The soft creaking of the expensive leather chair was the only sound heard on the 80th floor of the "Feng" concrete and glass tower. Dan Feng, holding a crystal glass of aged wine, stared at the city lights beneath his feet. He had just signed the merger contract for his biggest rival's holding company; not through war, but through guile, by corrupting the rival's banking system and bringing them all to their knees.
He enjoyed watching destruction. To Dan Feng, people were merely chess pieces; the weak had to be crushed underfoot to serve as a ladder for his ascent. He was at the pinnacle. His wealth, power, and political influence had reached a point where even the law paled in his presence. He thought to himself: "The world is exactly where I want it to be. Under the heels of my shoes."
But suddenly, his heart shot with pain. A searing agony, like thousands of glowing needles piercing his chest, bent him forward. The crystal glass slipped from his hand and shattered into a thousand pieces on the silk carpet. His vision blurred. The last thing he remembered was the bitterness of the wine and a blinding light that swallowed his entire office.
"No... not yet! I've only just begun...!" This was the last silent cry of his rebellious mind.
Pain.
The first thing he felt wasn't pain; it was the pungent smell of sweat, rusted iron, and soot. Dan Feng opened his eyes, but instead of the mirrored ceiling of his office, he saw a dark and dusty sky. His body felt heavy, as if a mountain of lead had been placed on his chest.
He was utterly confused—hadn't he died? But before he could gather his thoughts, a door swung open violently and someone entered.
"Get up! You filthy idler!"
A heavy kick slammed into his side, forcing the air out of his lungs and sending him rolling onto the dirt floor. He looked at his hands in disbelief; the calloused, bony, small hands of a teenager, bound together by rusted chains. His silk clothes had vanished, replaced by tattered canvas rags that reeked of stench.
He raised his head with indescribable rage. A giant man with dark skin and eyes where sparks of fire seemed to dance stood over him. This was the "Overseer." Dan Feng felt something boiling inside the man; a spirit made of fire that circulated in his body, giving him inhuman strength.
The Overseer shouted mockingly: "What's wrong with you? Thinking about your dead old grandfather again? The war is over, Dan Feng! You're no longer that puppy hiding under an old man's shadow. You are now the property of the 'Black Rock' Smithy."
Dan Feng wanted to scream, he wanted to order this man to be skinned alive, but the sound that left his throat was a weak and miserable moan. The memories of his new body rushed into his mind like a flood. The grandfather who was his only refuge had perished in the fires of war, and he, due to his weakness, had been sold into this hell as a labor slave.
They dragged him into a large, dark shed. The smell of molten iron and the relentless sound of hammers filled the space. At the end of the shed stood a man with shoulders as wide as a door, whose gaze was cold and sharp like a sword blade. He was the "Forge Master"; someone whose soul weighed heavily on the surroundings in the shape of a "Greatsword."
The Master, without taking his eyes off the furnace, said: "Let's see what we've got. Release your soul, weakling."
The Overseer, with a smirk, struck his whip against the ground: "Come on! Hurry up before I skin you myself."
Dan Feng, trembling with rage and humiliation, tried to focus on his inner strength. He was a politician who had always forced others to reveal their secrets; now he had to lay himself bare. He felt a slight tremor in the depths of his being. A dull, gray light emanated from his hands, and amidst the disbelief and loud laughter of those present, a tool appeared.
A hammer. But not a dignified war hammer or a powerful sledgehammer. A small, rusted, simple blacksmithing hammer whose handle was even cracked.
The Overseer's laughter shook the ceiling: "Where is his family's ancestral dagger? A simple hammer? You aren't even fit for pounding the bars of a stable!"
The Forge Master glanced briefly at the hammer and spat on the ground with loathing: "Trash. His soul is exactly like himself—pitiful and worthless. Take him to the melting furnaces. If he hasn't prepared ten raw ingots by tomorrow, throw him into the furnace instead of firewood."
Dan Feng stared at the trembling hammer in his hand. In his previous world, he destroyed the lives of thousands with a single signature, and now, because of a weak piece of spiritual iron, he was being mocked by thugs. Rage flared in his eyes, but not the kind that leads to shouting; the deadly composure of a serpentine politician came over him.
He realized that in this world, logic and politics without power are hollow. He looked at the Overseer, who continued to enjoy harassing him. Dan Feng whispered in his heart: "Laugh... laugh as much as you can. I have learned how to bring empires to ruin from within without you even realizing it. This rusted hammer? One day, with this very hammer, I will crush all the bones of this world. I will find the Dao, even if I have to drag it out from the depths of hell."
