The soft clang of metal echoed through the empty streets as Kai, a young blacksmith with hands calloused from years at the forge, adjusted the lock on his workshop door. In the city of Emberhold, where warriors were revered and blacksmiths were simply tools in their ascent to power, he was little more than a shadow in the crowd. The warrior-cultivators, with their fearsome weapons and gleaming armor, strode through town as if they carried the world's weight, and perhaps they did. After all, their legendary spirit-forged weapons were what protected the realm from the threats of the Wildlands beyond.
But tonight, Emberhold was quiet. The moon hung like a watchful eye over the village, bathing the forge in a silvery glow. Kai looked over his workshop, his fingers running over the rows of weapons waiting to be delivered in the morning: axes and swords for the junior cultivators, each blade plain and unassuming, lacking the power and splendor of the legendary arms that marked the higher ranks.
Blacksmithing has always been his passion. The feel of the weapon as each is forged,mthe heat from the flames, the silent cry of the material being it steel, copper, aluminium or iron. Even an alloy of them all has a special feel, a special silent whisper to the blacksmith. It's like a lovely story with the metal whispering what it wants to be while the blacksmith lovingly listens and comply. A good blacksmith does not just forge but enters into a dance, a symphony of acceptance known only to the two of them - the blacksmith and the metal. Kai's father had always told him that he had an extraordinary talent since not every blacksmith could here the whisper of the metal, or see an image of the forge. Forging was like making love. Kai sighed as he reminisced over his father's words to him and kai's strange affection for his craft
As he swept his hand over the cooling anvil, he felt a shiver—not the ordinary chill of night air but a faint vibration, as if something alive was calling to him. The sensation led him to the scrap heap, where broken weapons and discarded materials awaited the smelter. He sifted through them absentmindedly, letting his fingers skim over jagged edges, shattered hilts, and rusty shards. And then, his hand stopped.
There, half-buried under rusted chains and splintered wood, was the fragment of a blade. Even broken, it had a strange allure. Unlike the other scraps, it seemed to hum faintly, as though it were whispering to him, urging him to pick it up. The piece was cold, sharp, and surprisingly heavy for its size, its surface etched with barely discernible runes that glinted under the moonlight. Kai frowned, unfamiliar with the markings. It was clear this was no ordinary weapon.
Unable to shake off the feeling of unease—and curiosity—Kai carried the blade inside. He laid it on his workbench, studying the intricate carvings with a craftsman's eye. Every weapon had a story, and this one seemed to carry more than its fair share of secrets. The engravings, a language long-forgotten, seemed to pulse faintly under his gaze. It was as though the metal held a soul, imprisoned within its shards.
Kai's fingers itched to repair it. He was just a blacksmith, not a spirit cultivator, but the blade called to him in a way no weapon ever had. Carefully, he stoked the fire, the forge's glow rising like a beacon in the night. As he worked the metal, strange memories surfaced—visions that weren't his, scenes of an ancient battle and a warrior's last desperate struggle. It was like catching glimpses of another life, buried within the fragments he was reforging.
Lost in his work, he barely noticed the hours slipping by. Sparks danced in the air, and the once-shattered metal slowly took shape under his steady hands. By dawn, a blade lay gleaming on his anvil, complete once more. But as he held it up to the morning light, Kai saw the faintest trace of something spectral shift within the steel—a faint glow, almost like an eye opening for the first time in centuries.
The weapon hummed in his hands, a sound that resonated deep within him. In that moment, Kai felt a surge of energy unlike anything he had ever known, a bond that bound him to the weapon. He had forged countless tools, but none had ever felt alive.
The silence of the dawn was broken by a whisper that only he could hear.
"Find me."
The words sent a shiver down his spine. The voice was both powerful and ancient, a remnant of whatever spirit lay bound within the weapon. But before he could process what he'd just heard, a loud knock shattered the stillness. Three cultivators stood at his door, their eyes fixed on the gleaming blade in his hand, expressions shadowed with both suspicion and envy.
"Where did you get that weapon?" the lead cultivator demanded, his voice cold and sharp. Kai could only stare, the weight of the blade in his hands feeling heavier than before.