not strength. That's fear."
Ren stepped closer. The heat of his presence felt heavier than the forge fire. His shadow fell over Kael, swallowing him.
He adjusted Kael's wrist, angling the hand.
The movement wasn't gentle. It wasn't cruel either.
It was indifferent.
The indifference made Kael's heart sink.
"Let it rest," He said. "If you over-control something, it fights you. Use your center of weight and you legs"
Kael's jaw clenched. He wanted to say he had no center, no legs strong enough, no body built for this.
But he didn't.
Because begging didn't work on masters.
So he tried again.
Kael tried again.
The weight settled into his bones instead of resisting them.
Kael felt it—felt the difference as clearly as he felt hunger. When he stopped fighting the iron, the iron stopped fighting him.
Ren nodded once. "Again."
That single word carried more weight than an entire lecture.
It meant: You're not done.
It meant: You're not accepted.
It meant: Prove it again, then again, then again.
By midmorning, the forge's rhythm swallowed Kael whole. Carry water. Sweep ash. Stack coal. Sort scrap. Every task carried the same rule—do it without wasting motion.
The water bucket sloshed. Ash clung to his skin, crawling into his nose and throat. Coal dust blackened his fingers until even his sweat ran dark. The heat made his head swim, and the sound of hammering from neighboring forges beat against his skull.
"Faster," a passing worker snapped at him from outside, not inside the forge—because no one inside dared give orders here.
Kael didn't answer. His body answered by moving.
At noon, Ren handed him a bowl of thin stew.
The stew smelled of boiled bones and cheap herbs. Warmth rose from it, carrying a faint oily sheen.
Kael ate slowly. Hunger eased, but did not vanish. Eating too fast only made the body angry.
He could taste the salt. The bitterness of cheap roots. The faint metallic tang of the pot.
He could feel his body trying to cling to every drop.
A boy darted in with a bucket.
"Mister Ren!"
"Silas," Ren said. "Stop shouting."
Silas noticed Kael immediately. His eyes lingered on the missing arm—not pity. Curiosity.
Silas tilted his head like a bird.
"So it's you," he said, voice too loud again. "You really came back."
"You're the one from the temple," he said.
Kael's spoon paused mid-air. His shoulders stiffened.
He hated being recognized.
Recognition meant memory.
Memory meant people could find you again.
Ren struck the anvil hard enough to end the conversation.
The clang exploded through the forge, sharp enough to make Silas jump and swallow the rest of his words.
Later, heavier work came.
Ren heated a bar of iron and placed it on the anvil.
The iron glowed brighter now, orange turning toward yellow at the edges. Heat shimmered in the air above it.
"Hit it."
Kael raised the hammer. The weight dragged at his shoulder. His grip tightened, then loosened as he remembered the rods.
The first strike landed too hard. The sound was wrong.
The vibration ran up his arm like pain.
Ren's eyes narrowed slightly, not in anger—worse, in disappointment.
"Again."
Kael swallowed.
Softer. Better.
He adjusted. He breathed.
In through the nose.
Hold.
Out through the mouth.
The next strike landed cleaner.
"Strength isn't hitting harder," Ren said quietly. "It's doing the same thing a hundred times and making it look like one."
The words cut deep because they were true.
Kael felt them settle into him like iron cooling into shape.
When Ren finally turned away from the anvil, he did not speak again.
No dismissal.
No instruction.
No rejection.
The forge continued as if Kael were no longer there.
Hammer rose.
Hammer fell.
Iron sang.
Kael stood where he was, waiting.
Seconds stretched. Then minutes.
No one looked at him.
The workers outside whispered, their voices low, uncertain.
"So… what now?"
"Did he pass?"
"No. If he passed, they'd say so."
"Then he failed?"
Silence answered them.
The kind of silence that did not clarify—only pressed down harder.
Ren did not record anything in front of him.
He did not gesture.
He did not even acknowledge Kael's presence again.
That, Kael understood, was deliberate.
In Smoke City, answers were often denied not to confuse—but to establish position.
Kael bowed.
Not deeply.
Not shallowly.
Exactly enough to show he understood the weight of what had not been said.
Ren did not return it.
Outside, the forge district felt louder than before. Voices followed him—not loud enough to confront, not quiet enough to ignore.
"They didn't throw him out."
"That's worse."
"He'll come back."
"Of course he will. That's the problem."
By nightfall, Kael sat on the cold stone steps of the temple again, back against stone that held the day's chill. His muscles trembled faintly. His breath slowed.
In through the nose.
Hold.
Out through the mouth.
No verdict had been given.
Which meant the assessment was not over.
Iron remembered every mistake.
So did institutions.
Kael closed his eyes.
Tomorrow, he would return.
Not because he had passed.
Not because he had failed.
But because silence had not told him to stop.