He stepped toward the furnace. The first step to making this weak soul stronger was surviving amidst the fire. He knew that even the weakest flame, if it knows its way, can turn an entire forest to ash.
The sound of sledges in the suffocating atmosphere of the "Black Rock" Smithy was like the heartbeat of an iron giant. Dan Feng, with sweat pouring from his forehead into his burning eyes, stared at the mass of glowing metal. His body, not yet accustomed to the weight of hard labor, screamed with every movement. But his mind... his mind was elsewhere.
He was analyzing.
"Bran," the Overseer with the fire soul, passed by the slaves with delight, occasionally striking their trembling backs with a whip that threw red sparks. Dan Feng noticed that Bran didn't bully them out of duty, but out of a deep "inferiority complex"; in front of the Forge Master, "Master Magnus," he wagged his tail like a house dog.
Master Magnus, the man with the soul in the shape of a greatsword, rarely came out of his office. He only appeared when high-ranking kingdom officers came to order new blades. Dan Feng saw with his sharp eyes that Magnus was extremely sensitive to order and timing.
"Hey! Rusted mouse! Why are you standing there?"
The jarring voice of "Gareth," one of the four intermediate blacksmiths in charge of the smelting section, snapped Dan Feng back to reality. Gareth was a foul-mouthed man who always smelled of burnt oil. He looked at the small, trembling hammer in Dan Feng's hand with a sneer.
Without saying a word, Dan Feng lifted the hammer and struck the hot iron.
Resonance...
In that moment, something strange happened. Unlike the heavy sledges of the other slaves that sent painful vibrations through their arms, Dan Feng's hammer seemed to swallow part of the vibration. Dan Feng felt the turmoil in his mind subside for a brief moment. His rage, which was like a roaring sea, suddenly turned cold as ice, and his focus narrowed onto the point of the hammer's impact.
He didn't know that this was the first sign of soul-connection: "Mental Refinement during Labor."
Hours passed. Ten female slaves, responsible for cleaning and moving coal, passed by the men in fear. One of them, a young girl named "Lina," while carrying a bucket of water, noticed that Dan Feng, unlike the others, neither moaned nor collapsed. He hammered with a precise rhythm, like a soulless machine.
Dan Feng noticed Lina's gaze but did not react. In his world, compassion was a poison. He was thinking about something else. He had heard that the kingdom's soldiers were complaining; the blades produced by "Black Rock" broke easily against the armor of the savage northern tribes.
He looked at his hammer. With every strike, his hammer drew a tiny amount of heat from the furnace. This absorption was so small it wasn't visible, but Dan Feng felt the handle burning his hand less than before. "Elemental Resistance" was taking root in the depths of his soul.
Suddenly, Bran shouted loudly: "Everyone stand back! General 'Caius' is entering!"
The heavy forge doors opened, and a man in shining armor and a red cape entered. His majesty was such that even Magnus rushed out of his room. Caius said with a voice like clashing stones: "Magnus, the kingdom's patience has run out. If this batch of swords also cracks on the battlefield, your head and the heads of all these slaves will be on pikes."
Magnus bowed while cold sweat broke out on his forehead. Dan Feng witnessed this scene from the corner of his eye. He gave a subtle, diabolical smile. This was exactly the opportunity he, as a politician, was looking for.
He knew what the problem with the swords was; while working with his hammer, he had realized that the iron's impurities weren't being properly expelled because Bran, with his erratic fire soul, was fluctuating the temperature too much.
At night, when everyone had fallen asleep from exhaustion, Dan Feng sat in the cold, damp corner of the slaves' dormitory. His hands were blistered, but his spiritual hammer seemed slightly brighter than before in the depths of his being.
He whispered to himself: "Magnus has power, Caius has influence, and Bran... Bran is just a stupid tool. I don't have physical strength, but I know how to play Magnus's fear and Caius's greed."
He began drawing a map in his mind. He didn't want to escape; he wanted to swallow this smithy from the inside. He wanted to turn Magnus into his pawn and destroy Bran with the very fire he took pride in.
Dan Feng closed his eyes, while the imaginary sound of hammer strikes resonated in his mind. He didn't yet know that his soul was devouring his pain to become something beyond a simple tool. He only knew that tomorrow, he would move the first piece.