In Smoke City, there were two kinds of people.
Those who were allowed to leave.And those who were allowed to return.
Kael belonged to neither.
That was the problem.
He had no home to return to, and no place that would claim him. Over the years, he had asked again and again about his village, about his home. He asked if anyone knew of the World Tree Village, or the River of Time. But nothing ever rang a bell. People thought he was mad.
At first, they assumed he was a child from some lost cultivation family spoken of only in legends. But when they saw he was crippled, they gave him beatings instead.
So the only "return" left to him was repetition—showing up again and again at a place that had not accepted him, until that place grew tired of denying him.
Most nights, he slept under awnings until he was nudged away. When there was nowhere else to go, he returned to the temple, even on days when no food was given out.
This was how the city treated the poor.
The poor stayed poor—unless you were talented enough to pass recruitment and enter one of the schools, or desperate enough to sell your body and life away. Since Kael was crippled, no one wanted him.
That was how the city trained the powerless.
Not with words.
But with doors that never fully closed.
Morning came as it always did in Smoke City: half-light, damp stone, and the sour aftertaste of yesterday's smoke. The alleys still held the night's cold, but the forge district already breathed heat. Even from a distance, Kael could smell iron waking up.
He had come earlier this time.
He walked the same route as yesterday—not because it was safe, but because he knew where danger usually stood.
A guard leaned at the corner near a broken water spout. The man's posture spoke of boredom. But boredom in Smoke City was not kindness. It was a guard deciding which problems were worth effort.
Most guards had graduated from martial academies; that was the requirement. Any one of them could beat a civilian senseless with ease. At best, you would be slammed face-first onto cold cobblestones. At worst, you would die from a single punch.
Kael lowered his head and did not hurry.
Hurrying invited questions.
Walking as if you belonged invited none.
The guard's eyes slid across him and moved on, filled with bored indifference.
Not mercy.Not cruelty.A calculation: not worth the trouble.
Some guards, however, Kael always avoided. They reveled in torture, in beating those who lingered too long or looked the wrong way.
That was the city's default judgment.
Kael reached the forge district and slowed—not out of fear, but understanding.
In the streets, anyone could stand anywhere until someone stronger disagreed. Everything was legal until a guard appeared.
So when Kael looked toward the workshop, he stayed well out of the way, watching from a distance. In a forge, space belonged to tools, heat, and the men who paid for coal. A child with one arm was always one wrong step away from being told he was "in the way."
So he stopped at the edge and watched.
He saw the apprentice again.
The apprentice's build was similar to Old Master Ren's—just slightly shorter. He had pitch-black hair, an extremely bulky build, and broad shoulders. When he swept or maintained the forge heat, his massive frame seemed mismatched with the delicacy of the work.
The two of them were like bulls in a porcelain hall—yet they moved effortlessly, weaving through heat and iron without discomfort.
Kael stood across the street, watching.
The same line.The same posture.The same waiting.
Old Master Ren's hammer rose and fell in steady arcs, striking iron glowing a dull orange. Neither Ren nor the apprentice appeared drenched in sweat. Their brows were dry, as if the heat did not bother them at all—almost as if it cooled them instead.
Kael paid attention to the sound.
The hammer was heavy, not loud. Each strike carried weight, pressing into bone the way authority did.
Clang.Clang.Clang.
Kael's breathing tried to sync with it.
He forced it into his own rhythm.
In through the nose.Hold.Out through the mouth.
Yesterday, silence had been the verdict.
In Smoke City, silence did not mean nothing.
Silence meant the cost was not finished.
Old Master Ren quenched the iron. Steam hissed, brief and controlled. He set the piece aside and finally glanced at Kael.
He did not greet him.He did not ask why he returned.He did not ask if he understood anything.
He looked once—only once—as if confirming no tool had gone missing.
The apprentice, whom Old Master Ren had called Silas yesterday, glanced over as well. This time, there was no indifference. Instead, a bright, almost foolish smile appeared on his face—one that did not match his bulky frame at all.
Silas even lifted his hand and waved.
Kael froze, stunned.
Old Master Ren leaned slightly and whispered something. Silas flushed in embarrassment, scratching his head in confusion.
They had expected him.
Old Master Ren turned his gaze toward the scrap Kael had sorted the day before.
The piles were still neat—by size, then weight, then sound. Kael had sorted them until his fingers were raw, until hunger stopped screaming and became a dull ache.
Old Master Ren knew exactly how the boy had felt. Every emotion, every strain, was reflected in his eyes—especially the struggle of doing it all with one hand.
"Call him over, Silas," Ren said calmly. "Let him do it again."
Silas walked over, grinning. "It's you again—the one who smells like the temple. Master wants you to sort another barrel today."
He pointed toward a different container and added quietly, "If you do it properly, Master will take you in."
He patted Kael's back a little too hard. "Good luck, junior brother. I hope you succeed."
Kael nodded and knelt without hesitation.
In this place, hesitation was the only confession that mattered.
He began sorting.
This time, the pieces felt almost weightless. Some had heft, but nothing like before.
Metal was honest. It did not flatter. It did not forgive. It did not care that Kael was eight, missing an arm, or hungry enough to feel pain at the smell of food.
Metal only cared whether you could control it.
That was why Kael kept coming back.
The streets did not care about control.
The streets cared about winning.
Time passed.
Then Old Master Ren spoke again.
"Wrong," he said.
Kael froze.
Ren took a piece from the pile and struck it lightly against the anvil.
The sound was dull—soft, almost wet.
"Too much slag," Ren said. "You hear nothing at all?"
Kael swallowed. "I… only hear it when I set it down."
Ren frowned briefly, then relaxed.
"Listen better."
He returned to his hammer as if the mistake was already resolved.
Kael tapped the piece again, slower, closer to his ear.
His fingers trembled.
He forced them still.
If your body shook, people looked.If people looked, the city claimed you.
Kael did not want to be claimed.
By midday, Ren stopped hammering.
That pause was more dangerous than sound.
"Come. Stand by me," Ren said.
Kael obeyed.
Ren selected an iron rod—not the heaviest, not the lightest—and placed it before him.
"Lift."
Kael did.
Pain flared. He steadied his breath.
"Walk."
Step by step, he crossed the forge.
"Put it there."
The rod touched down without a scrape.
Ren looked at Kael's palm.
"You're bleeding."
Then, calmly: "In my forge, you don't bleed on my work."
He tossed Kael a cloth.
"Wrap it. Then sort again."
By evening, Ren finally spoke again.
"You have belongings?" he asked. "Bring them. Silas will arrange a room."
Kael froze.
"You've paid the fee," Ren continued. "And I accept you as my apprentice."
He returned the pouch Kael had struggled years to gather. It felt heavier than before.
"When you are my apprentice, you do not pay," Ren said. "You are taught. One day, if worthy, you may become my disciple."
For the first time, Ren smiled.
Kael almost cried.
Silas burst in laughing. "I finally have a junior brother!"
Moments later, Kael was dragged away to be washed and clothed.
Ren watched them leave.
"…Impossible," he murmured. "A body rejected by law. Rejected by Dao. And yet alive."
He sighed deeply.
"I hope I do not regret this."