The forge was quiet that morning.
Not silent—never silent—but calmer, like the fire knew when to rest. Xi Chen sat on a wooden stool outside the workshop, watching the thin plume of smoke curl into the sky. His arms were sore, wrapped in faded bandages, and his breath came slow, like he was holding something back.
The day hadn't started badly. No thugs at the door. No threats. No messengers from noble houses. Just quiet.
But quiet, Xi Chen had learned, was rarely free.
Inside the small house, Xi Bing and Xi Xuan were bickering over breakfast again.
"I want the big egg!" Xi Xuan shouted.
Xi Bing scoffed. "You got the big one yesterday."
"Then today is my turn again!"
Xi Chen let out a short chuckle. That familiar noise—childish arguing over food—used to feel like a crack in his discipline. Now, it reminded him why he kept fighting.
He stepped inside, ducking under the low doorframe. The boys fell silent when they saw him.
"Settle it yourselves," he said, sitting down at the rough wooden table. "Or no one gets eggs."
Both of them instantly became very good at sharing.
After breakfast, Xi Chen stepped into the forge again. Not to make tools, not even to train—but to think. His hands moved on instinct, sorting iron scraps, stoking the flames, adjusting the air flow.
He needed money. Not for himself. For his brothers.
He needed better food, better medicine, better everything. He couldn't keep feeding them hope alone.
But the Guo Clan's bounty hung over his head like a blade.
If word ever got out that Xi Chen had struck one of their inner guards, they'd come harder. They'd come with permission.
He leaned forward, resting his arms on the anvil. His face was calm, but his mind raced.
"How long can we stay hidden?" he murmured.
The fire offered no answer.
Later that day, he visited Old Master Shan, a hunched old tool merchant who bought simple blades from him once a month. The old man squinted at the two new sickles and a hoe head Xi Chen laid on the mat.
"They're better than last time," Shan muttered, feeling the weight of the tools. "Tighter joints. Edge holds longer."
"I tempered the iron slower this time," Xi Chen replied.
Shan looked up. "You've got a good hand. You ever think of setting up in the market proper?"
"I have," Xi Chen said. "But I'd be surrounded by wolves."
Shan snorted. "That's true. And they don't like when wolves bite back."
Xi Chen nodded. "That's why I stay in the alley."
The old man counted out copper coins, hesitated, then added a few more to the pile. "For the little ones," he said.
Xi Chen didn't refuse. "Thank you."
As he turned to go, Shan's voice caught him.
"You're not like the others, boy. Don't get eaten trying to prove you are."
That night, Xi Chen didn't train.
He sat with his brothers under the stars, roasting sweet potatoes over a small fire behind the forge. Xi Bing had finished two sets of bodyweight drills earlier and was sore all over. Xi Xuan kept fidgeting with a stick like it was a sword.
"Did you always know how to fight?" Xi Xuan asked suddenly, eyes wide in the firelight.
Xi Chen took a moment before answering. "No. But I learned when I had to."
"Will I have to?" Xi Xuan asked.
Xi Bing looked up, too.
Xi Chen leaned back, watching the flames.
"You will," he said quietly. "Not because you want to. But because this town… this world... doesn't give power to people like us."
The fire cracked softly.
"But when the time comes," he added, "you won't be alone. I'll be there. And we'll be ready."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full—of resolve, of worry, of quiet love.
Later that night, after the boys were asleep, Xi Chen returned to the forge alone. He lit the coals, stripped to the waist, and knelt in front of the fire.
His skin flushed as he activated the Scarlet Furnace Body. The red hue spread slowly, his body sweating, trembling, not from weakness—but transformation.
He closed his eyes and visualized the next stage: muscles woven like rope, tight, dense, glowing from within. He moved through the forms again, slower this time, as pain laced through each motion.
His arms burned. His legs screamed.
Progress: 22%.
He fell to his knees, panting hard. His vision spun.
But he smiled through the pain.
Step by step.
Like shaping iron, one hammer strike at a time.