The sect's kitchens opened at dawn. Smoke rose from clay stoves, thin and reluctant, carrying the smell of rice stretched too far and broth thinned until it was more memory than meal. Disciples lined up, bowls in hand, eyes dulled by routine. The food was enough to keep them alive. It was never enough to keep them strong.
Kael accepted his portion without complaint. The porridge was pale, the strip of meat brittle, the taste ash. His stomach clenched, not from emptiness, but from refusal. His body remembered marrow, dense cuts, bones boiled until they surrendered strength. Ten years under Old Master Ren had taught him that appetite was not indulgence. Appetite was survival.
Coins spilled across his palm later, heavy and real. Bronze dulled, iron dark, silver cold, gold bright. Ten years of accumulation, silent gifts from the 10th Senior Brother, apprentice fees returned by Old Master Ren, payments stacked until the purse had become a weight. Now, that weight was the difference between survival and collapse.
He spent without hesitation. The sect's rations were mosquito meat. His body demanded marrow. He bought bones from butchers, meat from markets, grain from traders. He cooked quietly in the hut, rice boiled until starch thickened, meat seared until fat surrendered, bones cracked until marrow bled. The smell filled the hut, heavy, rich, real. Other disciples glanced over, eyes greedy, mouths watering. Kael ignored them. His appetite was not theirs. His hunger was not theirs. His survival was not theirs.
But coins diminished quickly. Hunger pressed inward again.
He thought of forging. He thought of iron. He thought of missions. The sect offered tasks: patrols, errands, resource gathering. But Kael's path was different. He could not cultivate Qi. He could not absorb energy. He could not advance through realms. But he could forge. He could shape metal. He could create tools. He could sell them. He could earn coins. He could sustain meals.
The forge halls were open to outer disciples, not as privilege, but as burden. Apprentices were expected to labor, hammering nails, shaping fittings, repairing tools. Payment was small, but real. Kael stepped inside. Heat pressed outward, heavy and constant. Iron lay stacked, dark and waiting. Hammers rang against anvils, rhythm steady, power drawn from repetition more than skill.
Kael's hands remembered. Old Master Ren had taught him stance, grip, balance. The 10th Senior Brother had fed him until his body could endure the strain. His Earth memories added more: structural mechanics, load paths, failure modes. He saw cracks before they formed. He felt weakness before it broke. He understood forging not as art, but as engineering.
He lifted the hammer. The weight pressed downward, familiar, constant. His grip tightened. His breath slowed. He struck. The iron rang. Sparks scattered. His arm trembled. His chest burned. His breath collapsed. He struck again. The iron bent. He struck again. The shape formed.
Noise before silence. Silence before endurance. Endurance before survival.
The overseer glanced at him, eyes dismissive. "Outer disciple," he said. "Work. Payment comes after completion."
Kael did not answer. He struck again. The iron bent. The shape formed. The tool emerged. Payment would come. Coins would sustain. Hunger would be answered.
Strength was demanded. Hunger was burdened. Wisdom was survival.
Coins diminished. Meals sustained. Iron bent. Hunger pressed inward like a forge that refused to cool. The sect's missions were not paths to glory. They were paths to survival. Kael's mission was iron. His weapon was hunger. His forge was debt.