Night settled over the Village of Dawn's Gate with a stifling silence. The chorus of crickets that usually filled the air seemed swallowed by the thick smoke billowing from the chimney of Old Man Oh's workshop.
Outside, the merchants' lanterns were extinguished one by one, leaving narrow alleys illuminated only by pale moonlight. Yet, to those with keen senses, the village was far from asleep. There were subtle disturbances—signs not born of ordinary human activity: a footfall too light, breathing too steady, and the sharp scent of iron drifting through the chill of the night.
Inside the workshop, the heat from the volcanic stone furnace remained intense. Yoe Choin—in the body of Moen Kang Yo—stood before a massive iron anvil. He had shed his outer robe, wearing only a thin, sweat-drenched shirt that revealed a physique of dense, efficient muscle. In his hand, he held his signature sword.
Old Man Oh sat on a wooden stool in the corner, lighting his tobacco pipe. His eyes—wrinkled yet sharp—tracked Choin's every movement. A hidden admiration lingered behind the haze of pipe smoke.
"You know, young man," Old Man Oh began, his voice raspy like the friction of a whetstone.
"Most people come here asking me to forge a sword capable of splitting mountains. They speak of destruction. But you... you treat that black blade as if you are mending something whole."
Choin did not answer immediately. He delivered a precise strike to a section of the blade that had suffered a microscopic warp from the clash with Elder Granite's mace. *Ting!* The sound rang clear, echoing throughout the room.
"This thing has borne too great a burden in too short a time," Choin said softly, his eyes fixed on the glowing red spot on the blade. "If I force it to keep working without restoring its core, it will snap at the most critical moment. I don't need it to split the mountain; I need it to remain standing tall when the mountain collapses."
Old Man Oh chuckled, exhaling white smoke from his nostrils.
"You speak like a man who has lost much yet refuses to give up. That is what sets your metal apart. A sword reflects its owner. Yours is heavy and rigid, yet within it lies a flexibility you keep carefully concealed."
Choin set his sword down and looked at Old Man Oh.
"I seek more than just a sword repair, Old Man. I need something to stabilize my flow of energy. You mentioned a man bearing a silver 'Termite' mark was asking for information?"
Old Man Oh's expression turned serious. He rose and approached the window, peering through a narrow gap at the dark village street.
"They aren't ordinary merchants. Their movements are synchronized, as if they share a single soul across multiple bodies. They are hunting for anyone with access to high-grade pills. And they are keenly interested in the apothecary at the far end of the market."
"Foreman... they're right at the doorstep," the true voice of Moen Kang Yo hissed in his mind.
"Two on the roof, three in the side alley. I can smell the numbing poison on their daggers. Let me out there and I'll tear their throats out!"
"Stay put, Boss," Choin replied coolly.
"We're keeping a low profile. If you go out there and go on a rampage, the whole village will know the Demon Faction prince is here. We'll handle this in a... cleaner way."
Choin donned his gray cloak again and wrapped his still-warm black sword in a piece of hemp cloth. He turned to Old Man Oh.
"Old Man, stay inside. No matter what you hear, do not open this door until sunrise."
"Be careful, young man," Old Man Oh whispered.
"Many of the wooden planks in that back alley are rotted through. If you want to trap them, use that to your advantage."
Choin gave a slight nod. He stepped out through the narrow back door, immediately greeted by the chill of the night air. A thin mist began to descend, obscuring visibility. Choin walked at a measured pace—neither too fast nor too slow. He looked like a cargo overseer who had lost his way and was trying to find his route home.
He had taken barely ten steps when a shadow darted down from the rooftops. Silently, a man clad in pitch-black attire and a cloth mask landed five meters in front of him. At the same moment, two others emerged from the darkness behind him.
"Halt," one of them said, his voice flat and devoid of emotion.
"You're the man who came out of Old Oh's workshop. What were you discussing with him?"
Choin lowered his head slightly, positioning himself over the specific spot on the wooden floor Old Oh had pointed out.
"Just repairs for some carpentry tools, gentlemen. I'm merely a worker from the Eastern sector. Is there a problem?"
"Eastern workers don't carry a sword that heavy," the man behind him remarked.
"Show us your identification, or we'll be searching your corpse."
The situation exploded in an instant. The man in front of Choin lunged forward, thrusting a slender dagger coated in a thick, green poison. Choin did not draw his sword; he knew his Black Iron blade would be too conspicuous.
He shifted his center of gravity to the side, letting the dagger pass just an inch from his chest. With a short, powerful movement, he struck his opponent's wrist with the heel of his palm.
CRACK!
The man's wrist bone cracked instantly. Yet, being a high-level assassin, he did not cry out. He attempted a retaliatory kick, but Choin withdrew his leg first, triggering a collapse in the rotted wooden floor beneath them.
*CRASH!*
The floor gave way, causing the assassin's leg to plunge through and become wedged between the supporting beams. Choin wasted no time; he delivered a devastating blow to the man's neck, knocking him unconscious instantly.
The other two attacked simultaneously. This time, Choin used his wrapped sword as a static shield. He parried a flurry of rapid slashes, sensing the vibrations of his opponents' Qi—sharp, yet lacking in density.